Uncivil Liberties (2 page)

The weapons package for this day’s domestic CAP mission was the medium range AIM-120C missile with its own internal radar to lock onto targets, the incredibly agile AIM-9X short-range, heat-seeking missile, and over 500 rounds of 20mm ammunition.

Ninety minutes into Dutch’s patrol, the Northeast Air Defense Sector air traffic controller, his primary source of information, unexpectedly contacted him, redirecting his communication to the airborne controller, call sign Chalice.

“Bird Dog Nine One, this is Whetstone.”

“Whetstone, Bird Dog Nine One, go ahead.”

“Bird Dog Nine One, vector east. Bogie bearing 065, range two hundred twenty-five miles. Contact Chalice on three one eight point six.”

“Bird Dog Nine One vectoring east, switch three one eight point six.”

“Two!” acknowledged Rocky, his wingman.

With a dip of his wingtip, Dutch silently signaled Rocky to turn with him toward the northeast, then punched in the new frequency on his digital keypad, switching his radio to the airborne AWACS controller, a military version of the Boeing 767, coordinating all aircraft on patrol that day.

“Chalice, this is Bird Dog Nine One.”

“Two!” said Rocky quickly, confirming he was on frequency as well.

“Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice, go secure.”

“Bird Dog Nine One,” acknowledged Dutch as he and Rocky switched their radios to a secure, encrypted mode. This could only mean that AWACs had some classified information to transmit. Dutch was hoping for some news of interest to make the monotonous sortie pass a little quicker, but a secure communication was not likely to be a replay of the president’s inaugural address. His pulse quickened.

“Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice, radio check.”

“Chalice, Bird Dog Nine One loud and clear,” answered Dutch, despite the fact that the secure radio mode was akin to talking to a deep sea diver through a face mask 300 feet down in the Caribbean.

“Two, loud and clear,” lied Rocky.

“Bird Dog, I’ve got you loud and clear. Snap to heading 067. Your bogey is a 747, range two hundred five. We’ve had no radio or transponder response since initial communications.”

“Chalice, Bird Dog Nine One copies. Bird Dog Nine Three flight will remain on station. Bird Dog Nine One snapping 067 to intercept the bogey.” With that, the third and fourth Raptors in the flight remained on station while Dutch and Rocky swung northeast.

The Delaware coastline passed beneath them as they headed over the Atlantic. With a few moments’ reflection, it seemed a strange coincidence to Dutch that precisely when the presidential inauguration was taking place, an airliner would approach Washington with its radios and transponder off. He hadn’t seen an airliner with these malfunctions during any of his previous CAP missions. His pulse climbed yet another notch as an adrenalin rush engulfed his body.

“Bird Dog Nine One flight, push it up!” Dutch ordered as he slammed his throttles forward. Within seconds, he was supersonic, chopping the throttles back to maintain Mach 1.5.

Ninety seconds later, Chalice called.

“Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice. Bogey aircraft is KL6051, a commercial 767. Aircraft is renegade. Repeat—aircraft  is renegade.”

Renegade
! A hijacking on his watch. Dutch felt instant nausea. The bile rose in his throat, threatening to fill his oxygen mask. He glanced across the narrow space between the two fighter aircraft at his wingman, Rocky, who was monitoring the communication. “Chalice, Bird Dog Nine One copies. KL6051 confirmed renegade. Say mission.”

“Bird Dog Nine One, mission is to shadow and stand by for further words. Suspect is 067 for one ninety, Angels thirty-three. Report contact.”

“Bird Dog Nine One copies shadow and stand by for words. Bird Dog Nine One is in radar contact with bogie.”

As the cluster of well-wishers began to filter out of the Oval Office following the signing of the new Aspers-Kendall Health Act, Marilyn Cosgrove, the president’s White House chief of staff and the architect of his brilliant, two-point election victory, gave him the look he knew so well:
I need to see you
.

Shaking hands with the Senate majority leader as he departed, Cumberland nodded slightly to Marilyn. She then stepped into a small anteroom, accompanied by two men, one in naval uniform. In a moment, the president moved to join them, pausing momentarily as he heard, and then observed, the Marine helicopter landing on the broad lawn.

Cumberland acknowledged Admiral Thornton Barrington, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Hank Tiarks, the president’s secretary-designee—as yet unconfirmed by the Senate—for the Homeland Security Department.

“Good afternoon, Admiral. I didn’t expect to see you this quickly. This isn’t another world situation briefing, is it?” he said, extending a handshake and a warm smile.

“No, sir, Mr. President. I apologize for the interruption to your schedule, but we have an urgent matter at hand. You will have noticed Marine One landing. We need to talk for a moment, then I have to ask you to board the helicopter as quickly as possible.”

President Cumberland looked toward Secretary-designee Tiarks, who gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and a brief shake of his head.

“Please explain, Admiral. I have appointments throughout the afternoon and was not advised I would need to leave. I presume you’re the only one in the room who knows what this is all about.”

“Mr. President, there is a hijacked commercial airliner inbound to Washington. At 1315 hours, air traffic control at Washington Center received a communication from KLM Flight 6051, a civilian 767 en route from Amsterdam to Dulles. At that point they were just over an hour from their projected ETA. Sir, the radio transmission stated that KL6051 was now under ‘Allah’s control.’ The aircraft hasn’t responded since.”

Cumberland looked toward Marilyn, his eyes displaying his incredulity at such news his first day in office. In fact, his first two
hours
in office. “You’re telling me this airliner has been hijacked and is headed toward Washington?”

“That’s what it looks like, Mr. President.”

“Can you divert it?”

“Only if the pilot, or whoever is in control, is willing to change direction.”

