John Nance - Lockout

“Of course not. But… I mean, I’m sitting up here helpless as a freaking baby, and you’re the only one who seems to have a clue what to do. Sorry… I’m just very, very frustrated. “

“Me, too.”

“And… something I was trained to never be.”

There was silence before Dan interjected.

“What’s that?”

“I’m scared shitless, man! There. I said it.”

“It’s completely normal to be scared.”

Jerry looked over at him suddenly “So why aren’t you , Dan?”

The question was entirely without rancor, and Dan could see the man searching for anything to hold onto that would justify the four stripes on his shoulders.

“For the record, Jerry, I am just as terrified as you. I just may be a better actor.”

“You may be. You’re Mr. Cool.”

“Look, Jerry, we all need the anchor you provide. This is a team effort, and this team needs a leader, which is you. Quit thinking you’ve got to be John Wayne tough.”

“Yeah,” Jerry breathed, the shadow of a smile marking his changing attitude. “I should have been asking that. What would Duke Wayne do?”

“Probably get all the passengers in a circle! Look, Jere, let’s talk about the plan. We don’t have a lot of time. You heard what’s down there… I think I should test my theory as fast as I can.”

“You mean about rewiring?”

“Not… rewiring, but… finding the point at which any of the boxes down there have been routed to the big cabinet, cutting that connection and re-mating whatever wires with the appropriate input on each box.”

Jerry was shaking his head. “I don’t think I followed you about that. I wanted to run it past our maintenance people in Chicago, but the damned battery died on that sat phone, and Carol says they haven’t found a replacement or the charger. Apparently the charger is in the passenger’s bag.”

“I know. We’re silent again.”

“Yes. But Dan, back to the wiring thing. Please explain it to me.”

“Okay, let’s say I find your DVR at home isn’t sending a video signal to your television because the video signal has been routed through a big amplifier that’s malfunctioning. If I disconnect the video lead between the DVR and the malfunctioning amplifier, and instead connect it directly to an input slot on your TV, where it belongs, suddenly you get to see whatever you’re playing on your DVR. Get it?”

“You think it’s that simple, Dan? Down there, I mean?”

“In principle, not in fact. I’ll have to trace and understand and cut wires and splice them to have any hope of making this work, but, essentially, that’s what’s going on down there… all the outputs from all our normal electronic instruments, including autoflight and autothrottles, are being shunted off into that cabinet, and then the electronics in that cabinet are replacing the signals with their own versions and sending them off to the controls, while sending us false displays. I don’t care about the displays, I want our controls back.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“That’s why I want to attack the radios first. Just one VHF. If I can find how to repower one VHF radio, or maybe even the satcom, it’ll validate the method. If that works, I want to try the autothrottles. There is a risk, of course, that they could just wind the engines down to idle if I cut anything, but if I’m right, I might be able to restore our control.”

“That’s a hell of a risk, Dan.”

“And if we do nothing and wait until we run out of fuel…”

“I understand that.”

“So, what do you think, Captain, sir? Should I at least try the radios?”

Jerry pursed his lips and nodded, his eyes forward, deep in thought, anger propelling a derisive snort. “Who the hell put that damned thing down there, Dan? Is our airline lying to us? Is this now a standard specter shadowing us on every flight?”

“Can’t be. I’ve never seen an installation like that before.”

“But it’s apparently there to take over. When? If we’re incapacitated or… or hijacked? But in the hours since it apparently turned us around and switched off the cockpit, the damn thing hasn’t varied our heading or speed or altitude one iota. So is it flying the airplane or did it just freeze the controls?”

Dan exhaled sharply. “Damn, I didn’t think about that.”

“You mean, that it hasn’t varied anything since the turn around?”

“That it might be malfunctioning. Good God!”

“Does that change anything in your thinking?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I need to get moving, if I’m going to try.”

Jerry nodded again, this time emphatically. “Nothing else is helping us, and Chicago doesn’t have a clue. Yes, Dan. Let’s go for it.”

Carol had quietly re-entered the cockpit and was waiting, standing just behind the center console, as Dan turned to her.

“I need a quick scavenger hunt. I need anything close to black electrical tape or any tape that’s sticky and insulating. I need the sharpest steak knives you can find in your galley, if any. And I need wires… but I’ll probably just have to make do with what I find down below.”

“Do you need anyone down there with you?” she asked. “I could…”

Dan was shaking his head no as Jerry raised a finger.

“Wait… Dan. This airplane is crammed full of computers and that snot-nosed kid I wanted to kill may be more expert than we know. Carol? Bring that kid up here, will you?”

“Certainly,” she replied, disappearing back into the cabin as Dan smiled to himself. Captain Tollefson was once again in the game.

Aboard Gulfstream N266SD (0120 Zulu)

Major Sharon Wallace was studying Paul Wriggle from across the Gulfstream’s cabin. They were rocketing on the heels of a tailwind toward the nation’s capital for what would quite likely be the end of their program. Discovering that their misplaced Airbus was over southern Europe with a locked out crew had impacted her commander hard, and she could only guess at his blood pressure, but it couldn’t be good. The words didn’t need to be spoken. They all knew.

Sharon unconsciously twisted her hair through her fingers, a nervous habit that normally the rest of her compatriots loved to tease her about.

The general was hunched over the satellite phone waiting for the team to assemble below in the Springs, Lieutenant Colonel Don Danniher was flying the Gulfstream alone, and the other two pilots they’d begun the day with would be on final approach now for Colorado Springs in Pangia’s A330.

Wriggle was a good man, she thought. A good leader who did not deserve this kind of stress, and for the moment—with a single satellite phone in the cabin—all she could do was sit and watch him deal with the nightmare and wait for his orders.

Across the cabin, Paul Wriggle forced himself to focus as he sat with the secure satellite phone pressed against his ear, listening to the voices of his executive team back on the ground at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs.

He could visualize the cramped suite of nondescript offices they had purposefully selected in a back building on the base, as well as the underground chamber they’d built surreptitiously below one of the basements—a wonderfully clever design for security all around. Teaming with electronics and secure fiber optic connections back east, the 24/7 security had been expensive but well worth it. Even the Peterson base commander had no idea of what was happening in building 4-104.

“We’re all here, sir. Finally.”

“Okay,” Wriggle began. “This is an emergency meeting of Air Lease Solutions,” he said, using the code words to expunge all use of military references. He knew very well the prime security directive against talking “around” classified information, but in this case there was no choice, and even though the line was approved for classified information, it made him very nervous.