Zero Separation (33 page)

The man nodded, and then put his finger to his lips so they'd remain quiet. He whisked them through a series of hallways and open entryways beneath the passenger concourse until they came to a steel door marked “Liberty Airways Operations.” David
swiped his badge once and a resounding click resonated down the quiet hallway.

Inside, David waved at a man across the room who motioned them toward a door at the far side of the room.

“David, who are you?” Lauren asked.

“I'm with Shin Bet, Israel Security Agency. Liberty Airways code shares with the Israeli airline, El Al. I oversee security for connecting passengers, I'm usually here early, which is why Mr. Keller was able to find me.”

“We need to hurry.”

David led them down a hallway to a door that he quickly swiped with a card and punched in a code. He silently shook hands with a man waiting on the other side, then introduced him to the small group. “This is Trent Foster, senior man in charge at Liberty Airways.”

“Trent, thank you.” Lauren said as they were ushered directly to a medium-sized room that held a computer workstation that filled half the office. One person was seated at the keyboard.

Lauren saw that Trent was sweating, his cherubic face flushed red.

“Did David tell you why we're here?” Lauren asked.

Trent nodded.

Three large LCD monitors glowed in front of the single individual seated at the computer. One monitor displayed the national radar picture and the screen next to it was all text. The last one had the familiar coastlines and borders of the Eastern seaboard depicted on the screen. Scattered across the map were small, green airplane symbols.

“This is Kirk, senior dispatcher on duty,” Trent explained “We maintain a separate work area away from the rank and file to deal with emergencies. We can do anything from here.”

Kirk turned and looked up at Lauren, his fingers never leaving his keyboard.

Buck's phone rang and he looked at the caller ID. “It's General Porter. I'm going to talk to him.”

Lauren leaned over Kirk's shoulder. “Which one is Flight 401?”

“That's him,” Kirk used a pencil to point to the solitary target.

“General Porter says nothing has changed. Neither one of those jets is going to be allowed within the thirty-mile no-fly zone,” Buck said. “He also says the fighters are in position and have confirmed the presence of the Gulfstream.”

“Damn it!” Lauren turned back to Kirk. “Exactly where is the thirty-mile arc? How close are they?”

“See this line that cuts just north of Fredericksburg? That's the boundary.”

“How long until 401 reaches that point?” Lauren asked.

“At their current speed, three minutes from now.”

“Kirk,” Michael began, “we need you to send a secure data link message to the crew aboard Flight 401. Tell them they're in the middle of a Homeland Security red alert. They are to say nothing on the open frequencies and await further instructions from you and you only.”

“They're the only ones that will see the message—right?” Lauren added.

“Yeah. It's totally protected. Only the crew on 401 will see this,” Trent said. “Though shouldn't we tell them more than that?”

“Let's get their attention first,” Michael said. “We'll work our way up from there.”

“Michael,” Lauren warned, “the clock is ticking.”

“Send the message,” Michael said.

Lauren watched as Kirk typed out exactly what Michael had instructed. She placed her hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

“Message sent,” Kirk confirmed, as he exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Anything from Donovan?” Michael asked. He and Lauren exchanged worried glances then they both looked up at the big clock on the wall.

Lauren looked at her phone. “Nothing.”

“Something just came in from 401.” Kirk began typing. “They're asking for the action code.”

“What's that?” Lauren said as she turned toward Trent.

“It's a code to prevent unknown persons from implementing nonstandard instructions to flight crews.”

“Send it!” David urged.

“It's Hotel, Sierra, Delta, Eight, Seven,” Trent said.

“Give them the code, and then I want you to explain to them that there's a Gulfstream IV flying in close formation with them.” Michael leaned closer to Kirk. “They need to create some separation by dumping fuel.”

Kirk began typing.

“Michael, we're down to two minutes!” Lauren felt like screaming at everyone to hurry.

Michael turned to Trent. “Where exactly are the fuel dump nozzles on an A330?”

“There are two of them, one on the trailing edge of each wing. They're positioned just outboard of the engines.”

