Both engines were out, and it was all the pilot could do to keep the aircraft level. The gear was down, but then he suddenly lost more altitude.
The highway was jammed with building rush-hour traffic, and drivers attempted to pull off to the shoulder, but they were hardly in time.
Two hundred feet. One hundred. The main gear hit the ground but then collided with several cars before the forward gear suddenly slammed down with such a force that the wheels just snapped off, sending the plane skidding forward and through more cars, which were bulldozed out of the way and sent tumbling through the air like Matchbox toys. The fuselage split apart, just forward of the wings, and that first section broke off and went spinning off the highway, while the rest of the jet began to slow as it continued crashing through more and more cars, dense black smoke rising in its wake.
The newspeople were now crying on the air, and Towers was saying, “There’ll be survivors for sure. Some people will walk away from that.”
Moore tore his fingers through his hair, then tugged out his smartphone and sent off a text message to Wazir.
MUST TALK ASAP. URGENT.
43 THE MORE THINGS CHANGE
Moore and Towers had hitched a ride back with Meyers and his agents, who’d dropped them off at the DEA office. Video taken by a woman waiting at LAX’s cell-phone lot showed three terrorists standing near a DirecTV satellite van. They wore jeans and flannel shirts like migrant workers, with balaclavas concealing their faces. Gigi Rasmussen was a nineteen-year-old USC freshman who’d started her recording with the launch of the second missile, the killing of a civilian who’d challenged the terrorists, and then their departure, all narrated by her as she gasped and repeatedly chanted “ohmygod” throughout the entire sequence. She’d sold the video to CNN, but the Agency had managed to stop its airing in the interest of national security, although Moore knew it’d eventually be released to the public. The missile launcher was identified as an Anza, the missile presumably an MK III, the same type used by the guys in San Diego. The Agency could now focus its searches for weapons deals on that specific ordnance, but even a cursory scan of the MANPADS’ specs told Moore enough: The weapon’s place of origin was Pakistan, and the MK III missiles were the Chinese version of the American Stinger. These were the types of weapons the Taliban might have access to and train with in Waziristan.
Moore reviewed every photo they had on file of Mullah Abdul Samad and zoomed in on the man’s eyes in each photograph. Then he compared those eyes to a still image he’d captured from the video. He rapped a knuckle on the screen and told Towers to look for himself.
“Damn, that could be him. And hey, they found what was left of the van at a Johnny Park on 111th Street. They burned it up. No weapons. No witnesses. You know why? Because they killed all the employees there. Gagged and taped them up, then stabbed them.”
Moore shook his head in disgust. “Mark my words, if they find any DNA at all, it’ll match what we got off the pendant. Samad led the team in L.A. I’ll bet my life on it.”
Towers considered that, then his expression grew odd. “There’s one other thing. Apparently these scumbags like chocolate. They found wrappers all over the floor mats. Foil survived the fire.”
“Maybe they’ll get some good samples off of those, but you know what’s scaring me now? The thought of how many sleepers they had helping them …” Moore flicked his glance up to the television.
All planes were on the ground now. FEMA teams were on the way. Roadblocks and checkpoints were going up within a one-hundred-mile radius of the six major airports where the incidents had occurred. Samad and his men must have accounted for those. Had they escaped before the checkpoints had gone up? Or would they remain within the secured zone for a few days or even a few weeks?
Meanwhile, the entire country was holding its collective breath, waiting to see what else might happen — chemical, biological, or nuclear — as the terrible,
Six planes had been targeted on June 6. Two airliners whose engines had been struck by missiles had landed safely: Phoenix and El Paso. The Los Angeles flight had crashed, killing all passengers, crew, and hundreds of civilians on the ground. The Tucson flight proceeded without incident after a young kid named Joe Dominguez ran over one of the terrorists with his jacked-up truck. The San Antonio flight had crash-landed, with survivors being pulled alive from that wreck. The death tolls were mounting.
By nine p.m., the President of the United States was addressing the nation and quoting liberally from George W. Bush’s address on that fateful Tuesday in September 2001:
“The search is under way for those who are behind these evil acts. I’ve directed the full resources of our intelligence and law enforcement communities to find those responsible and bring them to justice. We will make no distinction between the terrorists who committed these acts and those who harbor them.”
“So if you’re Samad, where do you go?” asked Towers. “Michigan? Canada? Or the other direction…back into Mexico?”
“If he slips across either border we can still legally pursue him,” Moore said.
“You think that’s his plan?”
“Actually, I think he’s going to lay low. He’s got a safe house somewhere in L.A. He’s there right now. Probably some little apartment in the valley.”
“Well, if he doesn’t make a break for one of the borders now, he’ll have a hell of time after this.”
“Yeah, so it’s one thing or the other. He’s racing toward the border right now, or he’ll just sit tight till things cool off. Then he’ll make his move to wherever his final destination is.”
“Back to Pakistan?”
“Nah, too dangerous for that. We don’t have much on him, but we know he’s got friends in Zahedan and Dubai. We need to get his face out there. Some neighborhood kid could ID him.”
“Sit tight, bro. When that DNA comes back from the van, I think your boys in Langley might be willing to go public.”
“They’d better be. So …there’s no way I can sleep. Let’s go up to L.A.”
Towers took a long pull on his coffee, nodded, and said, “It’s been one hell of a night.”
Dan Burleson squinted against the blinding lights and the cameras directed at him and the rest of the passengers as they entered the terminal, having just completed the inflatable-slide exit from the plane made infamous by a JetBlue flight attendant who, after being harassed by a passenger, had quit his job and subsequently exited the plane in the same fashion, in what some called the most epic resignation ever. Before exiting the plane, Dan and the others had been told that they would need to be quarantined and questioned briefly by federal investigators. Doctors would also be available, and vouchers to make up for the flight would be issued. The flight attendant who’d nearly been attacked had clutched Dan’s hand before he exited the plane and said, “Thank you.”
He’d blushed.
As they moved through the crowd of media held back by airport security guards, the black lady who’d told everyone to shut up lifted her voice to the crowd: “Jesus did his work tonight! And he gave us this great man right here! This hero who saved us from the terrorist on our plane!”
She pointed directly at Dan, who winced and waved and tried to move as quickly as he could past the throng as camera lights now went off like fireworks. He had a feeling that by morning, he’d be sitting in numerous TV studios and giving interviews about something that had never occurred to him as heroism. He wanted to believe
