grip. The man struggled against him, and Dan only reacted. He gritted his teeth and fought to remain in his seat as the single engine thundered up and the passengers continued to cry and scream. An elderly black woman two seats ahead got to her feet and shouted, “Y’all be quiet and let Jesus do his work here!”
And that’s when Dan realized that maybe Jesus had begun his work, because the terrorist was no longer moving and the pilots had finally leveled out. Dan relaxed his grip on the man and just sat there, listening, as the pilots ramped the engine to full power. They’d already no doubt cut off the fuel supply to the damaged engine and had rotated the dials on the transponder to read 7700, the Air Traffic Control (ATC) code for EMERGENCY. Flight controllers had noticed the brightening of the plane’s radar signature on their screens and were receiving audible alarms of the emergency. No radio contact would be necessary. Those pilots were too busy attending to the aircraft to give a second thought about talking to ATC.
The flight attendant who was about to be attacked staggered her way to him and looked at the terrorist.
“Is he dead?”
Dan shrugged, but he felt pretty sure he had choked the guy to death.
She widened her eyes, started to say something, changed her mind, then said, “You have to buckle up! Now!”
Dan shoved the guy into the seat next to his, then buckled up as he was told.
The college girl, whose face was now stained with tears, looked over at him and nodded.
Moore and Towers were standing near the open back door of an SUV, watching a live news feed on a laptop supplied by SAC Meyers. Moore glanced down at his hand; it was shaking.
The incidents appeared to be moving from west to east. The West Coast news was in full swing, and their reaction time in airing news was much faster. Moore had already watched footage captured by a KTLA news helicopter of the incredible and surreal damage in Los Angeles, the long line of destruction carved across the city as the plane had struck the freeway, then dropped down to plow through the densely populated section of West 41st and West 42nd Streets, destroying homes, bars, bargain stores, fish markets, and anything else in its way. The tail section had been catapulted off the freeway at an even higher velocity than the rest of the plane and had crashed into a recreation center, where, reports said, more than twenty children had been killed.
“Moore,” Towers called, lowering his phone. “They just tried to hit Tucson, but a group of civilians took them out. And I just heard they hit El Paso and San Antonio. That’s six so far. It’s a full-on terrorist attack. Nine-eleven all over again.”
Moore cursed and glanced at the three bodies of the terrorists being zipped up while the fire department crew continued foaming down the area.
If Dan Burleson had to bet on it, he’d say the pilots were trying to decide if they thought they could initiate a turn and make it back to the airport. The more likely situation was that they would land at the best possible off- airport site. It all depended on whether or not they thought they had enough power to keep the plane level. If they attempted to turn without sufficient power, they’d very quickly lose altitude. Pilots of single-engine aircraft were instructed to never, ever, attempt to return to the runway, because they would lose too much altitude to effect the turnaround. Case in point: On January 15, 2009, Captain Chesley Sullenberger was in command of US Airways Flight 1549 en route from La Guardia to Charlotte. He had lifted off and flown through a flock of birds, resulting in the loss of both engines. He knew he’d lose precious altitude if he started a turnaround with no engines producing power, and determined that his best course of action was to ditch in the river. His actions had saved the lives of the crew and every passenger on board.
They could blame the birds for that near disaster, but Dan felt certain that Mr. Allahu Akbar in the seat next to him, along with his buddies, was responsible for their present dilemma.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Ethan Whitman. As most of you already know, we’ve lost an engine but plan to make our turn and head back to the airport. We have every confidence that we’ll be able to set the aircraft down on the runway. Those noises you just heard were the gear going down and now we’re about to initiate our all-important turn back to Phoenix. Despite our confidence regarding the landing, we will still initiate crash-landing procedures and want to insist that you remain calm and allow the attendants to do their jobs. Listen to what they say and comply immediately for your own safety and the safety of those around you. Thank you.”
Not five seconds later, the aircraft began to turn.
Moore, Towers, and a few of Meyers’s FBI agents had gone across the street and spoken to the Coast Guard Station’s commanding officer, John Dzamba, who’d already sent out a dozen of his personnel to help control the scene and keep traffic moving. They borrowed a conference room equipped with big-screen TVs, and there Moore paced and watched the screens with a mixture of horror and disbelief, while Towers got online to see what intel the other agencies were gathering.
Nearly every television network in the United States of America was interrupting its regularly scheduled programming to bring word about the multiple missile attacks on airliners heading toward the East from the West Coast. The local San Diego news stations’ anchors began speculating on more attacks that might happen in the Midwest and at airports along the East Coast as flights everywhere were being grounded and air traffic controllers were doing their best to take those planes away from highly volatile areas such as the oil refineries near Newark, New Jersey, and other heavily populated areas. As a matter of fact, in Newark, flights from Europe would be diverted to Nova Scotia/Newfoundland as they had been on 9/11. And likewise as had occurred on 9/11, rumors and false reports continued to run rampant.
Slater and O’Hara finally got on a video conference that Slater said could last no more than two minutes because they were understandably swamped.
“The nuke teams are already converging on the major cities,” said O’Hara.
“And we’ve got the NSA’s computers monitoring cell phones for key words like flight numbers, Middle Eastern accents and phrases. Your man Samad might try to give his boss Rahmani a report, and if he does, then we’ll work on triangulating his location.”
“These guys are too smart for that. The only way to get him is HUMINT,” said Moore. “Boots on the ground. People who know where Samad is going. He’s got help. Sleepers everywhere, safe houses. They know how to hide — and if they still got Gallagher helping them, then he’s taught them all our TTPs.”
“We’ve got a team hunting for him,” said Slater. “And they will find him.”
O’Hara chimed in: “Towers, we’ve got the go-ahead to keep you on this, because your JTF is already set up for inter-agency ops. You’ll team up with some new agents from the FBI, DEA, and I’ve got a TSA guy we need to get onboard. I assume you’re well enough to keep working?”
“Hell, yeah, sir,” said Towers.
Moore began to shake his head. “The answers aren’t here. They’re back there. In the mountains. In Waziristan. Did you call off the air strikes for me?”
“Still working on it,” said Slater.
Moore held back a curse. “Please work harder.
After the call, Moore went into the bathroom. He had the dry heaves and just hung his head over the toilet for a few minutes. When he returned to the conference room, he found a fresh cup of coffee waiting for him.
Towers gave him a sympathetic look. “Hey, man, there’s no way in hell we could’ve known this shit would go down. We signed on to take out a cartel. Our timing sucked. Period. But we still did our jobs.”
They both glanced back at the flat screen, now showing live video of the plane in Phoenix landing at the airport, one engine still smoking. The gear hit the tarmac in a picture-perfect landing.
But then the broadcast was interrupted once more, by live images of a plane coming down toward Interstate 10 outside San Antonio.
“Oh my God,” Moore said with a gasp.
