Prologue
Aboard SeaAir 122, in flight,
over the Gulf of Mexico,
180 miles southwest of Tampa, Florida
11:43 A.M. local/1643 Zulu
Karen Briant suppressed a smile as she watched Jim Olson
struggle. His athletic body was stretched to its six-foot
limit, his jeans just inches from her face as he stood on
tiptoe and yanked again at the door of the overhead
compartment. It opened at last, and she heard him unzip
his carry-on bag and rummage around. He grunted with
satisfaction and reclosed the bag before looking down at
her.
"Good. I feel better now," he said, snapping the
compartment shut.
"And what, exactly," she began as he slid back into
the window seat, "were you afraid you'd forgotten, Sir?"
She ruffled her shoulder-length auburn hair and looked at
him with mock suspicion. "Not another self-indulgent gift
from Victoria's Secret, I hope?" Another bikini would be
too much. She was already feeling overexposed in the
revealing sundress that he'd bought for her.
He smirked and shook his head in response as he
scanned the right wing of the huge three-engine
Boeing/McDonnell-Douglas MD-11 jetliner, noting the
towering cumulus clouds in the distance. He turned back to
her sparkling green eyes, his laugh coming easily. It was
a feature of him she particularly treasured.
"Not important, young lady," he said, tuning out a
routine PA announcement.
"Sure it's important!" Karen coaxed. "When I agree to
spend a week in the Canary Islands with a man, I want to
make sure he's got the right stuff."
"How do you mean, 'right stuff'?" Jim asked, raising
his eyebrows.
"Well, you're a pilot, and pilots are supposed to pack
the right stuff, right?"
"I'm an airline pilot, not Chuck Yeager."
"Maybe that's not the 'stuff' I'm talking about. You
obviously have something in that bag up there you were
worried about leaving."
"And now I'm not," Jim said, suppressing the urge to
give her the engagement ring now as he rode the small wave
of relief that he hadn't left it back in Houston.
No, he cautioned himself. It all depends on this week
together.
He had to be sure.
She squeezed his hand and chuckled as Jim looked out
the window, mentally calculating the distance to the line
of 60,000-foot-high cumulonimbus clouds towering over the
Gulf of Mexico to the north of the jetliner's course. He
wondered what the pilots were seeing on radar. The small
but vicious hurricane north of that line was threatening
New Orleans, but they should slip safely to the south of
it-according to his check of the weather map a few hours
ago.
Relax, for crying out loud! Jim told himself. This
isn't even your airline! Besides, we're on vacation. They
can handle it just fine without me.
He squeezed Karen's hand in return, breathing in the
soft hint of her perfume and letting a warm tingle of
anticipation wash over him.
This was going to be a wonderful week.
Key West Naval Air Station, Florida
11:43 A.M. local/1643 Zulu
Retired Chief Master Sergeant Rafe Jones looked up from
the complex instruments of the mobile test van he operated
under civilian contract for the Air Force. He squinted
through his sunglasses, trying to focus on the aging F-106
fighter/interceptor as it sat at the far end of the
runway, its image undulating in the heat, waiting for his
remote control team to start the takeoff.
Rafe took a deep breath, savoring the signature aroma
of the Gulf of Mexico wafting in on a hint of fresh salt
air, the heat a balmy pleasure. He double- checked the
data link between the mobile control van and the aircraft,
satisfied it was steady on all channels. His mouth was dry
again, and not for want of water. This was the part that
always unnerved him: launching a full-sized pilotless
airplane over a populated area with nothing to keep it
safe but a data stream of radioed commands. Sometimes the
F-106 target drones his team operated carried a live Air
Force safety pilot, but today only a dummy crammed full of
sensors occupied the cockpit.
He glanced at Randy and Bill, the flight techs who
controlled the jet.
"Rafe, what's the holding fix again?" Randy asked on
the interphone.
"Fluffy intersection, about thirty miles south," Rafe
answered, mentally picturing the specially created MOA-
Military Operations Area.
"Isn't that awful close to Uncle Fidel's turf?"
"We know nothing," Rafe said, smiling. "We have no
reason to confirm or deny our intention to irritate
Havana."
"Yeah, right," Randy replied. "Wink, wink, nudge,
nudge, say no more."
The tower controller cleared the F-106 team for
departure. Rafe nodded to his team and watched Bill push
the throttle to full power in preparation for brake
release.
Aboard SeaAir 122, in flight,
230 miles south of Tampa
11:43 A.M. local/1701 Zulu
The staccato pulse of lightning from the angry clouds to
the north flickered through the left-hand windows of the
MD-11, riveting Karen's attention and stiffening her back.
Jim could feel her left hand tighten on the armrest as she
turned to look.
"We're a safe distance to the south," he reassured
her, momentarily puzzled by an incongruous flash of
lightning from the right side of the cabin. The MD-11
suddenly rolled sharply to the left. The bank reversed
itself as quickly, and the nose came up.
Obviously he punched off the autopilot and the bird
was out of trim, he thought. Jim glanced at Karen, feeling
uneasy.
"Must be a buildup just ahead, Honey," he said,
forcing a smile. "The flight crew was probably debating
which way to go around it and changed their minds. We'd
all like to be smoother on the controls."
