Blackout

CHAPTER 13

The facility chief sat down hard next to one of his controllers and shook his head, his eyes on the computer-generated control screen. “You saw him descending, and then lost the transponder?”

The wide-eyed controller nodded in a staccato motion. “Yes, Sir.”

“Where did you lose him? What altitude?”

“Two thousand feet, descending at over two thousand feet per minute. He had made a broad turn back west.”

“How long ago?”

“Seven minutes ago. I called you immediately.”

The chief took a deep breath and shook his head, feeling the weight of the loss. There had been over 200 people on that aircraft, but if they had hit the water at a hefty descent rate in the middle of the night, the survival chances were minimal.

“Very well. Start the notifications. You know what to do.”

The controller turned to the task of notifying rescue forces and the world that Meridian Flight 5 had crashed at sea.

The President of the United States swept through the east door of the most familiar office in the world and nodded to the Air Force chief of staff — a four-star general — and the press secretary, who had assembled for an emergency telephone conference on the unfolding aerial crisis in Hong Kong. He shook the general’s hand and settled into a chair near the lighted fireplace, looking to Jason Pullman, the press secretary, whose finger was poised over a speakerphone. “Who’s on the line, Jason?” he asked.

“Richard Herd, the director of Central Intelligence; FBI Deputy Director Jake Rhoades; and Dr. Stella Mendenhall at the National Transportation Safety Board.”

The President nodded and Jason punched through the conference call. There was a brief round of hellos.

“All right,” the President began, “on this end we’ve got General Tim Bauer, Air Force Chief of Staff, and Jason Pullman, my press secretary. Now, who called the meeting?”

“I did, Mr. President,” Herd, the DCI, responded. “The rumors are going to start flying on this one, and I felt you needed to be briefed immediately.”

“What rumors, Richard?”

“Unfounded rumors that this Hong Kong situation is somehow connected to the SeaAir crash near Cuba, and that Hong Kong is, in fact, an act of terrorism.”

“Is it?” the President asked.

“We don’t think so on either count, Mr. President, but we don’t know yet.”

The President sighed. “Okay, Richard, give me the briefing.”

The DCI filled in the facts to the moment, detailing the possibility of midair collision versus airborne attack before the President interrupted him.

“Wait a minute,” the President said. “You say the remaining pilot also mentioned the possibility of a nuclear detonation?”

“Oh, it definitely wasn’t that, Sir,” the DCI replied. “National Reconnaissance Office confirms their sensors have picked up nothing nuclear.”

“What, then?” the President continued. “You said a midair collision or some sort of attack, but to have a midair, someone’s got to be missing an airplane.”

“Well, there is an aircraft missing,” the DCI said, relating the puzzle of the U.S. business jet and the fact that FAA was still verifying who owned it.

The President leaned forward, twirling a fountain pen in his fingers, his eyes on the floor. “And the third possibility is some sort of attack? What sort of attack? Military? Terrorist? And using what, a missile?”

General Bauer raised a finger. “Sir, we have no reason whatsoever to suspect hostile military action. This was a scheduled airline flight, ten miles from Hong Kong’s airport, on a normal departure track. No way would the Chinese Air Force be involved. Now, if we’re talking about what kind of an attack could blind two pilots…”

“That boggles my mind,” the President interjected, shaking his head. “The captain dead, the copilot blinded. How?”

The DCI spoke up before the general could answer. “Any large flash, such as a direct lightning strike or fuel exploding during a collision, could temporarily flash-blind the pilots. We know of nothing that could kill with a burst of light alone, but whatever happened probably triggered a secondary reaction, a heart attack or a stroke.”

“General, you weren’t finished?” the President said.

“I was going to say, Sir,” General Bauer continued, “that the intensity of the so-called explosion this surviving pilot reported is not inconsistent with the burst of a phosphorous-based warhead at very close range. A lightning strike wouldn’t do it.”

“A what?” the President exclaimed, sitting up and cocking his head.

“Phosphorous, Sir. The flash against a nighttime background is devastatingly bright. If someone lobbed a small missile at them with such a warhead designed to explode just in front of the aircraft, I’m told it could seriously interfere with a pilot’s vision for several hours.”

“Flash blindness and a missile?” the President asked, watching the general nod in response. “Terrorist, in other words?”

The DCI spoke up again from Langley. “We don’t think it likely, Mr. President. We think the most credible possibility is a midair collision and explosion. If this was a terrorist act, it would require a missile, a place to launch it from, and the uncertain assumption that flash-blinding the pilots would bring down the aircraft.”

“Okay.”

“Then, too, Sir,” the DCI went on, “there’s the matter of the type of missile required. It couldn’t be a heat seeker because an infrared tracker would go for the engines. You’d have to have a pretty sophisticated missile to fly close to a cockpit and explode without physically damaging the aircraft, and we think that unlikely.”

