Assurred Response

Chapter 10

Omar Abdul-Baasit, Servant of the Extender, Creator, and his Saudi Arabian copilot, Uthman ibn Abd al-Wahhab, had flown the Bombardier Challenger 601-1A into Albany International Airport the previous evening. Like other corporate pilots, Abdul-Baasit chatted with the line service technicians while the copilot installed the engine covers. After the aircraft was secured for the evening, al-Wahhab hailed a taxi to the bus station. He would return to his rented home in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and remain in the sleeper cell until his next mission was assigned.

Abdul-Baasit, along with twenty-two other specially selected flight students from the Middle East, had spent eleven months at various flight schools in Arizona, Texas, North Dakota, and Florida. They collectively terminated their training on September 6, 2001, and went to work for Shayhidi-controlled charities and businesses in Florida, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey, and Maryland.

More experienced and knowledgeable than the suicide pilots who destroyed the World Trade Center and damaged the Pentagon, Abdul-Baasit and his fellow sleepers would not have to rely on hijacking airplanes to complete their missions. Besides, the possibility of commandeering U. S. airliners after September 11 was substantially diminished, if not all but eliminated.

Shayhidi paid over $3.4 million for the in-depth aviation training, including housing, essentials, and generous periodic stipends to the flight students. To Shayhidis great delight, the time had finally arrived to begin capitalizing on his considerable financial investment. Abdul-Baasit and others like him were ready to carry out their missions.

Following explicit instructions direcdy from Khaliq Farkas, Abdul-Baasit slept in the corporate jet. Minutes before sunrise, Abdul-Baasit would file his flight plan with the FBO and order all the jet fuel the airplane could hold.

This particular Challenger 601 (N301EP) was quite different from standard versions of the twin-engine jet. Like many large transports once used by U. S. airlines and later sold to Latin American airlines and cargo operators, used corporate jets found homes in South America. Aircraft sales south of the U. S. border, and the modifications made to those airplanes, received little or no scrutiny.

During the past seventy days, 301EP was transformed into a flying armored tank. The radical change was not noticeable from the exterior, but the interior was unlike any other Challenger in the world. The inside of the jet was gutted, and heavy steel braces were welded together in a strong latticework. A sturdy bulkhead at the entrance to the airplane disguised the contents of the large cabin.

Combined with the seven barrels of fuel oil and the array of explosives on board, the myriad beams were so heavy the jet weighed only slightly less than its maximum gross weight of 43,100 pounds. With full fuel, the Challenger would weigh approximately 57,700 pounds.

Abdul-Baasit, having never flown the reconfigured plane with a full fuel load, was going to be a test pilot in the next thirty minutes. Would he need every inch of the 7,200-foot runway to get airborne, or would he need a lot more room to take off?

Feeling supremely confident, he went into the FBO, filed his instrument flight plan to Philadelphia, and ordered full fuel for the Challenger. The suicide bomber removed the engine covers while he oversaw the fueling. When 1,800 gallons had been pumped into the aircraft, the tires and landing gear were beginning to show the strain.

Abdul-Baasit thought about stopping the fueling at 1,900 gallons, but Farkas had made it clear: The jet must carry every ounce of fuel that could be squeezed in and not a drop less. The Challenger was going to be a huge bomb with wings, the "wings of death," as Farkas stated so strongly on many occasions.

When the fueling was completed, Abdul-Baasit paid his bill, started the powerful engines, and listened to the ATIS. He called Clearance Delivery, received his instrument clearance to Philadelphia International Airport, called Ground Control, and taxied toward Runway 19.

No one noticed that he was flying the jet single pilot, a major violation of FAA mandates. Seven tons over maximum gross weight, the Challenger felt sluggish and required more power than usual to taxi.

He keyed the radio. "Albany Tower, Challenger Three Zero One Echo Papa, ready for takeoff."

"Challenger Three Zero One Echo Papa, taxi into position and hold."

"Position and hold, Zero One Echo Papa."

While he waited for a twin-engine Piper Navajo to clear the active runway, Abdul-Baasit aligned his jet with the runway centerline and came to an abrupt stop.

"Challenger Three Zero One Echo Papa cleared for takeoff."

