officer, offered. “What are the president’s options, Admiral?”
“Mr. Tiarks, given the brief time remaining, we have only two options: escort it while they continue to wherever they decide to take it… or shoot it down.”
“ Shoot down a civilian airliner?” the president said, his face suddenly flushed.
“Mr. President-” Barrington started.
“That’s not an option, Admiral,” the president said, his voice now tense, the veins in his neck prominent, his breathing beginning to accelerate.
“Sir, with all due respect, it’s your only option unless you’re willing to allow him to choose his target.”
“What in blazes are you talking about? What do you mean, his target?” the president continued, anger welling up in his voice and coloring his face. “What are his objectives?” Cumberland took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.
“Mr. President, he’s already met his objectives. He’s leaving the final choice up to you.”
Cumberland’s eyes opened wider. “To me? ”
“Yes, sir. Consider this, Mr. President. A suicide bomber boards a bus in Tel Aviv, detonates an explosive, killing himself… or herself, and five or six people, perhaps wounds another ten. Their mission has been accomplished. When this terrorist, or terrorists-we don’t know how many are on board-gained control of this aircraft, their objective was met. There are only two outcomes: they choose a target, perhaps the White House or the Capitol building or even the Pentagon again, and crash the aircraft into the building. They kill everyone on board the aircraft, plus hundreds or even thousands on the ground. We have no time remaining for evacuation. They know that. They also know that the alternative is for you to order the plane to be shot down before it reaches its target. They know these are your only choices, Mr. President. They’re forcing you to decide, and timing it to coincide with the inauguration is no accident. They know you have to let them crash the plane where they choose, or that you have to order the death of the people onboard the airliner. They’re prepared to die in either case.”
“Fanatics! They’re insane! ”
“My thoughts exactly. We have eight minutes, Mr. President.”
Silence filled the room for several long moments, broken by a softly worded question from the president, his anxiety growing more apparent, despite his attempts to control his emotions. “How many people are on board?”
“Amsterdam has advised us of 316 passengers and crew, Mr. President.”
“Are your aircraft in position?”
“Yes, sir. We have two fighters escorting the airliner.”
“We’re absolutely positive it’s been hijacked? Are you sure it’s not a communication problem?”
“The aircraft’s transponder signal indicates that the crew is no longer in control, and the voice on the radio was definitely from someone other than the pilot. The message was not garbled, Mr. President. He clearly stated, ‘Allah is in control of this aircraft.’ ”
Cumberland lowered his head for a moment, then looked up at the United States’ senior military officer, a man he had only met once in his preparatory intelligence briefing several weeks earlier.
“Your advice, Admiral?”
Barrington took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “We have to assume the passengers are as good as dead already, Mr. President. This is a suicide bombing on a scale we’ve dreaded and hoped would never happen again. But, sir, we must bring this plane down before it reaches our soil.”
“Hank?” the president said, looking to his old friend.
“I agree with Admiral Barrington, Mr. President. It’s abhorrent but the alternative is unthinkable.”
“Mr. President,” Marilyn said, her political antennae fully extended, “the public will not understand this choice.”
Cumberland nodded his agreement, stood silent for a brief moment, then retrieved his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration on his brow. “Neither do I, Marilyn,” he said, stepping backward and reaching to support himself as he sought the refuge of a nearby chair. “But it appears that Harry Truman was correct: the buck stops here. And it wasn’t very long before Truman also had a tough decision to make, but he got more time than I have.” Cumberland hesitated for what seemed to those in the room like minutes, his eyes closed and his breathing now raspy and shallow. Finally he looked up, locking eyes with Barrington. His voice was weak, his breathing ragged. He was nearly gasping as he softly spoke. “Admiral, order your pilot to attempt, uh, communication directly with this aircraft. If… they fail to respond to your pilot… to turn around… then you have my authorization to… to… to prevent this aircraft from crossing our coastline.” His eyes closed, and the president leaned his head back against the chair.
Marilyn moved closer to his side, kneeling down next to the chair. She took his hand, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, then turned to Secretary Designee Tiarks. “Call for his doctor, quickly.” Tiarks stepped out of the room.
Admiral Barrington immediately picked up the telephone, spoke a few terse words, and hung up, turning back to Cumberland. “You’ve made the right decision, Mr. President.”
The ashen-faced man who, only moments before, had been the center of attention as he began his presidency by signing a wide-ranging health initiative, opened his eyes briefly and again looked at Barrington, his voice barely a whisper. “Perhaps you’re right, Admiral,” Cumberland said, his right hand clutching at his chest, “but I believe, uh… uh… I’m about to find out if God sees it that way.”
Chapter 2
Bird Dog Nine One
Off the Delaware Coastline
January
“Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice.”
“Go ahead, Chalice.”
“Bird Dog Nine One, the NORAD Commander is on frequency and needs to pass you words.”
Witherspoon paused, his heart performing an internal stress test. “Roger that, Chalice. This is Major Witherspoon. Go ahead, sir.”
“Major, this is General Wilson. I authenticate zebra foxtrot at 1940 Zulu.”
“Bird Dog Nine One copies zebra foxtrot. Good authentication, sir.”
“Major, are you in contact with KL6051?”
“Off my left wing, sir. They refuse to acknowledge me, but I can see two people in the cockpit. They do not, repeat, do not appear to be in flight crew uniform.”
“I understand. Now listen carefully. Are you prepared to carry out the orders of the commander in chief?”
“I am, sir.”
“Major, I want you to try again to contact whoever is in control, tell him of your orders to destroy the aircraft, and, if you fail to receive a response, you are to shoot them down before they go feet dry. You have launch authority. Do you understand that order?”
“Attempt contact, then splash the airliner. Yes, sir, I understand, sir.”
“Both of you. I want you and your wingman to fire.”
Witherspoon didn’t respond for a moment, deciding in that instant not to include his young wingman in this distasteful task, then he responded. “Copy all, sir.”
“Major… do it quickly. The airliner must not be allowed to go feet dry!”
“Affirmative, sir.
“Good luck. Wilson out.”
Dutch squeezed the transmit button on his inter-flight radio. “Bird Dog Nine Two, stay in cover position and remain armament safe. I repeat, armament safe, nose cold.”
Rocky remained two miles dead astern of KL6051 with a radar lock-on, and Witherspoon changed frequency on his #2 radio. He continued to fly parallel with the huge airliner, clearly visible to those in the cockpit.
