you’re going straight over. We never stop in the USA. Sir, what was the name of your passenger?”
Jimmy trotted out the name of his maiden aunt Sheila, who was currently located on a sheep station 746 miles southwest of the Great Dividing Range in New South Wales, Australia. He added that he was real anxious to make contact.
“I’m sorry, sir,” replied the girl from Thunder Bay. “I can confirm that Miss Sheila Wilson was not on that flight from Barbados. There are only twenty-seven passengers aboard, and she is not among them.”
“Okay, Miss,” said Jimmy. “By the way, what was that flight number?”
“Our nonstop Barbados-Montreal is under charter today. It’s TBA flight number 62,” she replied.
Jimmy Ramshawe’s heart stopped dead. When it restarted, he murmured, “Say again.”
“TBA 62, sir. Will that be all?”
“Just say hello to Aunt Sheila if you see her.”
He slammed down the phone and yelled into the intercom,
It took three minutes to open his line to the Oval Office, and he told the president’s secretary that he needed to speak to Admiral Morgan urgently.
Ten seconds later, he heard the familiar growl: “Morgan. Speak.”
“It’s Jimmy here, sir. Have you yet read that intercept message from Boston to Syria?”
“Of course I have. What’s up?”
“Arnie, I’ve just found Flight 62—the one they mentioned affirmative. It’s what air traffic control calls a bolter — it’s refusing to obey orders from the tower, and right now it’s headed for the city of Richmond, Virginia. Its present route will take it straight over the center of Washington.”
“You in touch with the operator supposed to control it?”
“Yessir.”
“Is he worried? Doesn’t think it’s just a mistake or anything?”
“Hell, no. He thinks this flight is very deliberately ignoring all instructions and flying straight down the course it wants to take.”
“Where is it right now?”
“Making 380 knots at 35,000 feet. It’s 1225 now. She’s covering a little over six miles a minute, which would put Flight 62 around thirty-six miles north of the Virginia border, over Dinwiddie County, maybe fifteen miles south- sou’west of Richmond. ”
“What’s Richmond from Washington, Jimmy? About a hundred miles?”
“Correct. Maybe thirty minutes from now if she slows down some, losing height.”
“Arnie, there’s no doubt in my mind. There’s only twenty-seven people on board. This is an Arab airliner, and it’s plainly intent on hitting the city. I’m assuming that, sir. And I’m staying right on it, trying to get a visual. Sir, please tell the president to scramble the fighters; we’re gonna have to shoot this fucker down.”
For the first time in his life, Jimmy Ramshawe hung up on the admiral, who was thus left holding the president’s silent phone inside the Oval Office, right in front of the boss.
“Sir,” said Arnie, “National Security believes there’s a rogue Boeing 737 heading for Washington, D.C., with a view to crashing into a major population center. Generally speaking, they believe it’s the same gang that just had a shot at blowing up Logan this morning.”
“What do we do?”
“What d’ya mean, ‘we’? You, Mr. President, scramble Langley and Andrews—
“I’m telling you to give them permission to fire at will. That way, the military has a free hand to do as they think fit.”
“But, Arnie, what about civilian loss of life?”
“Guess that was worrying everyone on 9/11. And that’s why close to three thousand people died in the World Trade Center. If our Air Force pilots had dropped the fuckers straight into the Hudson River with a couple of Sidewinders, it would not have happened.”
“I know, I know. They didn’t get ’em into the air quick enough, right?”
“Not quick enough to nail American Flight 11, or even United 93. Military commanders were not informed of that hijack until four minutes after it crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Basically, everyone was scared shitless of shooting down unarmed passenger jets.”
“I am too.”
“Don’t be, Paul. Get the fighters in the air, and tell them to open fire on sight. The passengers die anyway. But don’t, for the sake of all that’s holy, let that fucking plane ram the Capitol or the White House. That would be absurd, given how much we already know.”
“I guess,” said the president slowly. “There’s no getting away from one simple truth: on 9/11, the only one of the four hijacked aircraft that did not reach and hit its target was the one in the field at Shanksville.”
“Spoken like a naval officer, Paul. And there’s no escaping the fact that on 9/11 the fighters were not ordered into the air in time. They were still on the ground when the Towers were hit, still on the ground when the last terrorist flight hit the field in Pennsylvania. Don’t let that happen again.”
Colonel Rick Morry came out of his desk chair like a Saturn rocket. His computer screen was showing a possible hijack or terrorist takeover of a Boeing 737 passenger jet in the area of Richmond, Virginia, heading north toward the nation’s capital. More importantly, President Bedford had already given clearance for the military to locate, engage, and if necessary shoot it down.
And these orders came straight from the Oval Office, with all commands, as usual, directed through Northeast Air Defense control, way out there in upstate New York, west of Syracuse, about forty-five miles from the freezing shores of Lake Ontario.
Scott Freeman picked up his phone and called out:
The control room at Northeast Air Defense went stone silent. Every eye in the room was on Major Scott Freeman. Two minutes went by, and then he spoke.
Colonel Morry walked over to the command console on Major Freeman’s desk and informed him that the civilian flight controller monitoring the Boeing was Steve Farrell at Herndon Flight Control.
“Langley naval fighters 160 miles to ops area south of Washington 14 minutes. Steve, give me an approximate on Flight 62 at 1255?”
“Thank you, Herndon. Copy that.”
Colonel Morry: “
