John Nance - Lockout

But, dammit, no matter how cute the man was, could he and his team and the DOD in general really be covering something up? Was that why they called Seth, to get him to quiet her down?

This is stupid! she concluded, not entirely buying her own resolve. This is a hijacking, not something involving radioed orders to a drone. Nothing but coincidence.

Jenny realized she was looking longingly at the phone, desperately wanting to call Seth for adult supervision. His security status wasn’t high enough to justify a classified line at home, and there was no way she was going to be reckless enough to talk about this on an open line, so…

Suddenly she was fumbling through a personal address book in search of his home address, calculating just how long it was going to take to drive there, and just as quickly deciding that such a move was the sort of frightened, impulsive act that could seriously undermine his confidence in her. He’d said goodnight. Leave it alone.

Yet, there were secrets beyond that computer screen begging to be unraveled.

With a strange combination of excitement, apprehension, and resolve, she turned back to the keyboard.

The White House (7:20 p.m. EST / 0020 Zulu)

No matter how many times he entered the Situation Room, Walter Randolph felt the weight of history bearing down on him. A long procession of American presidents had grappled with unfolding crises in here, he thought, some more successfully than others. How many photos had he seen over the years of grim-faced men and women gathered around this table?

How many times had he been one of them?

Walter took a seat at the far end and opened his laptop, confirming the secure channel before signing in. At the same moment, James Bergen, the director of Central Intelligence, rounded the corner looking almost presidential himself, his custom-tailored suit devoid of even the hint of a wrinkle as he flashed his practiced smile the media so loved—a smile characterizing the country’s chief spook as an affable grandfather.

“Walter! Sorry to keep you waiting. The president should be here shortly. He’s already been briefed that Moishe Lavi is a part of this equation.” Bergen shook Walter’s hand firmly, settling his five-foot-ten frame into the leather chair and waiting for the presidential aide to depart before turning to his chief deputy.

“So, what have we got that I didn’t hear from you on the way over?”

Randolph leaned toward him, keeping his voice low.

“Two things. We know Mossad would never let Lavi out of their sight, but somehow Lavi managed to ditch his tail in Tel Aviv and was off the ground before the team shadowing him knew he was even headed to the airport. They’re stunned, I’m told, and knowing our Israeli friends, some heads will roll, but that means only Lavi loyalists are aboard that jet to keep an eye on him. In other words, no adult oversight.”

“Not good, and not necessarily consistent with a trip to the US. What else?”

“I have a very worrisome tip from… let’s just say a reliable asset in a sister agency, not that we would ever spy on each other.”

“Perish the thought. I can’t let us do that. Go on.”

“James, DIA’s deep into this already. Turns out they dispatched someone to go to NSA headquarters this morning, and we think they’re working on the same problem.”

“They’re that far ahead of us?”

“Yes. My information is the DIA was talking to NSA when the aircraft changed course, which is very strange.”

“Maybe dumb luck?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Something more’s afoot here. The Pentagon is involved to a greater degree, I think, than would be reasonable if all they were doing was worrying about Lavi and the Israeli Air Force.”

“So, what do you suspect?”

The noises accompanying the entrance of several people ended the quiet exchange as the national security advisor came in just behind the assistant secretary of state, both men following an air force colonel and a navy admiral. There were greetings all around before the assembled, all-male team took their seats and unburdened notebooks just as the president, wearing a tuxedo, swept in ahead of two Secret Service agents. He rolled his eyes as he gestured over his shoulder.

“Gentlemen, as of this moment I’m supposed to be stroking egos at an East Wing shindig featuring the mind-bending combination of Yo-Yo Ma and Carlos Santana. The first lady is already irritated at this diversion, and that could translate to a cold and lonely night. And I don’t like cold and lonely nights. So, quickly… what’s going on with this hijacked airliner? James? CIA first.”

Bergen restrained himself from a sideways glance at the two military officers in the room, both of whom would have already been briefed by their Defense Intelligence counterparts.

“Mr. President, this is not a hijacking as far as anyone can tell. The flight was Pangia’s Tel Aviv to New York run, and it was halfway there when it turned around and headed back toward the Mideast. The crew didn’t even know it at first. The airline reports their pilots can’t physically control the airplane or kill the autopilot, and the most immediate problem is that Moishe Lavi is aboard.”

“Can’t control it? Do we know why?”

“No, but it has us concerned. We understand Mossad is also deeply concerned, and if Iran hasn’t picked up on this by now, it will be only a matter of time before they do.”

The assistant secretary of state had a finger in the air as he nodded agreement. “The Israelis want to keep a hot line to our conclusions and information.”

“Agreed, but only if the channels are airtight,” the president said. “How would Tehran know any of this, James?”

“The communication between the crew and their Chicago headquarters was on open channel cell phone, a phone collected from a passenger. God only knows who picked it up, but the story has already broken worldwide as a suspected hijack, which it isn’t.”

“Why can’t the pilots control the airplane?” The president asked again, looking from face to face. “Is there something I don’t know? I didn’t think it was possible to remotely hijack an airliner like that. In fact, that’s exactly why…” the president stopped himself and waved away the rest of whatever he was going to say.

“It isn’t possible, as far as we know…” James Bergen began again, acutely aware that the air force colonel and navy admiral were saying nothing and everyone was wondering what statement the chief executive had choked off. “But that’s what the crew has reported.”

“You think the airplane has been turned into some sort of remotely controlled instrument… controlled from the ground, for instance?” The president asked.

The CIA director glanced back at his deputy, and Walter picked up the answer.

“We have no reason to believe, at present, that this Airbus A330 is capable of that sort of remote control, sir. The A330 is a complicated, electronic airliner, but the pilots can always override the autoflight system.”

“And yet they haven’t… or they claim they haven’t, right?”

“Correct. But we’ve run backgrounds on all the crewmembers, and there’s no indication of any potential compromised loyalty. The captain is an ex-US Navy fighter pilot.”

“Are there any weapons aboard?” the president asked.

“Mossad says no… they routinely scanned the bird on taxi out with a neutron scanner. But… there is a cargo igloo—a pod—aboard, and Pangia Airways seems to be having trouble finding the manifest.”

“I’m a pilot, remember? I know the Airbus A330, and it doesn’t have bomb dropping ability. A cargo pod would be useless as an external weapon.”