The bank angle was past thirty degrees now, which was
the normal maximum for a jetliner.
But why is it increasing?
The nose pitched up as if they were climbing, but more
power would be needed to climb, and the whine of the
engines hadn't increased. Another sudden roll, this time
to the left, and the nose was coming down.
Jim felt himself get lighter as the flight controls
were pushed forward up in the cockpit. He felt a cold
chill up his spine as he tried to recall what normal
maneuvers would cause such gyrations.
There were none. It wasn't normal.
Jim glanced toward the right wing, puzzled by the
complete absence of clouds in that direction. There had
been lightning out there.
"Jim?" Karen began, her voice tight. She sat forward
in her seat, aware of the increasing slipstream as the
nose continued to drop and the airspeed built.
There were voices around them now, acknowledging the
shared concern, a communal rumble accompanied by alarmed
glances. The MD-11 steepened its left bank, the nose
dropping more, the speed rising, the huge jetliner turning
sharply toward the thunderstorm to the north.
"Jim, what's he doing up there?" Karen asked, her face
ashen, her hand now squeezing the blood out of his. His
answer stalled in the back of his mind as he fumbled for
his seat belt. "Stay here. I'm going to the cockpit."
She said nothing, letting his hand slide reluctantly
from hers as he rose from the seat and pulled away,
glancing back for a second, noting how beautiful she was.
The MD-11's roll had reversed back to the right. The
nose was coming back up slightly, but the control
movements had become jerky and excessive, as if the pilots
were fighting the aircraft. Jim moved forward quickly, his
eyes on the cockpit door some eighty feet away, aware that
his intervention in another airline's affairs would be
unwelcome. He could see two flight attendants ahead of
him, their eyes betraying concern, their professional
smiles trying to mask it.
The growing asymmetrical G-force was pulling him off
balance, pushing him into the row of seats to the right.
Jim fought to stand upright, but the cabin was heeling
over like a yacht about to capsize in a gale, the MD-11's
right turn obviously uncoordinated, as someone's foot
pushed the left rudder pedal.
What the hell? Jim thought. There were gasps of fear
around him as he struggled to keep moving forward.
Something was very wrong, but it couldn't be loss of
control. The flight controls were operating but being
jerked in crazy directions.
He moved with urgency, supporting his weight on the
seat backs, his hands brushing the heads of startled
passengers. In the galley ahead he could hear plates and
utensils sliding and clattering, some spilling from the
service carts as a wide-eyed young blonde in a flight
attendant's uniform spotted him.
"Sir!" Her hand shot out, the palm extended. "SIR!
Take your seat immediately and fasten your seat belt!" She
moved into the aisle to block him.
"I'm a pilot!" he said, regretting the lame response.
"I don't care, Sir . . ." she began, stopping in
midsentence as the gravity went fully to zero and she
floated up before his eyes toward the ceiling.
Ahead of Jim, two dozen shafts of sunlight stabbed
across the first-class cabin from each window and moved
vertically from low to high as the aircraft rolled to the
right. He grabbed the bulkhead and propelled himself past
the flight attendant like an astronaut, his peripheral
vision picking up the ocean's surface through the windows.
We're inverted! The potentially fatal fact was merely
a benchmark in an impossibly bizarre sequence. His entire
being focused on the cockpit door less than thirty feet
ahead. The door would be locked. He had to get there, get
in, and stop whatever was happening!
The huge MD-11 was still rolling, coming back right
side up as gravity once again claimed the occupants of the
cabin, and people and service carts and flight attendants
crashed to the floor. Ahead of him half the overhead
compartments had popped open, spilling their contents into
the air, pummeling the passengers below.
An elderly woman had floated up from her seat during
the zero-G maneuver, then crashed painfully to the floor.
Her body was blocking the aisle ahead as Jim tried to step
over her and tripped. The G-forces increased as the scream
of the high-speed airflow outside rose, forcing the nose
up as they continued to roll, undoubtedly hurtling now
toward the surface of the Gulf of Mexico.
Jim's hands clawed for a seat back, raking across a
man's head in the process. There were sharp cries of fear
from all around him. Once more he pulled with all his
might, launching himself through the air and slamming into
the back of the cockpit door with a painful thud. He
pulled frantically at it and found it locked, as expected.
Time had dilated, seconds moving past like minutes,
the feeling of running from a horror and getting nowhere
overwhelming him. There was no way to tell if they were
upside down or right side up, but they were diving, with
only seconds left.
Jim braced his feet against the doorjamb and pulled.
It wouldn't budge.
He pulled again, harder, but the lock was too strong.
The airspeed increased. They couldn't be more than
10,000 feet above the surface. The whine of the slipstream
was deafening. A mental snapshot of his bride-to-be alone
in the cabin behind him drove him on. He tightened his
grip on the door handle, willed himself beyond the limits,
and heaved backward, feeling an explosion of pain in his
hands as the rising, screaming sound of nearly supersonic
flight washed out all other sensations.
The door broke open and he forced himself into the
cockpit in time to see the windscreen fill with the sight
of white caps and blue water as the MD-11 traversed the
last few yards to the surface in the space of his last
heartbeat.