John Nance - Lockout

“Jerry raised the issue of whether someone’s fighting us move for move,” Dan explained.

“Similar to what would be used to fly a remotely piloted vehicle. I think they call them a drone?”

Dan nodded, as he crouched by the ladder and let his eyes run over the mysterious cabinet.

“Yes. Like a remotely piloted vehicle, an RPV, or these days we call it a UAS, unmanned aircraft system. If that was so, maybe we could disconnect the telemetry antenna and block any further orders from coming in.”

“But what if the relays did not unlatch?”

“Yeah, I know. We disconnect the active control from the ground, but we still can’t regain cockpit control.”

“For there to be active control or just a signal which turned this thing on, there would need to be a satellite connection, and I found a lead in the big cabinet labeled satcom.” Frank pointed aft and Dan followed, as he moved to the open cabinet, looking for the thick wire he had seen.

“I see it. And… there appears to be a cannon plug. Okay, help me with this logic. If this cabinet activated and took away our control in flight, it either did so by some freak accident… in other words turned itself on… or it received a radio signal. If I was going to go to all the trouble and expense of engineering this thing in the airplane to seize control from the flight crew, I wouldn’t depend on VHF radios or anything with limited range. I’d use a satellite link, separate from the passenger system or our cockpit satcom with the company.”

Frank was nodding. “And you think if the antenna lead here is disconnected, it might let go of us, whether we’re being actively controlled or not?”

“I don’t think we’re fighting a live person, Frank. Jerry up there nailed it a while ago, I think, when he said we haven’t changed heading once since this all started. How could that be active control?”

“That is logical,” Frank replied, watching Dan think it over, his eyes glued to the satcom antenna lead.

“Frank, I think we have to disconnect the satellite antenna, at least for a while. If we are under active control, and we don’t disconnect, and we keep turning off different systems, like we’ve already done with the throttles, whoever’s at the remote controls will try to compensate somehow. But if we deprive it of the basic satellite connection…” Dan’s voice trailed off.

Frank Erlichman nodded solemnly. “I see two possibilities. If we disconnect the antenna lead and nothing happens, I would think that proves we were probably not under someone’s active control. That doesn’t mean the satcom couldn’t have been the means of someone on the ground programming us previously. Second, if we disconnect the satcom and this cabinet unlatches and returns control, it proves we were under active control and now we’re free.”

“I think I followed all that, but the bottom line is, we’ve got to try to disconnect. Could you hand me those gloves?”

The cannon plug connector for the satcom antenna was easy to reach, and Dan looked up to find Carol once again in position, leaning down through the hatch as he held onto the lead.

“Tell Jerry I’m ready to disconnect this antenna, but if we’re under someone’s active control, like a remotely piloted vehicle, this could be a big risk.”

She disappeared for a few moments then reappeared, nodding essentially upside down as she stuck her head down far enough to be heard.

“Dan, he says we need to take the risk. Be ready to reconnect it if something bad happens, but go ahead and disconnect now.”

“Okay.” He glanced at his watch, which was showing exactly 0252 Zulu.

Building 4-104, Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado Springs (0252 Zulu)

Colonel Dana Baumgartner yanked the phone to his ear on the first ring. The discovery of what appeared to be both the lock and unlock codes in Gail Hunt’s classified office safe had precipitated a mad scramble to upload the unlock sequence and open the fiber optic channel to NSA’s computers, a process that required a maddeningly lengthy series of steps that had taken the better part of an hour. No way, Dana thought, could anyone have accidentally triggered that satellite array. Sabotage was the only answer.

“The unlock code is just about to go up, sir, on your order.”

“Do it! Now! Are you sure it’s the right sequence?”

There was a telling hesitation. “No, sir, we’re not. It’s our best guess, based on Gail’s notes.”

“Had she changed the numbers before?”

“Yes. Often. For security.”

“Blast the disconnect code out there, and let’s hope it’s the right one.”

“Yes sir. Transmission in sixty seconds, and we think we now have the Med covered.”

Aboard Pangia Flight 10 (0254 Zulu)

Dan held the two halves of the connector and hesitated, wondering whether there was any other aspect he hadn’t considered.

A fleeting memory of an impromptu lecture he had once given to his employees in the early days of his company came out of nowhere, an admonition for them to listen to intuition, but he couldn’t tell whether it was intuition or the shock of the aircraft’s earlier reaction to the pulled relay that was staying his hand.

Is there any reason I can think of why we’d want to maintain this connection? Somewhere there seemed to be an answer to that question, but he couldn’t get his mind around it, whatever it was. Something was definitely tugging at him, yet the logic was inescapable: If someone was controlling them from below, this would solve the problem!

Dan took a deep breath and pulled the two halves apart, totally isolating the satcom receiver.

Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland (10:20 p.m. EST / 0320 Zulu)

Essentially, Lieutenant Colonel Don Danniher realized, he was flying the instrument approach solo.

A cold drizzle made the landing at Andrews a bit more challenging than he had expected, and the presence of a totally preoccupied general in the left seat hadn’t made it any easier. Not that he minded, necessarily. He was well aware of the high stakes and the dilemma that had his boss wholly distracted and tied in knots.

The staff car Sharon Wallace had ordered for the general had pulled up moments after they’d braked to a halt on the transient ramp, but the destination General Wriggle was going to give the driver was one of the bits of information Don assumed neither he nor Sharon Wallace had any immediate need to know.

Paul Wriggle threw off his shoulder straps and seatbelt and disappeared wordlessly into the jet’s main cabin to change into his air force uniform. Sharon had already descended the Gulfstream’s stairs to tell the driver the general would be a few minutes in coming. She returned to the jet then, standing in the entry space behind the cockpit as Don emerged.

“How are you doing?” he asked, knowing well the question had more depth than the words alone would indicate.

She responded with a strained smile, glancing at the closed entry door to the cabin. “I’d feel a lot better if I knew Pangia was talking to their pilots with code in hand, so to speak.”

Don Danniher nodded. “I agree.”

“Can you talk to him?”

“He knows, Sharon.”

“Of course he does, but… time is critical here. This feels like brinksmanship.”

“You know what our legal constraints are on revealing any aspect of this program.”

“Yes. I signed the same papers. Don, talk to him. Please!”

Danniher nodded and opened the cabin door, closing it behind him and slipping into a seat across from where the general was adjusting his tie.