Lockout

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

The White House (12:40 a.m. EST / 0440 Zulu)

Safely ensconced behind bulletproof glass in the front guardhouse, the well-trained officer who had greeted Will Bronson and Jenny Reynolds after they tumbled out of their rental and fast walked the distance to his window was used to random citizens wobbling in off the street to ask—sometimes demand—to the see the president. Some were drunk, some high on God knew what, some dangerously deluded or sufficiently hostile to trigger an armed response. But seldom had he seen ID cards from NSA and DIA pushed under the window without a concurrent appointment.

Carefully matching the pictures on the IDs with the faces in front of him, the officer keyed the speaker.

“Who do you want to see, and why don’t I see an appointment?”

“Because,” Jenny said, as close to the microphone as she could get, “This has just emerged as something only the White House can handle. It is a matter of national security, it is extremely urgent, it involves a hijacked, American-flagged airliner about to invade Iranian airspace, and we have the codes that can stop a tragedy that could result in the deaths of everyone aboard.”

“Who do you want to see?” The officer asked again, evenly, fully expecting to hear the word “president” in the answer.

“The chief of staff or the duty officer in the Situation Room, even if you have to get them out of bed. We have less than forty minutes, and this is no joke.”

“Stand by, please,” was the response, and within less than five minutes a man they judged to be in the Secret Service detail had arrived to escort them through a metal detector and a quick pat down, and then to a tiny office somewhere on the first floor.

“You folks remain here. Someone will be back with you.”

“Wait! Wait a minute!” Jenny had sat down for a few seconds before leaping up. “That airliner will be in Iranian airspace in… if I calculate it correctly… less than thirty minutes, and something terrible is going to happen if the pilots haven’t regained control.”

“Ma’am, you’re preaching to the wrong choir,” the agent said.

“I’m trying to tell you how urgent this is! Every second counts!”

“Yes, ma’am. I get it. Stay here.”

The door closed behind him, and Jenny knew instinctively someone would be standing on the other side to make sure they didn’t leave unescorted.

“It’s too late, Jen. We’ve done the best we could,” Will said, his face a mask of defeat.

“If they don’t get their asses in gear, I’m afraid we’re going to be left in limbo until it is too late,” Jenny said, pacing back and forth while Will stood, looking helpless.

“We don’t even know if your code is right.”

She turned, a finger in the air suddenly. “What do you bet the White House has a Wi-Fi system?”

“Probably. With passcodes I’m sure.”

“Which I’ll bet I can crack!”

She was already pulling out her laptop and firing it up, balancing it in her lap with the paper containing the unlock code on the keyboard, her finger nervously tapping the side of the machine as she anxiously waited. “Come on, come on, come on!”