A flight attendant came toward him, saying, ‘Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to sit back down. We’re not allowed—’
He showed her his identification, waited a moment, and said, ‘Ma’am, I’ve got to get off this aircraft. Now.’
She looked at the identification, looked at him, and back to the identification. ‘We’ll go see the captain.’
Monty followed her perky butt as they went forward, and a passenger in first class eyed him closely as he went by. The guy had close-cropped hair and had on a coat and tie, and Monty nailed him right away: sky marshal, just making sure things were copacetic.
At the forward area, the attendant went into the open cockpit, where the captain and first officer were still in their seats. She passed over Monty’s identification, there was a quick confab, and the captain stood up and came to him as he stood by the closed cabin door.
‘Hell of an identification card you’re carrying there, Mister Zane,’ he said.
‘That it is.’
‘Says here… well, you could probably requisition me and this aircraft to fly you to Peking if you wanted to.’
‘Probably, but right now I just need to get off this aircraft.’
The captain handed Monty back his ID. He said, ‘Nothing’s moving out there. I can open the cabin door but you’ll be on your own.’
Monty shrugged. ‘I’ve been on my own in worse places.’
The captain said, ‘I’m sure as shit you’re right.’ Then he said to the flight attendant, ‘Louise, go ahead. Pop her open.’
Louise went to the red-colored door handle, swung it forward and there was a gentle whoosh as the door opened. The fresh air felt good. Monty went to the edge of the door, sat down, let his feet dangle over the side. He dropped the duffel bag to the runway below him, and then scooted out, grabbed onto the edge of the open door. He stretched out as far as he could, hanging there by his fingertips, and then he dropped. He let his body curl in a parachute fall, rolled onto his left side and shoulder, and then got up.
A spotlight got him before he reached his duffel bag. He raised his hands.
Two guys in black jumpsuits, body armor, helmets, and carrying automatic weapons with lit flashlight attachments under the stubby barrels approached at a fast trot. One guy shouted out, ‘You got someplace fucking important to go to, pal?’
Monty said, ‘That I do.’
‘Unless you’re the fucking president of the United States, I don’t think you’re going anywhere but a lock-up.’
Monty said, ‘All right if I slide my ID over?’
The second guy said, ‘Sure. Make it snappy.’
He dropped his identification wallet on the ground, gently tapped it with his foot so it slid over to the two guys. One of them picked it up and examined it with a small flashlight, while his partner kept his weapon trained on Monty. Good tradecraft.
‘Sorry, Henry,’ the guy examining the ID said.
‘Huh?’
He tossed the ID back to Monty, who snatched it in midair. The guy said to his partner, ‘Guess we had a presidential election and missed it. Mister Zane, where do you need to go?’
‘AirBox,’ he said.
‘You got it.’
A half-mile and thirty feet underground from his corner office, Alexander Bocks exited an elevator into his company’s Operations Center. Protected by steel-reinforced concrete and with its own independent power, water and air supply, the Operations Center kept track of every single AirBox aircraft in the air, from takeoff in Memphis to any of the scores of destinations in this part of the hemisphere.
Bocks walked into the dimly lit room, lined with desks and monitors. On the far wall was a large plasma screen depicting the continental United States, Mexico, the Caribbean, Canada and, in smaller subsets off to the left, Alaska and Hawaii. With a practiced eye, he looked up at the screen, saw the triangular icons marking those aircraft that were now airborne prior to the airport’s shutdown.
The overnight manager — an ex-Air Force air traffic controller named Pam Kasnet — stood up from her desk, headset on, as he approached.
‘What do we have up?’
‘Nineteen aircraft, all on their paths, all on schedule.’
‘Any word on a reopening?’
‘None.’
In the room there was the soft murmur of the operations staff who were keeping an eye on the aircraft and also keeping an eye on the package-sorting and distribution center. Smaller screens on some of the terminals displayed the interior of the buildings where packages and envelopes were continuously sorted, bagged and tagged. Bocks spared them a quick glance and went back to his overnight manager. What a fuck-up. Besides hammering his company’s schedule for the night, there was the more important Final Winter project, and he knew that very shortly he would need to let Adrianna Scott know what was going on.
‘The word I got is that there’s a threat against the airport, leading to the shutdown. You got anything more than that?’
Kasnet went to her desk. ‘Got an info fax from Homeland Security about two minutes before you arrived, sir. Seems two men on the terrorist watch list crossed over into the United States through Washington State last week.’
Bocks said, ‘Washington State? Hell of a thing to get us all spun up about.’
She said, ‘True, sir, but the county sheriff’s department found the body of one of those terror suspects about ten miles from here last night. They had information that he and his partner might have been in the area of the airport.’
‘Let me see the fax.’
Kasnet picked up a sheet of paper from her desk, passed it over.
Bocks looked at the paper, and felt his left arm fly out to grab the back of a chair so that he could sit down without collapsing in front of his manager. He managed to get in the chair, managed to sit still, all the while staring at two faces, the faces of the two men who had been here just a few days ago.
Mother of God and all the Saints preserve us, he thought. He had never passed out in his life, but he was sure that he was damn close to collapsing right now. Oh God, he thought, oh God.
‘Pam,’ he said, hating how hoarse his voice sounded.
‘Sir?’
‘Get Homeland Security on the line. A Deputy Director Janwick, from their Northwest Regional Office, in Spokane. Now. And— Hold on, wait.’
‘Sir?’
Stared at the paper, stared at the paper, all Bocks wanted to do was stare at the paper, and he felt things slipping away, felt it all slip away, and he forced himself to take a long, deep breath, put the paper down, and then look at his concerned manager.
Took another deep breath.
‘All right. Before you contact Homeland Security, listen to what I’ve got to say, and then do it. No questions. Understood?’
‘Sir.’ Kasnet had a small notebook and pen in her strong hands.
‘Send this ACARS message to all airborne aircraft. “Positive threat to your aircraft. Threat altitude sensitive. Do not descend below three thousand MSL. Declare emergency with air traffic control. Hold present positions at maximum endurance. Contact dispatch upon receipt of message.” Got that? Under no circumstances are they to descend. Make sure all nineteen aircraft acknowledge, and I want their confirmations passed on to me. All right?’
‘Sir.’
‘Good. Get going.’
Kasnet went back to her desk, started raising her voice, and there was a quick huddle of her staff. Bocks let her be. She knew what she was doing. In a matter of seconds that message would be going out on ACARS — Aircraft Communications Addressing and Reporting System — to those nineteen aircraft. He could count on her. She had a job to do and, right now, so did he.