John Nance - Lockout

A brief smile flickered across the president’s face. “I wasn’t going to offer you a ceremonial sword, Paul. We’ll piece this together and the future of the program, if any, later. Right now we’ve got to restore control to that crew, or, in worst case, stop Iran from taking the bait.”

“Anyone in Tehran you can reason with?”

“What are you now, auditioning a standup act?” the president said with no intent at humor. “Yes, there are a few sane people with official positions in Tehran, but not when it comes to something like this. We’re talking North Korean paranoia fueled by religious myopia. And… when it comes to staying Israel’s hand… forget it. When they’re huddled in The Hole, they know precisely where the trip wires are, and when one is touched, that’s the ball game for restraint. Think Bebe Netanyahu and his relentless pursuit of Hamas even with the world yelling at him to stand down.”

“Got it.”

“No, everything rides on returning control to those pilots. You built the box. Something unplanned turned on the box. How else can it be turned off?”

“Mr. President, there… might be one other avenue.”

“For God’s sake man, tell me!”

“But it would involve the Israeli Air Force, and telling them far more than we want them to know.”

The Kirya, Tel Aviv, Israel (5:45 a.m. local / 0345 Zulu)

The very fact that he’d had to return to the Hole had elevated Prime Minister Gershorn Zamir’s blood pressure, but the evolving seriousness of Tehran’s reaction had sobered virtually everyone in the leadership of Israel.

Gershorn nodded at Lieutenant General Yossi Alon, acknowledging the briefing just completed, the details of which were still ringing in his head: Tehran already putting its forces on alert, constant intelligence stream from the CIA, an urgent request for Mossad to confirm the whereabouts of a William Piper, who was considered to be an operative for Moishe Lavi, and, most importantly, there was the need for the prime minister to make a series of trigger-point decisions on how to intercept, handle, and perhaps terminate the flight of Pangia 10.

And now, suddenly, a call from the president of the United States.

Gershorn excused himself to an ante room to take the call, returning within a few minutes and settling into his chair once more with a cursory explanation.

“Expressions of concern, support, and deep worry that this man Piper may be the engine of Moishe Lavi’s operation… if there is one,” he said, looking around the room once more, locking eyes with everyone looking back at him. “Very well, I accept the general staff’s recommendation. Launch our fighters; intercept and escort the oncoming flight from 200 miles out. Keep the radio channels open to this room, with any order to bring them down coming from me alone. Our pilots must understand this.” He paused before speaking the appropriate code words necessary to take the defensive forces and nuclear armament to pre-launch readiness. With all elements of the civilian chain of command converging on the Hole, any launch decision could be validated and executed within seconds. The scope of the response, if anything left a launching pad in Iran, was essentially his decision, and the mere possibility had roiled his considerable stomach. It felt like Armageddon was upon them.

Aboard Pangia 10 (0345 Zulu)

Jerry had called Dan and Frank out of the electronics bay for a quick strategy conference, fully including Bill Breem, who had been extraordinarily docile. Josh Begich was still sitting in the copilot’s seat looking very young and very frightened, with Tom Wilson, the relief copilot, standing behind him.

Jerry, by contrast, had shed his previous panic and was becoming appropriately analytical and in command, Dan thought. The last PA announcement Jerry had made had bordered on the masterful: calmly and professionally filling the passengers in on precisely what had happened when the aircraft did a complete 360 after scaring everyone to death with the sudden sideslip.

The captain looked at his small team and nodded to Carol to squeeze in as well.

“Okay, guys, I’ve slowed us about as much as I think is safe at this altitude, and that’s bought us some time, but… we’ll be over Tel Aviv in about an hour. We must… we absolutely must… regain control of this ship before then.”

“And if we don’t?” Frank Erlichman asked evenly.

“I’m not entertaining any negatives. You and Dan have worked wonders down there, but we have more to go. Any reason you shouldn’t go back and start yanking everything in sight?”

Dan sighed, shaking his head. “I see no alternative.”

“Nor do I,” Frank added. “I’m glad to be able to help you. Help us, really.”

Jerry glanced at Josh, whose eyes were turned toward the copilot’s flight management computer. The screen was dark, but he was staring at it as if determined to wish it into phosphorescent life, as he randomly punched buttons.

“Josh? Are you with us?” Jerry asked. “You gave us some valuable input before.”

The boy looked up and nodded without enthusiasm as his finger punched yet another button. “Yes.”

“You okay, Josh?” Dan added, surprised when the boy met his gaze reluctantly, unable to hide a tear in his eye and nodding unconvincingly.

“What’s the matter, Josh?”

“I don’t want to die.”

“Nor do we.”

“I’ve… I’ve never even… you know.”

“How old are you, Josh?”

“Fifteen. Well… fourteen, actually. Fifteen in two weeks.”

“We’ll get you back on the ground, Josh,” Jerry said, feeling a chill climbing his spine for giving voice to what might well turn out to be a lie.

“And you will live to get laid, my friend,” Dan added, trying to recall the last time he had immersed in such heavenly pleasures himself.

Carol was standing at the back of the cockpit and keeping an absolutely even expression, though Dan could almost feel her wanting to smile.

“Thanks,” Josh replied, looking up as he punched yet another button on the multifunction display control, as unprepared as the rest of them for the Airbus to suddenly and smoothly roll into a thirty-degree right bank.

Jerry turned back forward in his chair, eyes scanning the instruments that had been lying to them for so many hours, then he looked at the whiskey compass. The attitude indicator was showing the turn, and suddenly the entire instrument display shifted around from the fictitious westbound course over the Atlantic to the same heading as the whiskey compass.

“What the hell!”

“Josh, what did you do?” Dan asked the boy, who was wide-eyed and scanning the keyboard he had essentially been playing with.

“I… I punched…”

“What did you punch? Do you remember?”

Josh nodded. The aircraft, still turning, was now more than forty-five degrees off the original heading and turning west.

“Here! I punched this key.”

Dan leaned forward, eyes riveted on the key he was touching. “That’s the execute button. The enter button. But do you recall what you punched before that?”

Josh was shook his head. “I was just pushing them at random because it… it felt good to control something.”

“I get that. But try to recall what sequence. Were you doing numbers on the main pad or… or those squarish buttons along the edge of the screen?”

“The numbers. I remember putting in my phone number.”

“Dan, we’re still turning.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

“It might come back around to the same course again.”