Abdul-Baasit read back the clearance. He held the brakes and added 60 percent power, released the brakes, and shoved the throttles forward. The airplane slowly accelerated while the engines howled at full thrust. Abdul-Baasit knew an aborted takeoff would be disastrous, but the lack of acceleration was alarming.

He would have to make a critical decision in the next few seconds. Live or die? Succeed or fail? With only 3,000 feet of runway remaining, and the speed still creeping upward, he had a moment of doubt. Can t fail — won't fail. Committed to flight, Abdul-Baasit stopped looking at the airspeed indicator.

He waited until the last 300 feet of runway to rotate the nose to its normal takeoff attitude. The Challenger staggered into the air, touched down briefly, and then slowly climbed away from the ground. Abdul-Baasit snapped the landing gear up and coaxed the jet to ascend at 400 feet per minute, an anemic performance for an airplane of its caliber.

Watching the takeoff, the tower controller knew something was wrong. "Challenger Three Zero One Echo Papa, are you experiencing a problem?"

"Zero One Echo Papa is having a pressurization problem," Abdul-Baasit lied. "Well have it corrected in a minute or two."

"Roger. Contact Departure Control on one-one-eight point zero-five."

"Eighteen point zero-five, One Echo Papa."

Abdul-Baasit contacted departure, let the airspeed build, and slowly increased the rate of climb. The departure controller soon handed off the Challenger to the en-route controller. Approaching 14,000 feet, Abdul-Baasit requested a level off to allow the airspeed to increase. He finally nursed the struggling airplane to 22,000 feet and requested to maintain that altitude. The controller granted his request.

A few minutes later, Abdul-Baasit reported smoke in the cockpit. Following his well-rehearsed plan, he turned the radio volume down, tuned his transponder to 7700 (Emergency) for one minute, and then changed the code to 7600 (Communication Failure).

Abdul-Baasit had flown this same route four times in light planes, and he was extremely familiar with the landmarks. He passed his final checkpoint and began a fairly steep descent, accelerating to Mach 0.85, the maximum Mach number for the airplane.

Flying the heavy Challenger by hand, Abdul-Baasit spotted his target dead ahead on the bank of the Hudson River. He continued to tweak the jets nose lower and lower until the planes attitude was 45 percent nose down. He ignored the chattering Mach "knocker" as the Challenger quickly accelerated to Mach 0.89.

His throat was dry, but he was in the zone now, focused on his final mission. Omar Abdul-Baasit never blinked as he bracketed his target twenty-nine miles north of New York City. Feeling a tingling sense of euphoria, the pitiless fool took in a deep breath and let out a piercing scream. Two seconds later the Bombardier Challenger slammed into the Indian Point Unit 2 Nuclear Power Plant. The incredible kinetic energy created an explosion that registered between 3 and 4 on the Richter scale of several seismographs in the area.

CNN Pentagon correspondent Christine DeSano was about to deliver an update on the condition of the aircraft carrier USS Harry Truman when a flurry of activity interrupted her. Someone offscreen was loudly forwarding breaking news, so Christine tossed the telecast back to the anchor in the studio.

Less than a minute later, the grim-faced DeSano was back live. "We re receiving initial reports that a nuclear power plant, the Indian Point Unit Two, twenty-some miles north of Manhattan, exploded only minutes ago."

She was reading from notes handed to her. "There are conflicting reports on what caused the blast. We understand there are casualties and a large number of injuries."

Another note was held up in her view. "Were… just a moment… okay: A fireman, apparently at the scene, believes a bomb may have done the damage. That has not been confirmed at this time, but an official believes a bomb, possibly a terrorist-made bomb, may have gone off."

DeSanos cameraman snagged an army lieutenant colonel briskly walking down the hallway. The colonel was discussing the power plant disaster with a junior officer.

"Colonel," DeSano said, thrusting the microphone toward him, "can you tell us what happened at the Indian Point nuclear plant?"

"From what were hearing, and its preliminary, an airplane may have struck the power plant. Sorry, have to run."

Frowning, DeSano faced the camera. "Jim, I've just been told by a senior officer that an airplane, possibly another hijacked airliner, struck the nuclear facility. Were looking at another possible series of airline hijackings or worse. Back to you, Jim."