“Good.” Michael closed his eyes and squinted against a sudden wave of pain. “How much time do we have left?”

“Ninety seconds,” Buck said, cupping his phone with one hand. “The Air Force is asking for some definitive sign that Donovan has control of the airplane—if it happens.”

“Like a code word?” Lauren said.

“What's your daughter's middle name?” Buck asked. “The Pentagon is real nervous about being able to confirm who's actually flying the Gulfstream.”

“She has two actually. Elizabeth, Sarah.” Lauren turned toward Kirk. “Have we received a reply from Donovan yet?”

Lauren looked at her phone. Nothing. She shook her head.

“I've got a reply from Flight 401,” Kirk said without looking away from his screen. “They say they've confirmed the code and are standing by to dump fuel.”

“Do it! We're out of time! He knows we wouldn't desert him,” Lauren said. “He knows we're here. He'll be waiting for something. He'll figure it out faster than the terrorists do.”

“Tell them to dump,” Michael said. “They need to give it a good, solid, thirty seconds. If it hasn't worked by then, it's not going to.”

Lauren moved beside Michael and grasped his hand. She was tempted to ask him what he thought Donovan's chances were, but she remained silent. This was all they had, and in a matter of minutes everything was going to happen even if Donovan's chances were zero. As Lauren waited, she discovered she was terrified on a level she didn't know existed.

Donovan felt the blood thumping from his chest to his head. His breathing was shallow and rapid. On the horizon, peeking through the clouds, he could see the glow of Washington D.C. Coming up below them was Fredericksburg, Virginia, the White House no-fly zone began there. He knew they had to go soon. He studied the wing that loomed large ahead and above the
da Vinci
. His eyes were drawn to the steady flash of the strobe light that seemed to hover in space. An instant later, the strobe light vanished. Donovan looked closer, not sure what had happened. In the near darkness out the window, he saw the opaque vapor trail streaming back from a nozzle in the wing. The
da Vinci
shuddered beneath their feet.

“Go!” Donovan whispered in a rush. In a haze of misting jet fuel, the
da Vinci
again rocked hard. Donovan felt the negative g-force as Strauss instinctively dove away from the airliner.

Montero reached the cockpit, and with one quick jab, ran the length of the screwdriver deep into Rafael's ear straight into his brain. The man was dead before his chin hit his chest. Montero pulled out the shaft, swung to her left and drove the screwdriver deep into Strauss's thigh and threw three quick elbow jabs into his face. As anticipated, Strauss's hands flew off the controls to the wound in his leg and then up to try to protect himself from Montero's blows.

Donovan went to the right, reached over Montero, past Rafael's corpse, and pushed the controls down violently, forcing the
da Vinci
away from the Airbus. Strauss and Montero were struggling, arms flailing, and Strauss pulled back on the controls. Donovan felt the Gulfstream rocket upward. Out the windshield, Donovan spotted
the A330, just above them—fuel still billowing from each wing. Donovan strained against the g's and grabbed the controls. The Airbus filled the windshield and he had no choice but to haul farther back on the control column and force the
da Vinci
nearly vertical. A second later, the Airbus flashed past as they narrowly missed the tail and flew back through the plume of jet fuel. The Gulfstream shuddered violently as it cut through the Airbus's powerful slipstream. They were running out of airspeed. Using all the strength he had, he forced the controls to the right and allowed the nose to drop while trying to roll the
da Vinci's
wings level.

In the near-darkness, Donovan saw that Montero had lost her footing, and Strauss had somehow gotten his right arm around her neck. He pulled her into him, tying her up like a boxer, only he was trying to choke off her air. Rafael's lifeless body had slid sideways and obstructed Donovan's ability to fly the plane. He shoved him aside with his shoulder and fought to level the wings as the
da Vinci
nosed down into a steep dive.

Strauss let out a cry as he pulled the screwdriver out from his thigh, and in one fluid motion he raised it above his head to stab Montero's exposed back. Donovan released the controls and put his hand out to deflect the blow only to watch in horror as the blade of the screwdriver punched cleanly through his palm, jutting out of the back of his hand. The blade stopped inches from Montero's spine.

