John Nance - Lockout

“Yes?”

“It’s gone, and the owner of the storage company is feigning surprise.”

“What are we thinking, Walt?”

“First, we’re thinking that delivering the wrong aircraft to Pangia Airways was not an accident, and that the substitute aircraft that was sent to Pangia’s facility in Tulsa had been purposefully prepared specifically for this flight with something electronic installed that would seize control of the airplane when triggered. This may well be a carefully laid plan.”

“Laid by whom?”

Walter Randolph laughed and cocked his head. “Well, Jim, who’s aboard?”

“Really? You think the old bastard engineered this ?”

“He’s dying, Jim. Sorry… that sounds like a line from Star Trek , but, seriously, you remember our little inside bombshell that Lavi’s hiding the fact that he’s been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer?”

“I’ve never bought that, Walt. I think it’s a planted feint. We know he’s had heart trouble, but cancer?”

“The cancer stuff may be false. But remember we got that word one month before he pulled his wildly unexpected goal line stand in the Knesset, which, if he isn’t dying, makes little sense. Lavi has always known how to live to fight another day. That throw down was a complete reversal of character,”

“Walt, he acts as hale and hearty as he was at age twenty. Certainly his bedroom athletics haven’t diminished.”

“True, but let’s just suppose for the sake of argument that he is dying. Look at the motivation. If you were the great Moishe Lavi, how would you like to go out? As a footnote in history, the failed leader who never removed the Iranian threat you had likened to Hitler, or as the self-appointed deliverer of your people?”

“The Messiah complex.”

“Yes.”

The CIA director sat for a few seconds in thought. “I’ll admit it’s not impossible. But what would he have gained by planting the cancer story?”

“A cover for uncharacteristic behavior,” Walter Randolph continued, “…which could also mean a cover for the solution he’d devised against the mullahs.”

“Shaky, Walt.”

“But possible.”

“So, who would have engineered this global effort for him, whether he’s dying or just intent on suicide?”

“A loyal faction of Mossad… perhaps even a faction of the IDF. We can only speculate at this point, but too much is lining up here which smells like a very clever clandestine operation. And remember, his drive for a first strike at Tehran was already blocked before he was thrown out of office because of their extensive civilian safeguards. This may be his only way.”

“Provoke Tehran, you mean?”

“Yes,” Walter replied. “And personally at that. The way he appears to be doing it may border on the brilliant, but that depends on what other planned tumblers fall into place. In other words, if he has confederates in the Israeli Defense Force and the Israeli Air Force ready to feed inaccurate tactical and strategic information to the leaders at critical moments in order to make them believe they have no choice, Lavi might just be able to bypass all the normal safeguards.”

“You mean, feed them disinformation on which Iranian missile sites are fueling, what radars have snapped on, satellite communications, and autonomous launch authority? Having his clandestine confederates feed the Israeli command staff bogus updates in a crisis?”

“Precisely, Jim. All that, and more. Everything necessary to make it appear that the only responsible course of action for Israel is to launch a nuclear first strike against the mullahs. In the so-called fog of pre-war, with the dice loaded, Mr. Lavi and his commandeered jetliner may be flying one in for the homeland.”

“Good God.”

“Walt, how about DIA dancing with NSA before the plane turned? What’s up with that?”

“We’re working on squeezing some explanations out of NSA. We’re also chasing down a picture of the missing Mojave employee for a face recognition scan. Bet you anything he’s Israeli.”

“But, Walt, why was DIA on this to begin with? Is there any chance…”

“That we’re directly involved with helping Mr. Lavi?” Walter sighed, long and ragged. “I hope to hell we’re not involved.”

“Walt… wait a minute. There’s a loose end bothering me here. Where’s the airplane that Pangia thought they were flying? You said it was missing from that California facility?”

“We’re tracing flight plans. No luck yet. Apparently when it left California, it was using a bogus call sign.”

“See, I keep thinking, if this was a purposeful mix-up, who would want to fly off with that other plane? I’m not following that.”

“Frankly, Jim, neither are we.”

Silver Springs, Maryland (9:45 p.m. EST / 0245 Zulu)

“I think I’ve got it!” Jenny Reynolds jabbed a fist in the air as she turned to Will Bronson.

“Really?”

“Yes! I figured out the enabling order, and I’ve reversed it… in theory. Now the small remaining problem is how to get it transmitted to that aircraft on a frequency it’s monitoring.”

Will rushed to her side looking somewhat bewildered at the complex strings of letters and numbers on her laptop screen. “Didn’t you get a read on the frequency when you picked up the transmission?”

“Yes, but remember it was a piggybacked signal, kind of like a harmonic. But that’s not the problem. I can transmit it in the clear, but I have to have something to transmit it over, and I don’t have the authority to just tap into any satellite transponder I want to commandeer.”

The electronic warble of Will Bronson’s cell phone caused Jenny to look up as he pulled it out and studied the screen, a frown darkening his features as he turned away from her.

“What?” she asked.

“Keep working, please,” he said, getting to his feet and moving toward the far end of the room, his voice low and tone urgent with words she couldn’t hear and was trying to ignore. Normally she could hear the other side of a cell phone conversation, but he was holding the phone so tightly to his ear she could hear nothing.

Suddenly he was back, standing uneasily beside her, a distracted expression on his face.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head and tried to laugh, but the effort was disingenuous.

“We need to hurry.”

“No kidding. What was that call? Why are you looking haunted all of a sudden?”

Again he glanced toward the door before turning back to her. “Jenny, my agency thinks I’ve gone rogue.”

“What?”

“Or some rogue faction at DIA thinks I’m a threat. “

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we’ve got to get that code you figured out transmitted and get out of here.”

“I thought this was your safe house?”

“It’s DIA’s safe house, and I’m DIA, and… apparently… some of us are of the opinion that you and I are up to no good, or hell, who knows, maybe they think I’ve kidnapped you!”

“Can’t we just explain it to… them? You want me to talk to someone… a proof of life kind of thing?”

He was shaking his head vigorously.

“If there was time, Jen, yes, but remember we don’t know who sent the first messages, and they came from your building. Get finished, and let’s get out of here.”

“Is someone on the way?”

He leaned in close to her, eye to eye. “Jenny, just work as fast as you can. We need to go, or we might not have the chance to solve this. Just save your work and don’t try to transmit it yet.”

She nodded slowly, momentarily lost in his eyes again. “Okay. But why? If I have a chance to transmit it, why not try?”