Max thought about what they might face. He wasn’t sure how many men would be at Morozov’s mansion on Amelia Island. He would have preferred to bring twenty agents instead of two, but they didn’t have time.
By his math, they had about forty-five minutes until the Fend 100 reached Camp David. Wilkes had wanted to use the FBI’s HRT team and their helicopters, but Max had convinced Agent Flynn that there simply wasn’t time. It would take HRT almost the full forty-five minutes for them to get ready and fly from St. Augustine to Morozov’s location in Georgia.
Max had argued that if he flew the Cirrus parked right outside the Fend Headquarters at Cecil Field, his small team would be able to arrive in less than half the time.
There was only one minor problem with Max’s plan.
“But it’s a fixed-wing aircraft,” Flynn had argued.
Max said, “Meaning?”
“With the FBI helicopters, we’ll be able to land right outside Morozov’s house. With that little plane, you’ll have to land at the nearest airport.”
Max shook his head. “Not with that plane.” Then he had explained his plan. “It’s the only way to get us there in time to fix this. If there’s a way to reprogram the Fend 100, Renee can do it. We just need to get her in there, and stop Morozov and his men from interfering.”
Wilkes objected. “That’s crazy, Max. I think you should wait for HRT to get there.”
Max turned to Flynn. “Special Agent Flynn, it’s up to you. But you know the math. With the Cirrus, we’ll be there in ten minutes. Those helicopters won’t get there for forty-five. That’ll be too late. And I need a decision now.”
Flynn looked between Max and Wilkes. “I agree with Max. Go. Take two of the HRT men. I take responsibility.”
It had taken Max about five minutes to locate the set of keys at the airport’s FBO, and another five seconds for the HRT men to persuade the person behind the counter to hand the keys over. FBI commandos in full tactical gear could be quite persuasive when they wanted to be.
Now they were about to take off.
“Everyone ready?”
“Yes.”
Max pushed the throttle forward and sped down the runway. The Cirrus was heavy. The FBI men weighed at least two hundred pounds each with their gear. As the end of the runway approached and the airspeed indicator slowly crept up, Max began to feel the cold fingers of fear creeping over his body. He hadn’t bothered to do a gross weight calculation. It was a hot summer day, and that could be a fatal mistake. He kept the aircraft nose level for a bit longer than normal, gaining more speed, and slowly pulled back on the stick for the climb out.
He exhaled. A safe takeoff. Once they were up, he banked right and headed northeast.
“Renee, see this screen here?”
“Yes.”
“Plug in the GPS coordinates you got for Morozov’s mansion. Then press this button.” She did as he said. A moment later, the needle on his heading indicator swung a few degrees to the right. Max adjusted his heading to fly directly towards Morozov’s location. There was a distance indicator that was ticking down.
Twenty more miles.
At over two hundred miles per hour, they would be there in no time.
Max reached up and ripped off the warning panel on the ceiling of the aircraft, handing it to Renee. Everyone was nervous.
A moment later, he rechecked the distance. Only fifteen miles to go.
“Okay, team, I have to tell you, I’m really not sure what to expect here. The landing might be pretty rough. Renee, can you read the instructions?”
Renee’s face was white. “Activation Handle Cover — Remove.”
“Done.”
“Activation Handle… Both hands… Pull straight down.”
Max nearly yelled. “Don’t do that. Just read it for now.”
“Okay.” She continued, “Approximately forty-five pounds of force is required to activate the Cirrus Airframe Parachute System. Pull the handle with both hands in a chin-up style pull until the handle is fully extended. After deployment, mixture… cut off. Fuel selector… off. Fuel pump… off. Bat-alt master switches… off.” She continued reading the checklist, including the part that told them the proper way to position their bodies for impact.
Max said, “Everyone get that?”
One of the FBI agents said, “I was in a helicopter crash in Iraq once. This sounds like it’ll be easier.”
“Good attitude,” said Max.
“Max, this is Fend Control, come in, please.” It was Special Agent Flynn’s voice.
“Go ahead.”
“I need to put you on a conference call. Just keep monitoring this radio frequency. We’re going to be talking to NORAD.”
“Huntress Control, Angry 509, I have visual of the Fend 100 aircraft.”
“Roger, Angry 509. Attempt to establish comms.”
Jason expertly maneuvered his F-16 to the left wing of the Fend 100 aircraft. He could see passengers through the windows. Some were waving frantically.
He switched his radio to the guard frequency. Every aircraft and ship would be monitoring that.
“Fend 100, this is United States Air Force armed F-16, you are approaching restricted airspace, do you require assistance?”
For a moment, he heard nothing. Then a woman’s voice came on the radio.
“Air Force F-16, this is Fend 100. We do not require assistance. We are having autopilot problems. We are troubleshooting now.”
Jason gripped his yoke tightly. Thank God. Maybe this was all just some misunderstanding. He looked in the cockpit window of the massive airliner, but it was hard to see anything.
Then one of the people in the cockpit held up a sheet of paper to the window. But from this distance, he couldn’t read what it said.
“Fend 100, Air Force armed F-16, I understand you are having a flight control emergency. Are you able to regain control?”
The woman responded on the radio. “We’re working on it, Air Force F-16. We expect to have it fixed momentarily.”
Jason put in a little right stick and tried to get closer to the Fend 100. He could almost make out what the pilots had written on the white paper they were holding up.
Then he heard the voice of the EADS controller. Only Jason could hear that radio call as it was on a discreet frequency. “Angry 509, Huntress Control, the Fend aircraft is approaching a National Defense High Security Zone. They will not be allowed entry into that airspace. Are you able to establish communication?”
They will not be allowed entry into that airspace. He mulled over the phrase. It sounded innocent enough, but what the controller was really saying was that Jason would be ordered to shoot the aircraft down if it tried to enter.
“Huntress Control, affirmative. I now have comms with the Fend 100. They tell me that they have almost fixed the problem.”
He looked out the window. He could now read what was written on the white piece of paper.
NO COMMS. NO CONTROLS.
He frowned. That didn’t make any sense. He was talking to them right now. Of course they had comms.
What was going on?
Flynn stood with his hands on the desk. “General, I have you on speakerphone. In the room I have a CIA rep, and via radio we have a DIA agent. Please tell them what you told me.”
Wilkes and Flynn had taken control of the office and were speaking with a general at NORAD who was managing the F-16 intercept flight and the air defense for the Eastern Seaboard of the United States.
“As you can see,” the general said, “the Fend 100 is headed towards the Air Defense Identification Zone. It looks like it’ll enter the restricted airspace soon. We can’t let that happen. Is there any way to manage this on your end — this thing is supposed to be remote control, right?”