John Nance - Lockout

The target of the huge Airbus flared clearly ahead of him as he pushed past Mach 1.8 in chase, closing the fifteen-mile gap easily before coming out of burner and timing his arrival alongside the stricken commercial liner.

Aboard Pangia 10

Carol had reached forward to grab the PA handset and both pilots registered the fact that she was making the announcement they wished they had time to give.

“Everyone check your seatbelts tightly fastened and keep your oxygen masks on! Stay down, lean as far forward as you can. We’re making an emergency descent and will be making a no engine emergency landing in Baghdad.”

“I’ll keep calculating the lowest altitude you can descend to and still make Baghdad, Jerry.”

“How far out are we?”

“Sixty-two miles on the GPS. That means no diving lower than 24,000.”

“And we’re still at 31,000.”

“She’s shaking pretty badly, Jerry!”

“I know it!”

“I didn’t see any obvious damage to the cabin, but somehow we’ve got a hole in us. You’re coming through 30,000 now.”

“That’s as fast as I dare.”

“Agreed. Twenty-nine, five… twenty-nine… twenty-eight, five…”

“Is someone watching back there?”

“Yes.”

“Wish we could talk to the passengers, too, but no time.”

“Twenty-eight, now Jerry, twenty-seven, five… this shaking is really worrying me!”

“Distance to Baghdad?”

“Fifty-four miles. We need 21,000, we’re descending through twenty-seven.”

“Call her, Dan!”

“Got it,” he replied, yanking the handset back out of its cradle and punching the button for 4R.

“Tom… status?”

He hunched over the phone, nodding and acknowledging before hanging up and turning back to the captain.

“He says the flames are less now, but it’s still burning, and every few seconds something else seems to fall off and blow away.”

“Like… parts of the wing?”

“Jerry, he said each piece is glowing hot or flaming when it falls away! We gotta get down man… we’re coming apart.”

Situation Room, The White House (1:47 a.m. EST / 0547 Zulu)

“Who fired that missile?”

The president had reappeared in the Situation Room without warning and was standing at the far end of the table, waiting for a response.

The air force colonel who had been handling the real-time connections with Tel Aviv realized no one else was going to reply. “We’re not sure, Mr. President. They apparently took an air-to-air missile up the tailpipe of their right engine just before they regained control and began to turn around.”

“Before anyone knew they’d regained control?”

“Yes, sir,” the colonel confirmed.

“Have we asked Tel Aviv that question? Who fired?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Do it, please.”

The president was chewing his lip in thought, weighing the probabilities that Gershorn Zamir had issued the shootdown order, and how to keep a lid on it.

“Status of the aircraft?” the president asked.

“Out of fuel, having control problems, about thirty miles east of Baghdad and trying to make it to the airport.”

“And the Iranian fighters?”

“The Iranians have lost five fighters, sir. Casualties are uncertain. Israel has had two F-15s hit, but one is limping back to base. The pilot of the other one ejected in Iraqi territory and is being picked up. The remaining Iranians have bugged out.”

“Any ground launches?”

“If you mean surface to air, no sir… not that we’ve detected.”

“I mean ballistic. ‘Wipe Israel off the map’ launches.”

“No, sir. At least five missiles are fueled and ready on their respective launch pads, but the Iranian command channels are deathly quiet. Of course, they could issue a launch order at any second. “

“As can Israel, I imagine.”

Aboard Pangia 10

“What’s the situation, Tom?”

Dan asked the question with his eyes unconsciously closed, as if waiting for a final exam score he just knew would be rotten. And indeed there was a long and worrisome hesitation measured in milliseconds from the back before the copilot’s voice returned to his ear, but a slight tone of excitement sounded an up note.

“It’s better, he said. “ Much better! I can still see sparks coming off, but the flame front… if that’s what you call it… it’s gone. I’m coming back forward.”

“Keep watching. Call if there’s a change.”

“Dan? Status?’ Jerry asked.

Dan summarized Tom’s report, adding the distance and altitude left to the Baghdad runway. “Thirty-three miles to go, Jerry! Energy’s good. We’re descending through 18,000, and that means we can glide no wind about fifty miles.”

“You ever dead stick the simulator?” Jerry asked, his voice low and urgent, the question anything but casual. The term was all but archaic, “dead stick” being the traditional term-of-art for landing a powered aircraft without power, a maneuver for which you had one chance alone.

“Yes. In a 737, and once in this beast.”

“How’d it work out?”

Caution lights blared at him from his personal mental dashboard, another aviating embarrassment he’d rather forget.

“You keep the numbers under control, it’s a piece of cake,” Dan answered, hoping the captain wouldn’t ask more.

“I hate that phrase! Piece of friggin’ cake indeed.”

“So do I, now that I think about it.”

“I’m full left deflection, Danny. I don’t have anything more.”

The words shattered what had been a fragile growing confidence. Slower speed would mean the need for more roll control, more aileron deflection, wouldn’t it? What else could they use?

“Are you hitting the rudder as well?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?” Jerry shot back.

“We can’t split the flaps…”

“We can’t even get the flaps, what with the fire on the right wing!”

“You’re still wings level, though,” Dan said. “Speed’s 260 knots. Is she getting worse as you slow?”

“What’s our altitude?” Jerry demanded.

“Ah… coming through sixteen now, thirty miles out.”

“I’m slowing. The control pressure to the left wasn’t as great when I was diving. Now it’s full.”

“Want me to try mine?”

“I doubt there’s anything wrong with the stick on my side, Dan.”

“Jerry, nothing else has worked right in this airplane for the past six hours, and God knows what we screwed up downstairs trying to regain control.”

He could see his partner take a deep breath and decide.

“Okay… take it and go immediately full left aileron. Hit the priority button just in case. If it’s the same as what I’ve got, I’ll take her back.”

Dan positioned himself in the copilot’s seat and wrapped his right hand around the sidestick controller and pressed the top button.

“Priority right,” the female computer voice intoned as he immediately deflected the stick full left, not quite believing it when the big Airbus obeyed with a sudden roll to the left.

“Jesus! Level the wings, Dan!”

“Already… doing it!”

“Holy moly… you were right!”

“That sometimes happens,” Dan replied through the shock that wasn’t wearing off fast enough.

“What happens? That the sticks are mismatched?”

“No, that I’m right.”

“Well, you’ve got her now, partner, for better or worse. How’s she flying?”

“Reasonably steady. I can’t believe it!”

“Okay, lemme get oriented here. I’ll talk you in.”

“Roger that. At least this time I can’t screw up the autothrottles,” Dan said, unprepared for the belly laugh from the left seat.