The President’s eyes snapped to the Air Force chief of staff, who was shaking his head. “General? You disagree?”

“Absolutely. A sophisticated missile is likely. In fact, this is the signature of a laser-guided missile. That so-called missing aircraft could easily have been the target designator, holding what is essentially an invisible infrared laser dot on the seven-forty-seven while a confederate below fires the missile. All they’d have to do is program the missile to detonate by internal radar a hundred yards out.”

“That’s your guess?” the President asked.

“No, Sir. That’s our assessment. It fits.”

“A missile with a phosphorous warhead?” the President asked.

“Precisely.”

“For the record, Mr. President,” the DCI cut in, “CIA believes the more credible possibility is a midair collision. I mean, after all, that other aircraft is missing. If he was just the target designator aircraft, where is he?”

“Ah, Mr. President, Jake Rhoades here.”

“Go ahead, Jake,” the President prompted.

“We’re told the missing business jet cut in front of the Meridian flight just before the explosion. We have that information directly from Hong Kong Approach. Whether they collided or helped fire a missile, that jet is likely to be involved.”

The President was nodding slowly. “There is a similarity here to SeaAir. Both aircraft were over water. If a missile was fired from a boat in both cases, that fits.”

“Sir,” the DCI replied, “remember that we don’t have any idea what brought down the SeaAir MD-eleven.”

“True.” The President nodded, glancing at the general. “Wait a minute. General, could a target designator damage a pilot’s eyes?”

The general shook his head. “Not like this. Maybe over time, but it’s an invisible infrared beam, Sir. It just puts an invisible hot spot of coded light on the side of whatever we want to hit, and the missile recognizes the dot and flies to it. The designator is not designed to do any damage itself.”

“Okay.”

“But a small phosphorous warhead or, to be fair, the flash of exploding fuel in a collision, as Director Herd postulates, could easily flash-blind.”

Stella Mendenhall spoke up from NTSB headquarters. “Mr. President, two points of difference on SeaAir. First, the SeaAir accident occurred during bright daylight, and even a phosphorous explosion at close range would probably not be enough to temporarily blind a pilot. Could it hurt his eyes and make it difficult to see around the huge spot in the middle of his vision? Certainly. But in bright daylight the pupils will be contracted, and I doubt anything but a nuclear fireball could do the job. Therefore, I see no possible connection between these two incidents.”

“Okay, but—” the President began.

“And,” she continued, “one other point, please. I can’t imagine how a seven-forty-seven could physically collide with a large business jet the size of a Global Express, create an explosion of fuel bright enough to blind both pilots, and not destroy the nose section and probably the cockpit of the airliner in the process. From what we’re hearing, the copilot never reported any physical damage to the jet until they struck an ILS tower by the runway trying to land.”

“But, Stella,” the President said, “in theory, could Director Herd’s assessment be right?”

“Could a midair, you mean, cause a big enough explosion to blind?”

“Yes,” the President responded, knowing the NTSB official would choose her words carefully and try to refrain from crossing swords with the DCI.

“Sir, I can’t say it isn’t possible. I just don’t know how.”

The President sighed. “Fair enough. Okay. We may have a sophisticated attack, or we may have a midair collision, but what we don’t have is a clear indication of which one and who, if anyone, attacked. That sum it up?”

“Yes, Sir, I believe it does,” the DCI said.

“Jake,” the President said suddenly, “what’s the status of the Bureau’s thinking on sabotage or terrorism in the SeaAir crash?”

Jake cleared his throat before answering. “Mr. President, all we have right now are deep suspicions. There are several minutes missing from the SeaAir cockpit voice recorder that probably could have given us substantial clues, but without that, or at least some physical evidence of sabotage, neither we at the Bureau, nor Stella and her folks at NTSB, can say what caused the SeaAir pilots to lose control, let alone answer the question of whether a criminal act is involved. We know the MD-eleven didn’t explode. We have no evidence or reason to suspect a missile. It’s as if the pilots just suddenly clicked off their autopilot and keeled over for no apparent reason. Naturally, all of us at the Bureau are haunted by the incorrect initial terrorist conclusion we jumped to in the TWA 800 disaster a few years back, and I know we’re being super careful on this one, but the bottom line is, we just don’t have any evidence as yet in either direction.”

The President nodded. “As I said an hour ago, if anyone can prove to me that Cuba is responsible for downing that SeaAir MD-eleven, we’ll hit Fidel immediately. But let’s say that SeaAir is not Cuba’s fault. Let’s say you fellows and gals at the Bureau determine later that it is a terrorist act. And let’s say, further, that the Hong Kong thing is a terrorist act, and let me go even further into fantasy and speculate that we decide the same organization is probably responsible. Then we’re facing a real specter: Who the hell is attacking airliners, how are they doing it, and what do they want? This is the second one inside six weeks. It seems to me those questions would become a matter of great national urgency, because we have no group taking credit, we have no demands, and that means we have a terrorist organization that will undoubtedly keep on doing whatever they’re doing until they’re ready to reveal themselves and tell us what they want.”

