Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

For his next announcement minutes later, though, he didn’t use the intercom. Instead he leaned around in his seat and motioned for Noah to come forward for a talk, all by himself.

The cabin wasn’t quite tall enough to allow him to walk upright in the aisle and he had to duck to squeeze his way through the narrow cockpit door and into the vacant second seat up front.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The NTAS has issued an alert. I just got the text. It says there’s an imminent threat from a domestic terrorist cell, and that these people may be headed for the East Coast.”

“What?”

“Yeah, this is bad. The FAA’s grounding all flights, just like after 9/11, but so far they’re being a little more methodical about it. I’ve been directed to reroute immediately and land at Denver.”

“Denver? Denver International?”

“Yeah—”

“We can’t land there. We’re probably at the top of the watch list, you understand that, don’t you? We’d never make it halfway through the terminal without being identified.”

“I’ve got no alternative, and I didn’t call you up here to discuss our options. To order a thing like this, these people aren’t fooling around. If we don’t land where they tell us they’ll send up the jets to put us on the ground another way. I’ve already set the course. I just wanted to let you know so you could tell your folks back there on your own.”

Noah broke the news to Molly and Ellen as gently as he could and then, over the next half hour, the three of them discussed it all and decided what to do.

Assuming they didn’t immediately walk into a dragnet upon landing, Ellen would slip away from the other two as quickly as possible and then lose herself in what was sure to be a sea of stranded passengers from other diverted flights. She’d then hire a car if she could and make her way to New York by any means available.

As for Noah and Molly, they would try to do the same, only their destination would be any nearby safe house they could contact after landing. The mission was over; escape was the best they could hope for at this point. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it seemed to be the only alternative.

As the flight wore on they sat and considered their situation; the sullen mood was broken only by occasional bouts of turbulence from the storms that had been promised all morning. Ellen was quiet but obviously frightened, and Molly had spent most of her time in silent prayer. Noah, however, felt surprisingly calm, having long since written off any extended visions of his own future. If this was the end of the line he was satisfied just to be next to her again, even if it was only for a little while longer.

The flight soon descended through a deep and dark gray layer of clouds to emerge in the midst of a heavy rain. There were a few steep banks and bumps and jostles, and before long Noah heard the gear descending and felt the craft settling onto its final approach. By the view out the window visibility was near zero; he could barely see past the tips of their wings.

A minute later the touchdown came with an unexpected jolt and they rolled out to near the end of the long runway.

Just as the pilot had slowed sufficiently for his turn toward the gate, Molly cried out “Stop!” so forcefully that the man up front applied the brakes and brought the craft to a screeching halt.

“What happened?” the pilot called back. “Did we hit something?”

“Just stay here for a second,” Noah said, and he turned to Molly. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got a terrible feeling,” Molly whispered. “I think they’re waiting for us.”

“How could you be so sure of that?”

“I don’t know, but I am. Please, just believe me.”

“I can’t just sit here on an active runway,” the pilot said, and the jet began to roll again as the engines wound up.

Molly gripped his hand tight. “Noah, please. We’ve got to get out, right now.”

Mere intuition isn’t much to bet your life on but at that moment he found it was good enough for him. Noah went forward and spoke to the pilot, who soon made a reluctant adjustment and slowed their advance toward the distant gate to only a few miles per hour.

“Are you two serious?” Ellen asked. “You’re getting out of a moving airplane? What about me?”

“You have to come with us,” Molly said.

“I have to? What do you mean by that—”

The rain and wind whipped in as Noah swung up the door and the sound of the engines drowned out the rest of that conversation. He knelt and lowered the steps to their locking point about a foot above the scrolling pavement.

“We’ve got to move, Ellen; you’re just going to have to trust me,” he said, holding out his hand. “Now let’s go.”

With that Ellen picked up Molly’s duffel bag and helped her manage the last few feet across the aisle. The door of the rolling plane was on the side of the fuselage opposite the terminal; in these conditions, if they made it to cover quickly enough there was actually a chance their exit from the aircraft might go unseen.

“You two first!” Noah shouted over the noise. “Hit the ground running and stay low; you’ve got to get clear fast so the wings don’t knock you down. Head for those markers at the end of the runway and get down behind them. I’ll be right along.”

“Oh my God, look!” Ellen said, pointing across the cabin.

Through the line of round windows, far away through the driving rain they could see a large number of bright yellow strobes suddenly appearing and then beginning to fan out and accelerate in their direction.

“Go now!” Noah said. The two women descended the two steps and then on their own count of three they jumped to the pavement hand in hand. They nearly fell but soon regained their footing and took off toward the cover of the tall grass.

Noah followed, running beside the jet to lift and fasten the stairs before he closed the door to lock the exit behind him. As the jet rolled on he crouched down low and dashed toward the spot where he’d last seen his two friends running.

Chapter 53

When Hollis returned to the major-appliances area of the warehouse he found young Tyler completing his assigned work on the last of six fifty-gallon water heaters.

The tall white cylinders had been arranged at strategic points around the huge floor space. Each was tipped forward at a shallow angle and aimed toward the glass atrium at the front of the place and the parking lot out beyond. They were supported in place by many stacked bags of dry quick-set cement to the side and behind.

From where he stood it all looked something like a complement of field artillery, and so it should.

“How’re they doing in the back?” Tyler asked.

“They’re doing fine. Right on schedule.”

The two of them went down the checklist on each of the prepared tanks in turn. They’d been filled with water to the level directed, relief valves disabled, feed pipes permanently sealed, and thermostats recalibrated to allow for extremely hazardous but precisely controllable settings.

Tyler had done the math again and again and Hollis rechecked it himself; eighty-five thousand pounds of pressure would not forgive much of an error. There were variables and unknowns aplenty, but these improvised weapons seemed as ready as they would ever be. All the calculations said they should perform as expected if called upon. His hope, of course, was that they’d never have to find out.

“Time to give these bad boys the smoke test,” Hollis said.

“What does that mean?”

“Let’s crank ’em up.”