Located at Herndon, Virginia, near Dulles International Airport, in an impressive 29,ooo-square-foot building, the Air Traffic Control Command Center serves as the nerve center for the busy US. air traffic control system. Alert for any possible threat or conflict, FAA specialists constantly monitor air traffic, departure delays, and weather conditions nationwide. Networked with the NORAD complex and the joint FAA/Defense Department Air Traffic Services Cell, the Herndon controllers work with the Air Route Traffic Control Centers to help keep the complex system in harmony and flowing smoothly and safely.

After the four airline hijackings on Black Tuesday altered the course of U. S. aviation history, FAA authorities implemented new operating procedures at the command center. The time from the discovery of suspicious actions to alerting NORAD, the North American Aerospace Defense Command, was minimized.

NORAD is a unified U. S. and Canadian command charged with the missions of aerospace warning and aerospace control for North America. Commanded by a senior four-star officer, NORAD is the front line of detection and defense against air and space threats to the United States and Canada. Buried deep inside Cheyenne Mountain near Colorado Springs, Colorado, the complex replaced NORADS previous vulnerable aboveground facilities in a converted hospital at Ent Air Force Base, Colorado Springs.

This morning the air traffic controllers were frantically trying to confirm what kind of plane hit the Indian Point nuclear power plant. One report said a regional jet airliner crashed into the reactor. Other reports from en-route controllers indicated a Bombardier Challenger corporate jet hit the plant.

The controllers confirmed an emergency squawk from the Challenger but didnt know the nature of the problem. A controller heard a radio call about smoke in the cockpit, but there was no call sign to match against an airplane. The ATC tapes would have to be analyzed.

A quick check with the national Air Route Traffic Control Centers offered the confirmation that no airline hijacking attempts had been made. From New York Center to Los Angeles Center and Seattle Center to Miami Center, everything seemed in order. The incident at the nuclear power plant appeared to be an isolated event caused by a dire emergency on board the Challenger.

From reports issued by the Albany Control Tower, the Albany departure controller, and the en-route controller, a general consensus soon formed within the FAA community. A pressurization problem or fire and smoke probably overcame the Challenger flight crew, but only an investigation by the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) could illuminate the real cause of the accident.

Once the crisis mode began to ebb and pulse rates receded, a collective sigh of relief filtered through the command center. The men and women began to relax and enjoy their morning coffee. The flow of air traffic was running smoothly and life was stable once more.

Twenty-one minutes later, another corporate jet deviated from its filed instrument flight plan. The transponder ceased operating and the pilot stopped communicating with the suspicious air traffic controller. Shortly after the break in communications, the fully fueled three-engine Dassault Falcon 50 smashed into the Waterford 3 Nuclear Power Plant in Taft, Louisiana, twenty-three miles west of the French Quarter.

Four minutes later, a Westwind II corporate jet full of fuel and explosives plowed through the Crystal River Nuclear Power Plant seventy miles north of St. Petersburg, Florida. The force of the horrendous impact and explosion instantly knocked out all power to the resort city adjacent to Tampa Bay.

Total chaos erupted in the Air Traffic Control Command Center. The same twisted combination of fear and anger that permeated the ARTCC system during the September 11 airline hijackings returned with a suddenness that thoroughly stunned everyone.

The FAA controllers quickly alerted the FBI and NORAD. The senior officers at NORAD became the focal point for increased military air protection over the United States and Canada. The NORAD Battle Management Center told each air defense sector to generate sorties as fast as they could. They would direct the fighter pilots sitting alert duty and those flying combat air patrol over major cities in both countries. Some of the first fighters to assume battle stations and get airborne came from Langley AFB, Virginia; Tyndall AFB, Florida; Otis Air National Guard Base, Massachusetts; and Ellington AFB, Texas.

The Cheyenne Mountain Operations Center (CMOC), the core of NORAD operations, was humming with activity. Canadian Forces Brigadier Ian Thackerey, the vice commander of CMOC, rapidly responded to the suicide attacks and was directing the evolving operation.

Acting on a direct order from the four-star commander, NORAD, Thackerey ordered all aircraft, including airliners, corporate jets, general aviation airplanes, and military aircraft not being scrambled for combat air patrols, to land at the nearest suitable airport. The objective was to sanitize the airspace over the United States and Canada as quickly as possible.

President Macklin ordered the military to implement a Force Protection Condition Delta wartime posture. Barricades were quickly erected at gates to many military bases, and machine guns were at the ready. On the orders of the commanding general, the massive steel doors at NORAD were closed for only the second time in its history.

