Lockout

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The White House (7:20 p.m. EST / 0020 Zulu)

No matter how many times he entered the Situation Room, Walter Randolph felt the weight of history bearing down on him. A long procession of American presidents had grappled with unfolding crises in here, he thought, some more successfully than others. How many photos had he seen over the years of grim-faced men and women gathered around this table?

How many times had he been one of them?

Walter took a seat at the far end and opened his laptop, confirming the secure channel before signing in. At the same moment, James Bergen, the director of Central Intelligence, rounded the corner looking almost presidential himself, his custom-tailored suit devoid of even the hint of a wrinkle as he flashed his practiced smile the media so loved—a smile characterizing the country’s chief spook as an affable grandfather.

“Walter! Sorry to keep you waiting. The president should be here shortly. He’s already been briefed that Moishe Lavi is a part of this equation.” Bergen shook Walter’s hand firmly, settling his five-foot-ten frame into the leather chair and waiting for the presidential aide to depart before turning to his chief deputy.

“So, what have we got that I didn’t hear from you on the way over?”

Randolph leaned toward him, keeping his voice low.

“Two things. We know Mossad would never let Lavi out of their sight, but somehow Lavi managed to ditch his tail in Tel Aviv and was off the ground before the team shadowing him knew he was even headed to the airport. They’re stunned, I’m told, and knowing our Israeli friends, some heads will roll, but that means only Lavi loyalists are aboard that jet to keep an eye on him. In other words, no adult oversight.”

“Not good, and not necessarily consistent with a trip to the US. What else?”

“I have a very worrisome tip from… let’s just say a reliable asset in a sister agency, not that we would ever spy on each other.”

“Perish the thought. I can’t let us do that. Go on.”

“James, DIA’s deep into this already. Turns out they dispatched someone to go to NSA headquarters this morning, and we think they’re working on the same problem.”

“They’re that far ahead of us?”

“Yes. My information is the DIA was talking to NSA when the aircraft changed course, which is very strange.”

“Maybe dumb luck?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Something more’s afoot here. The Pentagon is involved to a greater degree, I think, than would be reasonable if all they were doing was worrying about Lavi and the Israeli Air Force.”

“So, what do you suspect?”

The noises accompanying the entrance of several people ended the quiet exchange as the national security advisor came in just behind the assistant secretary of state, both men following an air force colonel and a navy admiral. There were greetings all around before the assembled, all-male team took their seats and unburdened notebooks just as the president, wearing a tuxedo, swept in ahead of two Secret Service agents. He rolled his eyes as he gestured over his shoulder.

“Gentlemen, as of this moment I’m supposed to be stroking egos at an East Wing shindig featuring the mind-bending combination of Yo-Yo Ma and Carlos Santana. The first lady is already irritated at this diversion, and that could translate to a cold and lonely night. And I don’t like cold and lonely nights. So, quickly… what’s going on with this hijacked airliner? James? CIA first.”

Bergen restrained himself from a sideways glance at the two military officers in the room, both of whom would have already been briefed by their Defense Intelligence counterparts.

“Mr. President, this is not a hijacking as far as anyone can tell. The flight was Pangia’s Tel Aviv to New York run, and it was halfway there when it turned around and headed back toward the Mideast. The crew didn’t even know it at first. The airline reports their pilots can’t physically control the airplane or kill the autopilot, and the most immediate problem is that Moishe Lavi is aboard.”

“Can’t control it? Do we know why?”

“No, but it has us concerned. We understand Mossad is also deeply concerned, and if Iran hasn’t picked up on this by now, it will be only a matter of time before they do.”

The assistant secretary of state had a finger in the air as he nodded agreement. “The Israelis want to keep a hot line to our conclusions and information.”

“Agreed, but only if the channels are airtight,” the president said. “How would Tehran know any of this, James?”

“The communication between the crew and their Chicago headquarters was on open channel cell phone, a phone collected from a passenger. God only knows who picked it up, but the story has already broken worldwide as a suspected hijack, which it isn’t.”