“Can’t you direct your fighters to
force
it to change course?”

“Sir,” Admiral Barrington said, “No aircraft, military or civilian, can force a very large aircraft to change directions if the pilot doesn’t want to change directions. It’s not as simple as nudging a vehicle off the road.”

“What do they want?” the president asked.

“They’ve made no demands. At this point, we’ve only been advised that the aircraft is under hostile control. I’m sorry to be so abrupt with this news, but we have less than . . .” he glanced at his watch, “. . . eleven minutes until the aircraft goes feet dry.”

“Feet dry?” Cumberland asked.

“He means that’s when it crosses the coastline, Mr. President,” Secretary-designee Tiarks, a former Air Force officer, offered. “What are the president’s options, Admiral?”

“Mr. Tiarks, given the brief time remaining, we have only two options: escort it while they continue to wherever they decide to take it . . . or shoot it down.”

“
Shoot
down a civilian airliner?” the president said, his face suddenly flushed.

“Mr. President—” Barrington started.

“That’s
not
an option, Admiral,” the president said, his voice now tense, the veins in his neck prominent, his breathing beginning to accelerate.

“Sir, with all due respect, it’s your
only
option unless you’re willing to allow him to choose his target.”

“What in blazes are you talking about? What do you mean, his
target
?” the president continued, anger welling up in his voice and coloring his face. “What are his objectives?” Cumberland took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

“Mr. President, he’s already met his objectives. He’s leaving the final choice up to you.”

Cumberland’s eyes opened wider. “To
me
?
”

“Yes, sir. Consider this, Mr. President. A suicide bomber boards a bus in Tel Aviv, detonates an explosive, killing himself. . . or herself, and five or six people, perhaps wounds another ten. Their mission has been accomplished. When this terrorist, or terrorists—we don’t know how many are on board—gained control of this aircraft, their objective was met. There are only two outcomes: they choose a target, perhaps the White House or the Capitol building or even the Pentagon again, and crash the aircraft into the building. They kill everyone on board the aircraft, plus hundreds or even thousands on the ground. We have no time remaining for evacuation. They know that. They also know that the alternative is for
you
to order the plane to be shot down before it reaches its target. They know these are your only choices, Mr. President. They’re forcing you to decide, and timing it to coincide with the inauguration is no accident. They know you have to let them crash the plane where they choose, or that you have to order the death of the people onboard the airliner. They’re prepared to die in either case.”

“Fanatics! They’re
insane
!
”

“My thoughts exactly. We have eight minutes, Mr. President.”

Silence filled the room for several long moments, broken by a softly worded question from the president, his anxiety growing more apparent, despite his attempts to control his emotions. “How many people are on board?”

“Amsterdam has advised us of 316 passengers and crew, Mr. President.”

“Are your aircraft in position?”

“Yes, sir. We have two fighters escorting the airliner.”

“We’re absolutely
positive
it’s been hijacked? Are you sure it’s not a communication problem?”

“The aircraft’s transponder signal indicates that the crew is no longer in control, and the voice on the radio was definitely from someone other than the pilot. The message was not garbled, Mr. President. He clearly stated, ‘Allah is in control of this aircraft.’ ”

Cumberland lowered his head for a moment, then looked up at the United States’ senior military officer, a man he had only met once in his preparatory intelligence briefing several weeks earlier.

“Your advice, Admiral?”

Barrington took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “We have to assume the passengers are as good as dead already, Mr. President. This is a suicide bombing on a scale we’ve dreaded and hoped would never happen again. But, sir, we
must
bring this plane down before it reaches our soil.”

“Hank?” the president said, looking to his old friend.

“I agree with Admiral Barrington, Mr. President. It’s abhorrent but the alternative is unthinkable.”

“Mr. President,” Marilyn said, her political antennae fully extended, “the public will
not
understand this choice.”

Cumberland nodded his agreement, stood silent for a brief moment, then retrieved his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration on his brow. “Neither do I, Marilyn,” he said, stepping backward and reaching to support himself as he sought the refuge of a nearby chair. “But it appears that Harry Truman was correct: the buck stops here. And it wasn’t very long before Truman also had a tough decision to make, but he got more time than I have.” Cumberland hesitated for what seemed to those in the room like minutes, his eyes closed and his breathing now raspy and shallow. Finally he looked up, locking eyes with Barrington. His voice was weak, his breathing ragged. He was nearly gasping as he softly spoke. “Admiral, order your pilot to attempt, uh, communication directly with this aircraft. If . . . they fail to respond to your pilot . . . to turn around . . . then you have my authorization to … to … to prevent this aircraft from crossing our coastline.” His eyes closed, and the president leaned his head back against the chair.

Marilyn moved closer to his side, kneeling down next to the chair. She took his hand, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, then turned to Secretary Designee Tiarks. “Call for his doctor, quickly.” Tiarks stepped out of the room.

Admiral Barrington immediately picked up the telephone, spoke a few terse words, and hung up, turning back to Cumberland. “You’ve made the right decision, Mr. President.”

The ashen-faced man who, only moments before, had been the center of attention as he began his presidency by signing a wide-ranging health initiative, opened his eyes briefly and again looked at Barrington, his voice barely a whisper. “Perhaps you’re right, Admiral,” Cumberland said, his right hand clutching at his chest, “but I believe, uh . . .  uh . . . I’m about to find out if God sees it that way.”

“Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice.”

“Go ahead, Chalice.”

“Bird Dog Nine One, the NORAD Commander is on frequency and needs to pass you words.”

Witherspoon paused, his heart performing an internal stress test. “Roger that, Chalice. This is Major Witherspoon. Go ahead, sir.”