Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

McDermott calculated that in a minute or so he would be able to see the plumes of steam coming from the cooling towers on the commercial nuclear power plant that remained in operation at the Columbia Generating Station. They would then proceed northwest for another twenty minutes before beginning their initial descent into Sea-Tac.

Except they didn’t. McDermott first sensed a slight drift northward in the direction of the Hanford site, then a faint bank to the east, the starboard wing dipping modestly. He swiveled his head to look about the cabin to see if it had captured anyone else’s attention. Nothing. Some passengers dozing, others scanning devices in airplane mode, others playing sudoku.

McDermott gazed out the window. Despite the northerly drift, he could see the billowing clouds of steam from the Columbia Generating Station’s cooling towers to the west. Likely just a minor course adjustment, probably to accommodate some traffic in the vicinity.

A few seconds later, however, the plane banked to the west, a more pronounced dip of its portside wing, the northerly drift becoming northwesterly. McDermott once again glanced about the cabin. A few more passengers were looking up, curious if not concerned.

The cooling towers grew larger in his window as the plane continued to bank in a northwesterly direction. The flight attendant from the main cabin passed him on her way to first class, where she spoke briefly to another attendant, who then picked up the wall phone opposite the flight deck. After a brief conversation, she turned to the other attendant with an urgent expression and said something to which the attendant replied with a curt nod before returning to the main cabin.

Seconds later, the plane began to descend noticeably, far too soon and steep for initial descent. They were probably a good two hundred miles from Sea-Tac and still around a cruising altitude of thirty-one thousand feet.

The seat belt sign illuminated. A couple of seconds later the voice of the flight attendant came on the speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the seat belt sign. Please return to your seats and make sure your seat backs and tray tables are upright and in their locked position and your seat belts are securely fastened for the remainder of the flight. We’re experiencing a few minor bumps before landing. We’ll be passing through the cabin to collect any remaining service items.”

McDermott, affecting an attitude of nonchalance, began tightening his seat belt just as the plane shuddered violently and pitched in a steep dive to the west. Panic spiked from McDermott’s stomach through his throat, which struggled to suppress a cry of terror. He watched the attendant in first class get knocked off-balance and fall against the seatback of 4A—opening a deep gash on her right temple. Baggage flew from the overhead compartments and oxygen masks dipped to screaming passengers, many of whom were too preoccupied with bracing themselves to even notice.

Amid the shouts, cries, and prayers McDermott, strangely, found himself becoming composed. It was as if the overwhelming sensation of fear had tripped some gauge in some gland that flooded his brain and body with serotonin and endorphins, producing an incongruous sense of calm and ease. He quickly considered and dismissed possible causes for the impending disaster, as if he’d be able to correct the problem upon identifying it.

The roar of the engines grew louder and swiftly changed to a high-pitched whine. McDermott closed his eyes and the screams of the passengers and the whine of the engines receded into white noise. He shook his head once at the irony that all of his worst fears of flying would be confirmed by his own death.

But in the very next second the whine of the engines dropped several octaves, the volume of noise dropped almost to normal, and the plane began to level and stabilize.

McDermott’s eyes snapped open and he looked out the window. The plane appeared to be at between fifteen and twenty thousand feet, far higher than he’d expected; it felt as if they’d been diving for much longer.

He heard whispers, gasps, and sounds of relief from other passengers. The flight attendants, including the one who’d hit her temple, were moving about, checking and comforting the passengers.

McDermott did a quick personal inventory to confirm he hadn’t been hurt and waited for the captain’s voice to come on the speaker with assurances and an explanation of what had gone wrong. But after several minutes of waiting, it became clear that no explanation would be coming.

They don’t know why it happened, he thought.

For Sean McDermott, the lack of an explanation didn’t matter. In fact, for his purposes, there was no possible explanation that would’ve mattered. Because at that moment, Sean McDermott resolved never to fly again.

IRVING, TEXAS,

AUGUST 14, 2:20 P.M. CDT

Todd Wells was in agony.

The hot, dry air seared his lungs as he gasped for oxygen. His legs were engorged with lactic acid, making both his quadriceps and his hamstrings feel as if they were about to tear with each step he took. His heart rate was in the red zone.

Yet disbelief nearly dwarfed his agony. The rookie—the no-name—was winning. Beating the toughest, fittest man on the planet. That’s what Wells was, after all. He’d proven it by winning the Crucible two years running.

And the rookie was not just beating him; he was smoking him. In fact, the last event wasn’t even close. The rookie had finished the forty-by-forty-yard shuttle run a good nine seconds ahead of Wells. Impossible.

But he’d prevail still. One event remained in the Crucible, a five-day competition created by a former German decathlete who’d graduated to a career as an operator in GSG-9, the vaunted German counterterrorism unit. Convinced that other extreme physical competitions tested only a limited range of physical prowess, he developed the Crucible to measure every aspect of physical fitness.

The Crucible included multiple sprints, 5K, 10K, and marathon runs, a variety of obstacle courses, surface and underwater swims, graduated power cleans, dead lifts, squats, and reaction drills, all with barely a pause between events. The competition was capped by a series of one-on-one fights, consisting of three one-minute, no-holds-barred contests, scored on a point system: the Cauldron.

It was this last event that Wells was depending upon. It had provided his margin of victory the last two years. The rookie, Tom Lofton, presently held a seven-point lead in the overall competition. In six years of competing in the Crucible, Wells had never lost a Cauldron match. As he stood hunched over, he looked at Lofton. Though he appeared exhausted, his expression was placid and his body relaxed. But his eyes had an intensity Wells found somewhat unsettling. No matter. Lofton would be toast in the Cauldron.

Mike Garin, the man known to the other competitors as Tom Lofton, was doing the math. He held a seven-point lead on the reigning champion with only the Cauldron remaining. The winner of the fighting competition would get ten points, the runner-up seven, third place five, fourth three, and fifth one. Therefore, all Garin had to do to win at least a share of the championship was to come in fourth place or higher in the final event. But if he did that, with all of the attendant notoriety of being champion, someone might discover that Tom Lofton was actually Mike Garin, former Omega special operator.

So, quite simply, he’d make sure to come in no higher than fifth. In other words, he had to lose. Not something he relished doing.

Garin rose upright, placed his hands on his hips, and scanned the sidelines, ringed with TV cameras, judges, and support team personnel. The other competitors had three or four team members each. Garin’s support consisted only of Luci Saldana, and that was sufficient. She was already jogging toward him with an ice pack and a bottle of diluted Gatorade, looking cool and comfortable in white shorts and T-shirt.