“Why can’t the pilots control the airplane?” The president asked again, looking from face to face. “Is there something I don’t know? I didn’t think it was possible to remotely hijack an airliner like that. In fact, that’s exactly why…” the president stopped himself and waved away the rest of whatever he was going to say.

“It isn’t possible, as far as we know…” James Bergen began again, acutely aware that the air force colonel and navy admiral were saying nothing and everyone was wondering what statement the chief executive had choked off. “But that’s what the crew has reported.”

“You think the airplane has been turned into some sort of remotely controlled instrument… controlled from the ground, for instance?” The president asked.

The CIA director glanced back at his deputy, and Walter picked up the answer.

“We have no reason to believe, at present, that this Airbus A330 is capable of that sort of remote control, sir. The A330 is a complicated, electronic airliner, but the pilots can always override the autoflight system.”

“And yet they haven’t… or they claim they haven’t, right?”

“Correct. But we’ve run backgrounds on all the crewmembers, and there’s no indication of any potential compromised loyalty. The captain is an ex-US Navy fighter pilot.”

“Are there any weapons aboard?” the president asked.

“Mossad says no… they routinely scanned the bird on taxi out with a neutron scanner. But… there is a cargo igloo—a pod—aboard, and Pangia Airways seems to be having trouble finding the manifest.”

“I’m a pilot, remember? I know the Airbus A330, and it doesn’t have bomb dropping ability. A cargo pod would be useless as an external weapon.”

“Yes, sir, but there’s always a worry that something explosive could have been sneaked aboard in that cargo pod, something that could explode the aircraft.”

“Evidence?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, what are we scared of, gentlemen, other than losing a plane full of passengers… not to make light of that, even though, to tell the truth, losing Moishe Lavi would probably be a godsend for world peace.”

“Sir, in the broader picture, we’ve got to consider the possibility that somehow this aircraft is being pressed into a mission that could involve Lavi’s repeatedly stated intentions to either launch a first strike on Tehran or provoke an attack that would force an Israeli nuclear response.”

The president of the United States looked incredulously at his CIA team and then searched the eyes of the rest of the men in the room.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re telling me the pilots are loyal, and there’s no way to control this airplane from the ground, and there’s no nuclear material on board, but you’re expecting it to head for Tehran and by looking like a threat, trigger a strike on Israel which would trigger a nuclear response and a Mideast Armageddon? Are we serving hard liquor in here?”

Much to Walt’s relief, the air force colonel came alive. “Mr. President, if that aircraft heads for Tehran with Moishe Lavi aboard they could be flying a Cessna 172 and the Iranians would use it as an excuse to go ballistic. Perhaps literally.”

A long sigh marked the end of the president’s attention.

“Okay, I get that. Get me more facts, guys. I assume you have no recommendations for me at present and we do have some time?”

“Yes sir, we have a couple of hours, and no, sir, we have no immediate recommendations,” James Bergen responded. “Not CIA, at least.”

“Nor the Joint Chiefs, sir,” the admiral chimed in. “At least, not yet.”

The president stood and grinned as he looked at the two uniformed officers. “You fellows also representing DIA in this visit?”

“Not really, sir. We’re reporting for the Joint Chiefs.”

“But… you and DIA and CIA are playing nice, right?” The president swept his eyes back and forth between CIA’s James Bergen and DIA’s General Richard Penick. “No one’s playing games with the information or strategically timing the release of anything to me, right?”

“No, sir,” they said practically in unison.

“Okay. Because to make a lighthearted reference to a very serious subject, I get really cranky when that happens. Don’t forget we’re on the same team. Summon me back down here when you’ve something to recommend, the first lady’s wrath notwithstanding. Meanwhile, I’ll be in the east wing looking appropriately enthralled.” The president turned, then turned back with a finger in the air. “Wait… that’s not fair. I dearly love and respect both Carlos Santana and Yo-Yo Ma. Just… together?”