Patrick Robinson: To The Death

“This is Steve Farrell, sir. You wanted me.”

“G’day, Steve,” said Jimmy. “This Thunder Bay flight. Where is it right now?”

“Sir, I’m showing it just southeast of the city of Raleigh, making around 380 knots through 35,000 feet. They’ve ignored my orders to swing left, refused to answer my signals, and stopped squawking. Just silence, sir. Like they’d gone off the charts.”

“You’re certain they haven’t.”

“Dead certain, sir. We got a radar paint on relay. They’re up there, sir. And right now they’re flying where they ain’t supposed to be.”

“They stuck to their original course all the way?”

“Nossir. After the Palm Beach refuel, they were directed out over the water and were scheduled to stay off the East Coast until they made landfall over Connecticut, and then proceed on up to Montreal. But we got a Navy Exercise in operation off Norfolk, so we redirected ’em west, back over land.”

“And they heard that okay?”

“Yessir. And obeyed it.”

“So they didn’t ignore the towers until they were diverted from their northerly course off the Carolinas?”

“Nossir. That’s when they went quiet. Soon as I told them to head for Cincinnati, Ohio.”

“Is the aircraft full?”

“Nossir. It’s not logged as heavy. But we don’t have a passenger count.”

“Who owns Thunder Bay Airways?”

“No idea, sir. They usually fly out of Downsview Airport, Toronto.”

“Where’s their home base?”

“No idea, sir. We don’t see them that often. Tell you the truth, I think this might have been a private charter.”

“Got a flight number?”

“Funny you should ask, sir. I’ve been checking. But I’ve had two different answers, 446 and 5544, almost like they filed two different flights.”

“Steve, you sound like a very smart guy. I’ll find out who owns the airline; you nail down their flight number. And keep tracking that bastard, will you? Call me in five with the flight number and gimme a projected route, okay?”

“You got it, sir. Be right back.”

Lt. Commander Ramshawe hit the line to Military Intelligence Research and instructed them to run Thunder Bay Airways to ground and find out how many were on board their flight from Barbados to Montreal this morning. “And get the name of the pilot while you’re at it.”

Then he hit his own desktop computer, which took all of two minutes to inform him that Thunder Bay was situated way up in northern Ontario, on the northwest shore of Lake Superior. The city was very small, mostly a ski resort, but it most certainly did have an airport.

Three more minutes went by, and the phone rang again: Steve Farrell, to give the pilot’s name, Captain Mark Fustok, plus the Boeing’s current projected route.

“If she doesn’t deviate,” said Steve, “this bearing will take her four miles to the right of Raleigh, North Carolina, then straight over the middle of the city of Richmond, Virginia, across the Potomac, up the eastern shore, and on over the very center of Washington, D.C. There was still no accurate flight number.”

“Gimme her last known,” snapped Jimmy.

“She’s just crossing the Virginia border,” replied Steve, “close to a little place called Greensville. Still making 380 knots, still at 35, still defying every fucking thing she’s been told to do.”

Ramshawe liked that. Farrell was an earthy character, feet on the ground, hard to fool, no bullshit, moving fast, right next to a half-eaten donut.

“Stay with it, kid,” he said.

At that moment, his screen lit up the way it did when there was incoming data from Military Intelligence Research. He swiveled around and watched the signal, which informed him that Thunder Bay Airways was about two years old, registered in Canada, excellent safety record, with servicing facilities at the local airfield. It ran regular flights to the Caribbean throughout the winter, with specialized vacation programs available throughout the year to a series of luxury hotels, all of them in the Middle East, Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Egypt, Tunisia, and Morocco.

There were no American-based directors, and only two Canadians. Ninety percent of the shares were held by an overseas trust based in the Bahamas. There was an office on the airfield at Thunder Bay, dealing mostly with their flights from Toronto and Montreal, transporting skiers. The president was listed as Mr. Ismael Akhbar, an Iranian-born naturalized Canadian, who held a master’s in engineering from McGill University.

Jimmy glanced at the phone number and called the office in Thunder Bay. He explained to the girl that he was trying to trace a passenger on the flight but could not locate a flight number.

“Well, that’s because we have no scheduled stops in the USA-it’s not necessary to file flight details if 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, “Get me the White House!”

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.”

“Slows down! You think she’s planning a second hit?”

“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.