Every pilot who was given the chance to take the stick and get airborne in a Raptor emphatically praised the latest generation air weapon. A single-seat stealth aircraft, the Raptor flew effortlessly, and, with its engines’ unique thrust-vectoring nozzles, was capable of nearly unbelievable acrobatic maneuvers. The acceleration of its overpowered engines was astonishing, even to a seasoned fighter pilot. The first production fighter capable of maintaining over Mach 1 without the need for afterburners, and with an operational ceiling of over 60,000 feet, the Raptor could get anywhere in a hurry, limited only by fuel capacity. It was armed with a variety of air-to-air missiles, a 20mm Gatling gun that could fire 6,000 rounds a minute, a state-of-the-art electronically scanned array radar, and a helmet-mounted display to aim its sensors and weapons with a mere turn of the pilot’s head. The Raptor was, by any measure, formidable.
The weapons package for this day’s domestic CAP mission was the medium range AIM-12 °C missile with its own internal radar to lock onto targets, the incredibly agile AIM-9X short-range, heat-seeking missile, and over 500 rounds of 20mm ammunition.
Ninety minutes into Dutch’s patrol, the Northeast Air Defense Sector air traffic controller, his primary source of information, unexpectedly contacted him, redirecting his communication to the airborne controller, call sign Chalice.
“Bird Dog Nine One, this is Whetstone.”
“Whetstone, Bird Dog Nine One, go ahead.”
“Bird Dog Nine One, vector east. Bogie bearing 065, range two hundred twenty-five miles. Contact Chalice on three one eight point six.”
“Bird Dog Nine One vectoring east, switch three one eight point six.”
“Two!” acknowledged Rocky, his wingman.
With a dip of his wingtip, Dutch silently signaled Rocky to turn with him toward the northeast, then punched in the new frequency on his digital keypad, switching his radio to the airborne AWACS controller, a military version of the Boeing 767, coordinating all aircraft on patrol that day.
“Chalice, this is Bird Dog Nine One.”
“Two!” said Rocky quickly, confirming he was on frequency as well.
“Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice, go secure.”
“Bird Dog Nine One,” acknowledged Dutch as he and Rocky switched their radios to a secure, encrypted mode. This could only mean that AWACs had some classified information to transmit. Dutch was hoping for some news of interest to make the monotonous sortie pass a little quicker, but a secure communication was not likely to be a replay of the president’s inaugural address. His pulse quickened.
“Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice, radio check.”
“Chalice, Bird Dog Nine One loud and clear,” answered Dutch, despite the fact that the secure radio mode was akin to talking to a deep sea diver through a face mask 300 feet down in the Caribbean.
“Two, loud and clear,” lied Rocky.
“Bird Dog, I’ve got you loud and clear. Snap to heading 067. Your bogey is a 747, range two hundred five. We’ve had no radio or transponder response since initial communications.”
“Chalice, Bird Dog Nine One copies. Bird Dog Nine Three flight will remain on station. Bird Dog Nine One snapping 067 to intercept the bogey.” With that, the third and fourth Raptors in the flight remained on station while Dutch and Rocky swung northeast.
The Delaware coastline passed beneath them as they headed over the Atlantic. With a few moments’ reflection, it seemed a strange coincidence to Dutch that precisely when the presidential inauguration was taking place, an airliner would approach Washington with its radios and transponder off. He hadn’t seen an airliner with these malfunctions during any of his previous CAP missions. His pulse climbed yet another notch as an adrenalin rush engulfed his body.
“Bird Dog Nine One flight, push it up!” Dutch ordered as he slammed his throttles forward. Within seconds, he was supersonic, chopping the throttles back to maintain Mach 1.5.
Ninety seconds later, Chalice called.
“Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice. Bogey aircraft is KL6051, a commercial 767. Aircraft is renegade. Repeat- aircraft is renegade.”
Renegade! A hijacking on his watch. Dutch felt instant nausea. The bile rose in his throat, threatening to fill his oxygen mask. He glanced across the narrow space between the two fighter aircraft at his wingman, Rocky, who was monitoring the communication. “Chalice, Bird Dog Nine One copies. KL6051 confirmed renegade. Say mission.”
“Bird Dog Nine One, mission is to shadow and stand by for further words. Suspect is 067 for one ninety, Angels thirty-three. Report contact.”
“Bird Dog Nine One copies shadow and stand by for words. Bird Dog Nine One is in radar contact with bogie.”
White House
Washington D.C.
January
As the cluster of well-wishers began to filter out of the Oval Office following the signing of the new Aspers- Kendall Health Act, Marilyn Cosgrove, the president’s White House chief of staff and the architect of his brilliant, two-point election victory, gave him the look he knew so well: I need to see you.
Shaking hands with the Senate majority leader as he departed, Cumberland nodded slightly to Marilyn. She then stepped into a small anteroom, accompanied by two men, one in naval uniform. In a moment, the president moved to join them, pausing momentarily as he heard, and then observed, the Marine helicopter landing on the broad lawn.
Cumberland acknowledged Admiral Thornton Barrington, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Hank Tiarks, the president’s secretary-designee-as yet unconfirmed by the Senate-for the Homeland Security Department.
“Good afternoon, Admiral. I didn’t expect to see you this quickly. This isn’t another world situation briefing, is it?” he said, extending a handshake and a warm smile.
“No, sir, Mr. President. I apologize for the interruption to your schedule, but we have an urgent matter at hand. You will have noticed Marine One landing. We need to talk for a moment, then I have to ask you to board the helicopter as quickly as possible.”
President Cumberland looked toward Secretary-designee Tiarks, who gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and a brief shake of his head.
“Please explain, Admiral. I have appointments throughout the afternoon and was not advised I would need to leave. I presume you’re the only one in the room who knows what this is all about.”
“Mr. President, there is a hijacked commercial airliner inbound to Washington. At 1315 hours, air traffic control at Washington Center received a communication from KLM Flight 6051, a civilian 767 en route from Amsterdam to Dulles. At that point they were just over an hour from their projected ETA. Sir, the radio transmission stated that KL6051 was now under ‘Allah’s control.’ The aircraft hasn’t responded since.”
Cumberland looked toward Marilyn, his eyes displaying his incredulity at such news his first day in office. In fact, his first two hours in office. “You’re telling me this airliner has been hijacked and is headed toward Washington?”
“That’s what it looks like, Mr. President.”
“Can you divert it?”
“Only if the pilot, or whoever is in control, is willing to change direction.”
“Can’t you direct your fighters to force it to change course?”
“Sir,” Admiral Barrington said, “No aircraft, military or civilian, can force a very large aircraft to change directions if the pilot doesn’t want to change directions. It’s not as simple as nudging a vehicle off the road.”
“What do they want?” the president asked.
“They’ve made no demands. At this point, we’ve only been advised that the aircraft is under hostile control. I’m sorry to be so abrupt with this news, but we have less than…” he glanced at his watch, “… eleven minutes until the aircraft goes feet dry.”
“Feet dry?” Cumberland asked.
“He means that’s when it crosses the coastline, Mr. President,” Secretary-designee Tiarks, a former Air Force