Off the coast of South Carolina, the USS Enterprise battle group was at general quarters. The carrier was launching F-14 Tomcats, F/A-18 Hornets, and an E-2C Hawkeye for combat air patrols over any assigned cities or high-risk structures. More aircraft on the flight deck were being armed with heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles and slammers — AMRAAMS — Advanced Medium Range Air-to-Air Missiles. The slammers have an active radar-guidance system and, at Mach 4.0, they are the fastest of the air-to-air weapons. Other ordnance personnel were loading 20mm rounds into the Hornets' and Tomcats' M61 Vulcan cannons.

Dozens of other fighter planes from Canada, the U. S. Air Force, the U. S. Navy, and the U. S. Marine Corps were airborne in a matter of minutes and assumed their combat air-patrol patterns over strategic positions and major metropolitan areas. Dozens of aerial tankers, including KC-135S, KC-130S, and KC-10s, were soon airborne to provide the thirsty fighters with fuel.

Two U. S. Air Force Boeing E-3 Airborne Warning and Control System (AWACS) aircraft from the 552d Air Control Wing at Tinker AFB, Oklahoma City, were providing long-range radar surveillance for the fighter planes. The AWACS mission specialists and the mission crew commanders were primed and ready to direct fighter intercepts against potential bogeys. After a reasonable amount of time to allow possible threats to land at a suitable airport, the fighter pilots received new orders from NORAD.

They were to intercept anything flying in their assigned areas and escort it to the nearest suitable airfield. If they encountered any aircraft that did not respond to radio communications or hand signals, the pilots had blanket permission to shoot it down, preferably over empty fields or sparsely populated areas.

NORAD would continue to direct air operations over Canada and the United States from three subordinate headquarters located at Tyndall AFB, Florida; Elmendorf AFB, Alaska; and Canadian Forces Base, Winnipeg, Manitoba.

Panic ensued in New York when tens of thousands of motorists most of whom were unprepared for an evacuation, clogged the freeways and principal highways heading south and west. Fearing more attacks on high-profile targets, most of the drivers left with only what they were wearing. Many of them soon ran out of gas, causing massive traffic jams and short tempers. Lines at service stations stretched for half a mile to a mile before the stations began running out of fuel.

With the airlines grounded at Newark, La Guardia, and Kennedy, idle passenger trains were soon mobbed. Others crowded into New York Citys subways to escape the dreaded radiation fallout.

Manhattan was in a state of gridlock, with the bridges and tunnels closed for security reasons. The National Guard was mobilized, and off-duty law enforcement officers were called to work. The mayor of New York City and the governor of New York were soon on television offering reassurance and calming words.

After the suicide attack at the Waterford 3 Nuclear Power Plant west of the Big Easy, the Vieux Carre was almost deserted in a matter of twenty-five minutes. Interstate 10 was bumper-to-bumper from the heart of New Orleans to Slidell. North of Slidell, motorists who still had fuel branched out on Interstate 59 north or Interstate 10 east-bound. Once they reached that point, fuel was readily available.

Unlike New York City, there was not the same degree of panic in the Crescent City, but thousands of people were rapidly moving away from the radiation fallout and likely targets, including the Superdome and high-rise buildings. Most individuals fleeing east and northeast simply wanted to get out to "flyover country" and find a motel or hotel until they were sure the situation was reasonably under control. The only person who could assure them was President Macklin.

With the Crystal River Nuclear Power Plant well north of the Tampa-St. Petersburg metropolitan complex, and the prevailing west-to-east wind, most people wanted to stay and protect their businesses and personal property. Several wealthy families left their domestic help to watch their mansions while they traveled south in their yachts.

A much larger percentage of the Tampa-St. Petersburg citizens packed their vehicles and drove south to Fort Myers; some went as far as the Fort Lauderdale-Miami area, and a few thousand descended on the Florida Keys and Key West. Hotel rooms quickly sold out, and many enterprising guests began subleasing their rooms for double the rate.

The folks who were in the most peril were the people of Crystal River, located on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. To a person, they were fearful for their lives. Some headed north or south on Highway 19 to escape being contaminated with radiation. A few families gathered together in church, while others stayed home and prayed for the best.