John Nance - Lockout

“Don…”

“Sir?”

Paul Wriggle turned to look at his copilot, then pursed his lips and shook his head, deciding not to voice whatever he had been thinking, then changed his mind again and turned back.

“Check my math. That jet… our jet… has an hour and a half to go before reaching Tel Aviv.”

Danniher checked his watch and nodded. “That’s correct, as of the last position we had.”

“How long have we been blasting the disconnect code?”

“The first transmission was at 0252 Zulu, about thirty minutes ago, with no answering transmission. We did trigger transmitters covering the Mediterranean, though.”

“And we have the code now they can punch in manually, right?”

“Well… same caveat as before… it’s what they found in Gail Hunt’s notes. If there isn’t a subsequent change, then that’s it. Sharon put it on your iPad and in your briefcase, with full instructions.”

“And we don’t know whether anyone has direct radio or satellite contact with them? Right? Some way we could verbally pass the code and how to enter it?”

“No sir.” Don shifted forward in the swivel chair. “And, sir, I know we discussed the fact that if we call Pangia directly to find out, they’re not only going to want to know who’s asking, but we may tip off every intelligence service listening to such a call, but…”

“That’s right. That’s why we’re here in DC.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t ask,” Wriggle said, pulling on his tunic and turning. “While I’m gone, fuel us up and get on the secure line back to Dana and the team, and call me the instant they get a confirming response from the jet… if they do.”

“Yes, sir. But in regard to Pangia?”

“I’ve got their CEO’s personal cell number, Don.”

“Yes, sir, but about the possibility of direct contact with the aircraft, I think…”

“No calls to their Command Center yet, okay? But if you discover through any safe channel that the pilots are talking to someone on the ground… a line we can get to, even a VHF radio to one of the air traffic control facilities… let me know immediately and get all the information necessary to pass up to them.”

He could see the troubled look on Danniher’s face.

“What, Don?”

“Begging the general’s pardon, sir, but may I speak very frankly?”

“You always have that authority. Go ahead.”

“Sir, I know the stakes for us are critical, but I don’t think we have the moral right to wait another minute if there’s any way to get hold of that crew. We don’t know whether our broadcasts will work or not, and…”

“I understand that, Don.”

“But, General, every minute that passes that that crew has no control is another rise in international tension, and maybe even brinkmanship. I seriously urge you to make the call to Pangia right now. Sir.”

Paul Wriggle sighed heavily and studied his shoes for a few moments before meeting his executive officer’s eyes again.

“Don, I don’t have time to explain my full reasoning for delaying.”

“My job is to point out…”

“Yes!” Paul replied, pointing his finger in an affirming gesture. “Yes, it is. And it is also your job to trust that your commander knows what he’s doing.”

I wish I could trust your decision not to warn the aircraft, Don thought to himself, forcing a nod.

Wriggle studied his eyes for a second. “Answered without enthusiasm, I see, but the orders stand. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul Wriggle slipped into the back seat of the nondescript town car and passed his destination to the master sergeant at the wheel of the staff car after asking his name and security clearance.

“Should I put the star flag on the front, General?”

“No, but thanks for asking. We want to keep this low key.”

“Yes, sir.”

He pulled out his cell phone and entered the required password before paging down to the phone number he was looking for. The line was answered on the second ring, and he gave his name and rank and an identifying digital “signature” code, waiting impatiently for the individual on the other end to acknowledge.

“We have you and the applicable protocols logged in, sir. How may I assist?”

“I will be at the west entrance in fifteen minutes. I need immediate access to my reporting authority. Highest priority code.”

“You’re certain, sir? Highest code? This is a busy evening.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but absolutely yes. On my authority and accountability.”

“Yes, sir. Understood. An escort will be waiting.”

He punched in a fast dial number then and waited until Colonel Baumgartner had come on the line back in Colorado Springs.

“What have you got, Dana?”

“A mixed bag, Paul. We haven’t located Gail Hunt yet, but we got into her credit card account and found her last charge was for gasoline in Lyons, Colorado, which is a gateway to Estes Park.”

“Nothing beyond that?”

“Nothing. Also, we’ve been blasting the unlock sequence on every network link we have, but we’re getting no answering response, and just a minute before you called, I got the word that our conduit has shut down.”

“Translate that, please.”

“We… transmit the signal to an intermediate location that I think you know, and they boost it on an uplink, and from there it networks out. That primary server has been turned off, or at least is suddenly refusing our signal.”

“Any ideas why?”

“Yes, sir. A few. None of them good. And at least one involves a project compromise.”

“Okay. Keep trying. Dana, were any of us thinking that Gail had something to do with the aircraft switch?”

“I’d hate to think that, but she’s the key, and without her, we don’t even have a clue whether the codes we’ve been blasting are correct. Where the hell is she, you know? Disappearing the very day our airplane is pulled out of the desert doesn’t sit well with me.”

“On the outside chance that… well, she’s involved, try sending a picture of her to Ron Barrett, the owner of Mojave Aircraft… no, on second thought, don’t.”

“You mentioned Mojave… and that’s becoming strange. We had a call from Ron Barrett for you, and he was about a millimeter from hysterical. He said two federal officers from the Transportation Security Administration had shown up there this afternoon to grill him and his lawyer, and the agents reportedly told Barrett that his employee… the one who made the mistake with our machine… was using an alias and now can’t be found.”

“ TSA ? What the hell would they…”

“Obviously not TSA.”

“Oh. Of course. The Company?”

“CIA, yes.”

“More likely DIA.”

“No, Paul, it makes sense. One of our friendlies in the Beltway tipped me off an hour ago that Langley was kicking over trash cans looking for explanations, and supposedly the Situation Room has been lit up for this.”

“A bit excessive, don’t you think? Any direct bead on us?”

“Negative. Not so far.”

Wriggle sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“I’m on the ground in the Beltway now. Where is our jet? I figured an hour and a half out of Tel Aviv.”

“We concur, but it’s slowed down.”

“What? What do mean, ‘slowed down’?”

“By over sixty knots, and before you ask, that’s not explainable by winds at that altitude.”

“Do you think the crew has retaken control?”

“Their heading is still the same, but the speed could indicate something. We’re just not sure what. If they change course, however, depending on where they head, it could mean we’re dealing with something entirely different.”