John Nance - Lockout

“Paul, shouldn’t we inform… I don’t know, the air staff, the White House. Someone?” Dana Baumgartner asked.

“And say what, Dana? We’re not even supposed to exist. And even if we could report it that easily, what is anyone else going to do that we can’t do ourselves?”

There was embarrassed silence on the other end.

“So, again, I need an answer. Can we countermand whatever order our machine thinks it’s been given?”

It was Choder who spoke up. “In theory, yes, if we had the final programming done. But we’re searching right now for some notes or anything to tell us where GH left the onboard processor. If it was fairly rudimentary, then it should obey the “all clear” code… if we could transmit it. If it was more complex, a simple unlock order may not work.”

“But,” Wriggle asked, “…if all it did was respond to the enabling code, can’t it be turned off?”

“We didn’t send that enabling code!”

“Someone did! Is there any danger in trying whatever generic code we have?”

“No. But, Paul, that’s not the point. Point is, our global network is not complete. We’re just over 60 percent coverage. We could go blasting an unlock message all over the planet, and that bird might not hear it.”

“Do we know where the holes are in our coverage?”

Another chilling delay filled the void.

“Yes, sir. We know most of the holes.”

“Is the Mediterranean covered, or is it a hole?”

“It’s pretty much an incomplete hole, sir. We’ve got much of northern Europe and the UK, but… but the Med is spotty.”

“Can the thing be turned off from inside?”

“Yes. There’s a code you can enter from any of the flight management computers.”

“But… you’re going to tell me we don’t have a clue what that code is, correct?”

“Yes, sir. I suppose we are. We really need to find Golf Hotel. But the thing is, the flight management computers will look like they’re dead because the displays turn off. One wouldn’t normally think you could enter anything.”

There wasn’t much cord between the receiver and the base of the satellite phone, but Paul Wriggle stood now, pulling as tight as he could to allow at least some pacing. He had to keep them moving forward, and, for that matter, he was far too agitated to sit for another second. There couldn’t be much time left for their airplane, and the people aboard.

“Okay, get the release sequence, open the network, and blast it continuously as far and wide as you can. How soon can you get that going?”

“We figure an hour or less.”

“Text me the moment you start the transmissions, and the moment, if any, that you get a response. Keep looking for Golf Hotel… ask the rangers in Rocky Mountain, call any friends we have at FBI for help, check state police and morgues, and meanwhile someone please make sure she hasn’t left some weird message on her desk or her email. Also… someone call Ron Barrett, the owner at Mojave Storage and find out who the employee was who made the mistake. Let’s make sure it’s not someone who knows our lady, okay?

“Yes, sir.”

“Do your best and do it as fast as you can, please! I’ll be touching down at Andrews in two hours, and if we haven’t got this nightmare resolved by then, I’ll be enroute to our boss. Where things go for us from there is anyone’s guess.”

Aboard Pangia 10 (0135 Zulu)

Dan was working on assembling a toolkit full of scavenged items from his and Jerry’s flight bags and the forward galley when Carol brought Josh Begich to the cockpit door.

“May we come in, gentlemen?”

Dan nodded, reaching out to shake the young boy’s hand. “Absolutely. What’s your name, and how old are you?”

“Josh, sir, and I’m almost fifteen,” the boy replied, his eyes wide and watching warily, lest the captain recognize him and resume his attack. Jerry, however, was studying the forward panel.

“Are you good at wiring things, splicing, insulating, tracing?” Dan probed.

“No, sir. Well, I know basic circuits and stuff. But I’m good at programming.”

“Okay. Stay up here.”

At that moment Bill Breem and Tom Wilson appeared with a male passenger in tow they identified as Frank Erlichman, a man in his fifties with a perpetually startled look on his weathered face.

“Frank, is it?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“And your background, sir? American?”

“Yes. Well, born in Germany but now from Duluth. I’m an electrical engineer. I know wires and circuits, and was an avionics repairman five years back,” Erlichman explained, with a slight accent.

“Okay,” Dan said, “Let me explain what’s going on and how you two can help.

Dan briefed them on what he was planning, ignoring the wide-eyed look of fear on the young boy’s face.

“There’s only room for two of us down there. Mr. Erlichman? You come down first. Josh, please stay here, sit in this right-hand seat when I get out of it, and let the captain run you through whatever wiring diagrams we can pull up on our iPads. They’ll be pretty rudimentary, but they might help you figure out the philosophy of the wiring as it should exist, and there may be a diagram of where all the black boxes are in relation to what they do. Look at the autothrottle and then the autoflight system in general. I’m stabbing in the dark, fellows, but the only reason I think we have a chance is just this: Whatever that damned cabinet down there is for, I don’t think the designers ever expected anyone to mount a serious and sustained effort to retake control. I’m just guessing, of course, but I don’t think they had security uppermost in mind, or I would have never been able to open the side of it.”

Once the captain’s seat was forward again, Dan descended the cramped access ladder, guiding Frank Erlichman down after him, and giving a quick orientation tour of the cabinet and the racks of electronics.

“Dan?” Frank asked, “May one ask, how much time do we have? I am aware that we can’t fly forever.”

“We have about three hours before we’re out of fuel.”

“What then happens?”

Dan shook his head. “In all honesty? I don’t know. It could mean we regain control when the engines die and the power goes off for a few seconds before the battery kicks in, then we can glide somewhere to a landing. It could mean we sit here helpless and crash.”

“Thank you for being straight with me.”

“Okay, let’s get to work. Don’t touch anything on or in that cabinet, just in case it’s still electrified or booby-trapped.”

“I understand.”

“I’m going to look for the VHF radios and start with that. You look for anything that looks like autothrottles or autoflight. Do you speak French, too, by any chance?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I forgot to ask. I don’t know if any of the placards are in French or English, but either way, we’re okay.”

The maze of wires going into tightly packed and insulated wiring bundles and harnesses was nothing short of mind boggling, and Dan kept himself focused on reading the little metal placards on the bottom end of each electronic box, increasingly pessimistic that anything would be plainly labeled. Most of the boxes were American made, with each placard full of serial numbers and date of manufacture and convoluted model numbers, but on the third rack and fifth row, he finally caught the letters “VHF” for one of the aviation-band radios.

Got it!

On the rack itself, the “VHF #1” position was emblazoned, and he loosened the circular nuts holding the radio cabinet in place and gingerly pulled it out of its cradle.