“Mr. President,” the DCI replied, “with all respect, is there a question in there somewhere that we can answer?”

The President shook his head. “I guess not, Richard. I’m just worried.”

“Sir, as you know, other than the possibility of Cuban involvement, we simply do not see any substantive reason to believe that the SeaAir accident was terrorist, let alone a new terrorist group. Perhaps the best reason is the one you cited yourself, the utter lack of anyone taking credit. Any organization that wants to kill a jumbo jet and all aboard wouldn’t hesitate to crow about it early on. And why be subtle about it? If you’re going to mount an operation to bring down a civilian airliner and commit mass murder to make a point, why run the risk it will be labeled an accident?”

“Okay, Richard, the Company’s caution is noted and appreciated. Stella? Is there any aspect of SeaAir that resembles what we know so far of Hong Kong?”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence from the other end before the NTSB board member responded. “Mr. President, only one thing. The flight path of the SeaAir MD-eleven resembles an aircraft devoid of pilot control. If the Hong Kong flight was, in fact, purposefully attacked, the objective was most likely the removal of both pilots’ ability to control the aircraft, so it would crash. Somehow, one pilot managed to stay in control, but if they were attacked, the objective would be to take both of them out. If SeaAir was attacked with the same objective, then the answer is yes, I see a similarity. But in Sea Air, we haven’t a clue yet as to what could have incapacitated the pilots, and a light burst, as I said earlier, just doesn’t explain it.”

“Thanks, Stella.”

The President’s secretary had quietly entered the Oval Office and slipped a note to the President. Those in the group who were watching him saw his face fall and his eyes grow dark as he read the message. The President looked up then and sighed, a sad and grim expression on his face.

“Folks, we’ve been keeping an open line to Hong Kong in the Sit Room. I’m… devastated to tell you that the Chinese air traffic people have just lost Meridian Five from radar, and believe he’s crashed. The location”—the President referred to the note again—“is at sea, approximately thirty miles south of Hong Kong.” He passed the communiqué to Jason Pullman, who shook his head.

“Okay,” the President said with a loud sigh. “We have mysteries and no solutions. If this flight was attacked, we’re at war with someone, and I need that target defined, whether it’s Fidel, Saddam, Milosevic, or some other upstart group. I want a deep assessment of the possibility that we’re looking at a new pattern using phosphorous-based warheads designed to flash-blind pilots. That, to me, is the most promising, and chilling, possibility. And, Jake, from the Bureau I want the earliest possible confirmation of terrorist activity in either of these two accidents.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jake replied. “We have two hundred and ten agents assigned to the SeaAir accident and I happen to have one of my best agents in Hong Kong right now.”

The President got to his feet. “Good. We need to turn these questions into answers very rapidly. If the idea gets out that American airliners are being systematically targeted by some mysterious new group using some noxious new warhead on a laser-guided missile, we’re going to see the airline industry paralyzed, and all of us held hostage by the panic. And with our luck, the damn missiles will probably have been made in the U.S.”

In the FBI headquarters building, a short distance from the White House, Jake Rhoades clicked off the connection and got up from his desk. Two of his senior agents were waiting in his outer office and stood when he entered.

“How’d it go, Jake?” one of them asked.

Jake snorted and shook his head. “The Air Force used missile-speak to mesmerize the big guy. He likes a missile with a phosphorous warhead that magically knows just where to explode in front of a cockpit.”

“And we don’t?”

Jake shrugged and sighed. “I don’t know what to think, except that the NTSB lady had it right. At this point, we’re clueless.”

Kat Bronsky thanked the shift supervisor and pushed through the door of the radar facility, where the consulate car was waiting. She felt stunned, empty, and ill, and the supervisor’s words rang in her ears in bits and pieces: “Terrible explosion… nuclear mentioned, but not possible… copilot blinded, captain killed… another aircraft missing in the same area… possible midair…”

The last radar return, the supervisor told her, had come during a rapid descent through 2,000 feet in the middle of a thunderstorm cell.

Kat closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to get the image out of her mind. Without question, the big Boeing was in pieces in the South China Sea. She thought of Robert MacCabe and the seat next to him, which she would have occupied if fate had not intervened.

“Where would you like to go, please?” the Chinese driver asked.

“What? Oh,” Kat replied, fatigue weighing her down. “Give me a minute.” She sighed and pulled the satellite phone out of her purse, intending to check in with Jake Rhoades back in Washington, but the words of the Hong Kong Approach Control supervisor crystallized at the same moment: possible midair with another aircraft now missing. Which aircraft? She had been too shocked to ask.

She yanked open the car door and headed back into the radar facility.