John Nance - Lockout

St. Paul’s Hospital, Denver, Colorado (10:50 p.m. MST / 0450 Zulu)

Pulling the chief attending trauma surgeon away from an ER full of patients had required a level of insistence and, basically, rudeness that Steve Reagan hated in others. But there had been no choice, and now a miffed doctor was standing before him in a small alcove demanding to know what the problem was, his voice low and not unkind, but decidedly irritated.

“I need you to give my wife something to wake her up enough to answer some critical questions.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, doctor, I am far from joking.”

“You beat up my nurses to get me over here because you want to question your wife? Man, you’re lucky she’s alive! She’s got to rest, for Chrissake!”

“Doctor, I can’t explain too much to you, but this is a matter of national security.”

“Yeah, right!” He started to turn away, and Steve grabbed the sleeve of his scrubs. The physician whirled on him.

“Get your hands off of me!”

“Doctor, is it dangerous to wake her up?”

“That’s not the point. I won’t allow it.”

“Doctor, at this moment, there is a commercial airliner about to run out of fuel because the pilots cannot regain control of their aircraft. I am not at liberty to tell you how I know this, but I can tell you that Gail… my, my wife in there… has in her head the… the numbers for want of a better word… that will give control back. Almost 300 people will die if we don’t wake her up enough to get that sequence.”

“Who the hell are you?” the doctor demanded.

“I’m Steve Reagan, and I… work for the air force.”

“Yeah? Well, Mr. Reagan, so happens I am a flight surgeon and a major in the Air Force Reserve, and we don’t have people like you running around without IDs. So cough it up or get out of my face.”

“I’ll do better than that. Please wait a second.” Steve pulled his phone to eye level and punched redial on the last number connected.

“General? Steve Reagan. I have a physician here who refuses to wake Gail up and who doesn’t believe me. He’s also an air force doctor, a major. Dr. Mark Wellsley. Yes, sir, I thought you’d say that.”

Steve held out the phone. “Lieutenant General Paul Wriggle is on the other end. He’s speaking from the White House.”

Uncertainty now crossed the face of the doctor as he reluctantly took the phone, listening and responding in guarded fashion before asking the key question Steve knew had to come.

“How the hell do I know you are who you say you are?” The doctor looked back at Reagan, eyes flaring with distaste as he agreed to hang up and find the main number of the White House switchboard on his own and call in.

He handed the phone back to Steve as if it were contaminated and moved to a desk phone at the nurses’ station, punching up information and then dialing the number, obviously astounded when he was recognized and connected immediately.

“Okay, yes, I’m satisfied. What the hell is going on general?”

A few more words were spoken before the doctor replaced the receiver and turned to Steve.

“Okay. We can do this safely, but you’ll only have a few minutes, because I’m not going to let you wear her out.”

The White House (1:00 a.m. EST / 0500 Zulu)

“Will? I’m in!”

“What? To the Internet?”

“Yes! And I’m cueing up that transponder again. I think I know how to get through the firewall.”

The sound of the door opening filled the room as the same Secret Service agent who had ushered them in returned, his face an unreadable mask.

“Come with me please.”

Jenny looked up at him, startled.

“I need a minute.”

“No, ma’am. Close the computer.”

“But I…”

“Now, ma’am.”

Only a few seconds’ hesitation was needed to study the man’s face and know it wasn’t a request. Jenny carefully lowered the lid and gathered up the power supply as she fell in behind Will, who was already moving out of the door.

“We were about to give up on you,” Will said, trying not to sound too disparaging but equally aware that the man leading them was impervious.

Another agent picked up the lead and escorted them through several hallways and into an ornate conference room Jenny recognized from pictures as the Cabinet Room.

General Paul Wriggle knew he was grasping at straws, so the sudden appearance of someone claiming to have codes relating to Flight 10 was deserving of an immediate response.

Introductions were short and urgent, and Paul looked at both IDs, fixing Will Bronson with a steady gaze to make a quick assessment of his response.

“Are your leaders looking for you, Bronson?”

“Yes, sir. Everywhere, I’m sure. I think I’ve stumbled onto an illicit operation, which is why I sought out Jenny, here, and why I refused to come in.”

“An illicit operation? By Defense Intelligence?”

“Yes, sir. It will take some explaining.”

“I would think. Your boss is downstairs right now in the Sit Room and, fortunately, the duty officer didn’t inform him you were here before informing the president.”

“I don’t want to talk to him, sir, until I talk to you, or the president.”

“No time for that. Who has the codes?”

“I do, I think,” Jenny replied, filling him in as quickly and succinctly as possible on reversing the sequence, using a version of a code she wrote.

“Do either of you have any idea what’s going on with that aircraft, other than the pilots are locked out?”

“No, sir,” Jenny answered. “We just know something turned on a… I guess, circuit or device aboard that plane that won’t let the pilots control it, and I think the sequence I have… which is just eight numbers representing a reverse algorithm… will undo it. I’m just guessing, of course.”

“Is there an Israeli operation behind this?”

Will and Jenny exchanged startled glances, before Will replied.

“I… honestly don’t know, sir. I just know DIA, and I think some faction of NSA is involved. It could be an Israeli op.”

The door opened, and the president himself came in.

“Paul?”

“Meet our missing DIA man, Will Bronson, and his NSA compatriot, Jenny Reynolds. Apparently he’s not William Piper. Face is completely different.”

The president nodded at both of them as he turned to Paul.

“Your assessment, Paul?”

“Neither of these people has any idea about the basics of how this happened, therefore there can be no realistic chance that the code she’s offering is meant to sabotage a disconnect. I vote we use it as fast as possible.”

The president was nodding. “You’re my final authority. Okay. Do it. Jenny is it?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Give General Wriggle the code. He’ll make the calls from here. Then… stay here. Both of you. It may be a few hours but we’ll want to debrief.”

“Okay.” She slid a folded piece of paper across the highly polished table she’d seen in countless presidential photographs, and the general opened it and studied the contents.

“This is it?”

“As best I can figure. Do you want me to tell you why I think so? The code that apparently caused the original lockout…”

The general had his hand up to stop her. “Won’t be necessary. I read 62993178.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul Wriggle turned to one of the deskset phones and pulled the receiver to his ear as he dialed. Colonel Dana Baumgartner answered immediately.

“Paul here, Dana. Any word from Denver since I spoke to the doctor?”

“No, sir. She’s slowly coming around. She did confirm what we already know that the numbers we got from her desk safe were not the codes.”