Primary Target

10

Relaxing in the first-class section, Ed Hockaday flinched when a loud clap of thunder boomed across the airport. A nervous flier in the best of conditions, he glanced at the dark storm clouds, then tilted his glass to finish the last of his double martini. He loosened his seat belt and relaxed slightly as the effects of the alcohol took hold.

By the time the terrorist conference was over, Hockaday and the other experts had made one point abundantly clear to their audience; in the past, when terrorists wanted to attack U.S. forces or American citizens, they did it overseas. Now, with the growing animosity between the West and the Iranian leadership, the rules had changed. More and more attacks would likely be taking place on American soil.

Citing the Defense Department study Terror 2000: The Future Face of Terrorism, a specialist in the Office of the Assistant Secretary of Defense for Special Operations and Low Intensity Conflict predicted that Iran’s network of state-sponsored terrorism would rapidly progress to larger-scale operations in the United States.

The experts also believed that incidents that caused few fatalities would no longer have the shock value the terrorists desired. They would concentrate their efforts on inflicting mass casualties, the kind likely to capture U.S. media coverage for extended periods of time. Expressing their mounting fears, Ed Hockaday and most of the conferees agreed that open warfare would have to be waged against terrorists and their supporters.

Across the aisle from Hockaday, Senator Travis Morgan signed an autograph for an exuberant flight attendant assigned to the coach section. After the vivacious young woman thanked Morgan and returned to her duties, the chairman of the vice-president’s task force on terrorism took a sip of his bourbon and resumed his conversation with his wife. The smiling couple held hands as they quietly discussed their new grandson.

Morgan had delivered the keynote address in Dallas, noting the serious problems stemming from the spread of terrorism. When he called for open discussions, a lively exchange erupted between law enforcement officials and antiterrorist experts.

When Senator Morgan felt the jet being pushed back from the gate, he asked for another bourbon on the rocks, then opened his Wall Street Journal to skim the political news and the op-eds.

A spattering of warm rain was pelting the terminal building at DFW when Captain Chuck Harrison taxied the twin-engine jetliner away from the passenger boarding bridge. Harrison was in command of Flight 1684, a McDonnell Douglas MD-80-series aircraft. Scheduled to depart Dallas-Fort Worth at 4:50 P.M., the nonstop flight was running a few minutes late as a result of weather-related traffic slowdowns.

The former B-52 aircraft commander and his copilot, First Officer Pamela Gibbs, surveyed the ominous rotor clouds as a massive storm began to engulf the northern perimeter of the sprawling airport. Placing her personal handheld GPS in the side pocket of her flight bag, Gibbs watched the advancing greenish-black squall line, then glanced at Harrison. “I’m just waiting for a funnel cloud to drop out of this mess.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said with a concerned look at the swirling rotor clouds. “Definitely not an ideal day for aviating.”

“Ditto,” she said with a hint of reservation in her voice. “This looks like a good day to go Amtrak.”

Even though this time of year was considered to be the height of thunderstorm season in northern Texas, both pilots were surprised to see such a powerful weather system develop so quickly. Brilliant, searing flashes of cloud-to-cloud lightning flickered back and forth as the towering storm blocked the light of the sun and turned day into night. The air was thick and heavy with moisture, promising to spawn even more savage storms before the evening was over.

Carefully merging the heavily loaded plane with a half-dozen other jetliners, Harrison felt the gnawing pressure to get airborne as soon as possible. If they could get off the ground before the intense storm rolled over them, Harrison felt confident he could give his passengers a comfortable ride to their cruising altitude.

In an attempt to suppress her concern about the mounting intensity of the storm, Pam Gibbs turned to Harrison and smiled. “Did you have a chance to meet the senator?”

“Yeah,” he answered as he released the brakes and moved forward in concert with the other pilots. “We chatted for a minute. He seems like a pretty decent guy… for a career politician.”

Pam chuckled to herself and looked at Harrison. “What,” she said with mock surprise, “no tirade today?”

“I had to stop watching C-SPAN.” Harrison smiled as he gently applied the brakes. “It was causing a blood pressure problem.”

Reading a report from the House Task Force on Terrorism and Unconventional Warfare, FBI terrorist expert Marsha Phillips glanced at two other special agents seated in the back of the coach section. Chatting quietly with the director of the Department of State’s Antiterrorism Training Program, the agents appeared to be totally at ease.

Marsha was anything but at ease. She’d spent countless hours mentally preparing herself for the flight back to Washington. A recent experience had reinforced her gripping fear of flying, and had cost her more than a few sleepless nights. The turbulent flight had left her physically ill and terrified of being confined in a fragile metal tube blasting through the sky at over 500 miles an hour.

Marsha looked up from her report long enough to see the threatening clouds and lightning outside her window, then she folded the papers and closed her eyes. She couldn’t wait to get home, curl up on her couch, and watch the adventure movies she had taped before leaving for Dallas.

Approaching the southern end of Runway 35 Left, the pilots completed the remaining items on their takeoff checklist before Pam switched the radio from ground control to the control tower frequency for the parallel runways on the east side of the airport.

The ex-Navy P-3C Orion pilot again observed the black clouds and the flickering veins of lightning. She noticed that her hands were cold and damp. Pam wondered how much of her anxiety stemmed from her concern about the weather — and how much stemmed from being in the cockpit with Chuck. He was an easygoing, okay guy who happened to be divorced and available, and she was attracted to him.