Donovan didn't feel any pain as he locked eyes with Strauss, but in that one moment, he saw the look of an enraged animal—one that was fighting for its life. Donovan made a fist and as hard as he could hit Strauss below the eye. Strauss had no way to protect himself and the next blow hit the same spot, and the next crushed the bridge of Strauss's nose. Donovan took three more swings before he stopped. Strauss had gone slack, blood coursed from his nose down the front of his shirt.

“Montero! Don't move!” Donovan yelled between clenched teeth. His left arm was tangled up with Strauss, the screwdriver still sticking through his hand. He used his good hand to reach out
and try to steady the pilotless Gulfstream. “Watch my left hand. I need you to pivot slowly to the right.”

“Oh my God,” Montero, disentangling herself, stared at the screwdriver impaled in his hand.

Donovan focused on gaining control of the
da Vinci
. The airplane had been descending, but he'd gotten the airplane to climb once again. The Airbus was nowhere to be seen as Donovan awkwardly leveled the wings and brought the Gulfstream back to straight and level. Moving quickly, he turned on every outside light the
da Vinci
possessed, hoping the fighters would take it as a sign that he was in control.

Montero reached up without warning and in one fluid motion pulled the screwdriver free from his hand. His knees nearly buckled, and for a split second, he felt like he might black out. He fought off the first wave of pain, then made a fist and drew the injured hand to his chest. Donovan used his good hand to engage the autopilot then dialed the emergency frequency on the VHF radio. He picked up the microphone and broadcast in the blind.

“Mayday, Mayday! This is Eco-Watch zero one on 121.5. Aircraft in the vicinity please acknowledge.”

“Eco-Watch zero one, this is Viper Leader. Confirm you have UHF capability?”

“Affirmative.”

“Please switch to tactical on 381.3.”

Donovan switched from VHF to UHF. Using the military frequency would make it less likely for someone to monitor the transmissions. “Eco-Watch 01 is up.”

“Please identify yourself.”

“This is Donovan Nash, and I'm with FBI Special Agent Montero.”

“For verification, what is your daughter's middle name?”

“She has two,” Donovan replied. “Elizabeth, Sarah.”

“Nice job, Captain Nash. Give us your aircraft status.”

“Stand by.”

“What do you need me to do?” Montero asked as she gingerly
touched the side of her face then used the back of her hand to wipe away the small trace of blood she found there.

“Can you get Strauss out of the seat so I can fly? Unbuckle his harness. But don't let him fall forward on the controls.”

Montero released the straps while she held Strauss. She dug in her heels and used muscle and leverage to drag the deadweight out of the seat into the aisle. The moment Strauss was clear, Donovan jumped into the empty pilot's seat.

He did a quick inventory. They were headed northwest at twenty-two thousand feet. Donovan exhaled and momentarily closed his eyes while he thought for a second about what to say on an open frequency. “Viper Leader, the airplane is flyable, one casualty, one person in custody.”

“Fuel status?”

“Five thousand pounds remaining,” Donovan replied. “Also, be aware that hazardous cargo is contained, but both myself and Agent Montero have been exposed.”

“I copy,” Viper Leader replied, calmly. “How long since your exposure?”

“Twenty-four hours. Maybe longer.”

Behind him, Donovan heard the beginning of what sounded like a low groan coming from one of the engines. His eyes went straight to the instrument panel. The left engine was overheating, the core temperature climbing steadily. Donovan brought the thrust lever all the way to idle, but nothing good happened. The engine grew hotter and obvious vibrations began to resonate through the controls. The engine started to surge, the rpm going up and down regardless of what Donovan did with the throttle. With a flick of his wrist, he did the only thing he could do and shut down the engine. He quickly secured the associated fuel pumps and generator and then set up the proper descent angle to keep the airspeed where he wanted.

“I'm down to one engine,” Donovan reported to the fighters.

“Was it a precautionary shutdown?” Viper Leader replied. “Or do you have a problem?”