Gordon Stevens - Kara’s Game

You were right – the operation commander nodded as Finn came into the Ops Room. She’s requested a routeing for Heathrow.

She was always going to – Finn helped himself to a coffee and settled at one of the desks.

Because at ten o’clock this morning she actually told us what she was going to do. Not directly, but in the way she specified the deadline in a number of hours – twelve to be precise – rather than as a time. Which means that where she’ll be when the deadline expires, it might not actually be ten o’clock this evening. Therefore she was going to change time zones. Therefore she was coming to Heathrow.

Because Lufthansa 3216 had taken off from Berlin with thirteen metric tonnes of fuel – nine tonnes for the flight plus four reserve. And a Boeing 737 burned fuel at a rate of two and a half tonnes an hour. Which gave a flying time of just over five hours.

The hijack had taken place thirty minutes into the flight, plus the thirty minutes to return back over Berlin. So effectively you were down to four hours. Add Berlin – Paris, where the hijacker had first landed, then Paris – Amsterdam, where the hijacker had flown next, plus the usual in-flight delays and the fact that an aircraft burned more fuel when it was landing and taking off than it did when cruising, and you could knock another two and a half off. So when 3216 had taken off from Amsterdam it had less than ninety minutes’ flying time.

Then run that against the first assumption that the hijacker was going to switch time zones. Throw in a second, that the Amsterdam stop-over was merely an interlude, and that the hijacker was targeting the Big Players – Paris, London, Moscow and Washington. And she was telling you where she was going next.

Paris was out because she’d already been there, and, in any case, it was in the same time zone as Amsterdam. And Moscow and Washington were out because of flight times. Which only left one.

‘Lufthansa 3216. Route direct to Refso.’ The Dutch controller’s English was clipped and precise. ‘Then Lambourne Three Alpha arrival.’ Refso was the reporting point between Dutch and British air space; Lambourne, in Essex, was a navigation beacon on the route into London from Amsterdam, and Lambourne Three Alpha was the standard routeing from the Lambourne beacon into Heathrow. ‘Contact London on one three six decimal five five.’

Maeschler leaned to his right and began to adjust the frequency.

‘Check ATIS first,’ she told him.

Because that will tell us the conditions at Heathrow, including which runway we’re landing on. Which in turn will tell us our route in. And the authorities may not like the way we’re coming in and might try to change it. And if they try, I want to know.

Maeschler glanced at the first officer and dialled up the frequency for Heathrow.

‘This is Heathrow Information Charlie …’ The details were updated every twenty minutes. ‘Runway in use Two Seven Left. Surface wind two six zero, eighteen knots. Overcast at four thousand feet. QNH is one zero one eight.’

So now you know – Maeschler looked back at the woman in the jump seat. And everyone else will also know. Because anyone with the right set can pick up our messages on VHF, and those who can’t can listen to them being played live on radio and television. Which you understood already, of course. Because you planned it as you planned everything.

Pity they didn’t know much about the hijackers, Finn thought. Four of them, from the debriefs of the passengers she’d released. Two men and two women, all heavily armed, though there had been no indication how they had smuggled their weapons on board. But nothing apart from that, not even the names and aliases they were using. Because the hijacker had hacked a pirate programme into the computerized check-in system in Berlin, activated when the computer received confirmation that 3216 was airborne, and wiped all record of the passenger list. Therefore the security people hadn’t been able to check which passengers were genuine, and which were the hijackers travelling under false passports or genuine passports assigned to someone sitting comfortably at home in Bremen or Copenhagen or Manchester.

He topped up the coffee, checked the television monitors against the right-hand wall of the room, and placed the two radios on the desk – one VHF tuned to the frequency 3216 was using, and the other a transistor so that he could listen to the press reports of the progress of 3216, and ipso facto the details the hijackers were receiving.

The Operations Room was silent, almost eerie. Just like one of the RSGs, Finn thought. He’d been down one once, part of an exercise. An attack on a Regional Seat of Government, one of the underground bunkers for use in the event of nuclear war: four levels in a hollowed-out hill in Essex. Everything ready for World War Three – desks and chairs and bunks, even the blankets folded on them and the notepads and pencils perfectly in position. Everything silent as everything was ready and silent in the Ops Room now. Everything waiting, except the Cold War had ended, the threat of the ultimate mushroom over the world had lifted, and the RSG had been decommissioned. Just like the Ops Room until twenty minutes ago. Then somebody had pressed the button: then the hijacker had requested a routeing for Heathrow.

It was one-thirty London time, Lufthansa 3216 over the North Sea. The nerves had gone from her stomach now, and her mind was calm.

… The next time the United Nations lets your people down … She remembered the moment he had told her. The corridor in the hospital, the night dark and freezing, the children crying and the Serb shells thundering outside. Adin somewhere on the front line and little Jovan in the makeshift ward two doors away.

Look down on me this day, she told them both. Pray for me, my husband. Smile at me, my son.

The next time the United Nations stands by and does nothing. She remembered why he had told her …

‘Contact London,’ she instructed Maeschler.

‘London. This is Lufthansa 3216. Approaching Refso.’

Lufthansa 3216 approaching British air space, Strike was informed. About to leave Dutch air space. Now in British air space. Lufthansa 3216 now his problem, Finn thought.

‘Lufthansa 3216.’ They all heard the voice of the British controller. ‘Standard Lambourne Three Alpha arrival for landing runway Two Seven Left.’

‘What does that mean?’ Langdon demanded.

Kilpatrick crossed to the telephones and asked the flight adviser to join them.

Lambourne Three Alpha was the standard arrival route for aircraft coming in from Amsterdam, the adviser informed them. He was settled uncomfortably at the end of the table facing Langdon. Runway Two Seven Left was the standard runway at that time of day for aircraft coming in from Lambourne.

‘Which way do they come in from Lambourne?’ Langdon leaned forward.

‘You mean the route?’

‘Yes.’ Because Lambourne is to the east, Heathrow is to the west, and London is bang in the middle.

‘Up the Thames and over central London.’

‘Over the City? Directly over Westminster, Downing Street, and Parliament?’

‘Yes.’

Lufthansa 3216 approaching the Essex coast, Strike was informed.

‘Lufthansa 3216. Descend when ready to flight level one five zero.’ Descend to fifteen thousand feet.

The air traffic control room was rectangular; low lighting and quiet atmosphere, no smoking and not even soft drinks allowed. The watch supervisor’s desk was at the head of the room; along the left wall were four radar suites, each controlling a sector; another suite on the end wall farthest from the watch supervisor, and four more suites along the other long wall. At each suite were two radar controllers, headsets on and radar screens horizontal on the desk in front of them, the crew chief for the sector standing between them.