She glanced at Harrison. What the hell — I might as well be straightforward and take the initiative. With a certain amount of trepidation, Pam steeled herself and turned to Harrison.

“Chuck”—she tried to sound nonchalant—“I was wondering if you might be interested in coming over for dinner tomorrow evening? I have a great recipe for lobster with coral sauce… if you haven’t made other plans.”

He gave her a slow, quizzical look. “No, I don’t have anything planned. Dinner sounds great,” he said, letting his special smile show through his surprise.

“Good.”

“Want me to bring the wine?”

“Sounds good.” She smiled in return. Yes!

“Regional Tower,” Gibbs radioed as she mentally planned the evening with Harrison. “American 1684 is ready to go.”

“Ah, roger American 1684,” came the crisp reply from the female controller. “Delta 728, fly heading three-five-zero, cleared for takeoff.”

“Three-fifty on the heading, cleared to go, Delta 728.”

Two superheated streams of powerful jet exhaust belched dense black smoke from the huge engines as Harrison and Gibbs watched the heavily laden jet begin to accelerate down the long stretch of semiwet runway.

“If the weather keeps building at this rate, we could be in for some real excitement,” Pam said dryly.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be a challenge.”

“All aircraft be advised,” the tower operator said as a bright bolt of lightning flashed overhead. “We have, ah, low-level wind shear alerts from all quadrants. Repeat — we have — we’re recording low-level wind shear from all quadrants.”

The tower personnel, concerned about the intensity of the approaching storm, closely monitored the terminal Doppler weather radar. The short-range, high-frequency C-band radar is specially designed to detect dangerous microbursts that cause strong downdrafts capable of forcing airliners to the ground.

Harrison and Gibbs exchanged concerned looks while streaks of blue-white lightning crackled and thunder rumbled in the distance. The weather picture was rapidly deteriorating and Harrison knew that the airport was going to have to cease flight operations at any moment. We’ve gotta play, or fold our cards. Let’s go, tower.

“American 1684,” the tower operator said after a long delay, “taxi into position and hold.”

“Position and hold, American 1684,” Gibbs read back, then again keyed her mike. “Say winds.”

“Winds are now zero-four-zero at twenty-three”—the controller paused—“with peak gusts to forty-five. Low-level wind-shear alert in northeast quadrant, three-two-zero degrees at nine, northwest quadrant one-four-zero degrees at five.”

“Copy, American 1684,” Gibbs replied as the former Air Force bomber pilot swung the nose of the jetliner around to align it with the centerline of the runway. She studied the thin, swirling vortices slinking from the bottom of the foreboding clouds and cast another dubious look at the captain. “Chuck, this weather really looks questionable.”

A short pause followed while he thought about the situation. Hell, he’d flown through lots of tough weather, including a full-blown hurricane. Dealing with inclement weather was just another facet of being a professional aviator.

“Yeah, it’s a little messy,” Harrison replied in a voice he hoped sounded more confident than he felt. “Once we get airborne and out of the area, we’ll be okay — just gotta get on top.”

Pam started to respond, then stopped herself before she said something she might regret.

Avoiding her questioning eyes, Chuck Harrison watched Delta 728 slowly lift off the runway and disappear into a solid black mass of clouds. Feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline, the pilot forced himself to be calm as he keyed the PA system.

“Ah… ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Harrison.” He paused while his concern about the weather conditions weighed on his conscience. “We’re presently number one for takeoff. It looks as if we’re going to have to work our way around a few thundershowers this afternoon, so please keep your seat belts securely fastened. I’ll turn off the seat-belt sign when it’s safe for you to move about the cabin; however, I ask that you please keep your seat belts fastened when you’re occupying your seat.”

He tossed a quick look at the dark, churning clouds. “And, on behalf of the crew, we thank you for choosing American.”

Harrison focused on the spot where the runway disappeared in the torrential downpour. I hate to put these people through this, but we have a schedule to keep.

A few feet behind the cockpit door, Travis and Julie Morgan frowned at each other and leaned over to look out the cabin window. They were seasoned fliers who weren’t usually concerned about weather conditions, but this particular storm looked extremely severe. The darkened sky had taken on an eerie, greenish cast and the intensity of the rain was increasing.

Senator Morgan knew from past experience that a storm of this magnitude could easily contain severe turbulence, heavy rain, strong updrafts and downdrafts, intense lightning, severe icing conditions, and heavy hail.

During his illustrious political career, he had flown through every imaginable type of miserable weather. After a number of hair-raising flights over the years, Travis Morgan had drawn a clear conclusion; thunderstorms were the worst kind of torture. They concerned him more than any other hazardous weather condition.

The senator had read a variety of National Transportation Safety Board accident reports about aircraft that had flown into thunderstorms and encountered catastrophic turbulence. He knew the resulting high G-loads on the airframes had led to loss of control, causing structural failure and an inevitable crash. Without a parachute, the chances of surviving an in-flight breakup were nil-to-nonexistent.

Senator Morgan folded his paper in half and gently patted his wife’s arm. “I don’t think I’d describe those clouds as thundershowers, but what’s the poor guy going to say?”

“Well,” she replied in her usual confident tone, “they’re trained to do this, and I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”

Her hushed comment didn’t convince either of them.

“Let’s hope they do,” Morgan said as he opened his paper and tried to concentrate on the political comments in the editorial section. A few seconds later he turned toward the window to study the approaching mass of black clouds.

Ed Hockaday also felt a sense of apprehension, but he kept his eyes closed and mentally reassured himself that everything would be fine.