little hard to explain. An archeological firm running around the airfield chasing terrorists.
I saw an SUV headed our way, lights spinning on top, and called Johnny, relaying the weak-ass plan. Before hanging up with him I said, “Just leave it bland. DHS all the way. When they ask questions, tell them you’ll answer after the threat’s gone. Get to a radio in the tower.”
The SUV pulled up and I stopped, leaping out and acting like I owned the place. They had no weapons drawn, but their hands hovered over the butts of their pistols. I started shouting and waving my arms. The commander of the vehicle approached, and I gave him my line of shit. He asked for a badge.
Shit.
Jennifer stepped into the breach, shouting about the threat and poking him in the chest for results. The action took him aback. He paused, then began shouting in Tagalog at his men, getting them back into the vehicles.
I couldn’t believe it.
You don’t trust me, but you believe her.
I hollered at the captain and told him about Bayani, getting one vehicle moving toward his last known location. Maybe they’d catch him, maybe they wouldn’t, but it was worth a shot.
We raced to the tower and exited like a pot boiling over, Jennifer in the lead with me struggling to keep up. I caught her at the elevator, wincing from the pain. The elevator arrived and we spent a surreal time riding up with Michael Bolton music playing. The door opened and I saw Johnny across the tower, two teammates behind him, the plate glass windows offering a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the entire airfield.
He was shouting at a controller, who apparently wasn’t listening. We jogged over and I turned to the cop who’d met us on the tarmac. “Get him to relay. Right now.”
The cop said, “Wait, wait. We cannot interfere with the flights. This is above my position. Let me call my supervisor.”
I looked at the air traffic controller’s scope, identified the flight number, and saw he was cresting twenty-five thousand feet. I had no idea how accurate that barometric detonator was. I grabbed the cop’s collar and shouted, “Get him to call. Tell the pilot to level off, or you’re going to have a dead airplane from
your
airport. Because
you
sat on your ass.”
He shouted in Tagalog to the controller, and the controller started talking to the plane in English. I heard the captain come back, asking why the correction. I knew what was going on immediately.
That damn pilot thinks this guy is a chucklehead.
And we had seconds to correct it.
I’d never met a pilot that didn’t think they were the grace of the earth. They all thought the tower was full of idiots. But in this case the back-and-forth would cost him his aircraft. Along with his life.
Jennifer said, “Tell him that he has a—”
I jerked the headset off the guy and slapped it on my head, saying “Delta pilot, Delta pilot, this is the Department of Homeland Security. Level your aircraft right now. Do not continue to ascend.”
He came back, “Who is this? What’s your callsign and why are you on the radio?”
I saw him passing twenty-eight thousand feet and said, “You stupid shit, you have a bomb on your aircraft! Level the fuck off or die. Is that plain enough for you?”
I got nothing back. We waited, me looking at Jennifer and seeing the fear on her face. I called again but received no response. I knew what that meant. I was pulling the headset off when the pilot came back.
“Okay. I’m level at twenty-eight. What do you want me to do?”
Johnny sagged against the control panel and Jennifer actually clapped, like she’d just seen a fabulous golf shot.
I said, “Drop lower. Get it down to twenty thousand. And get your ass back to Manila.”
The controller heard my words and freaked out, screaming that I couldn’t tell him that with all the aircraft in the air. I passed him the headset and said, “You figure it out, but he’s not going any higher than twenty thousand.”
I
I saw an SUV headed our way, lights spinning on top, and called Johnny, relaying the weak-ass plan. Before hanging up with him I said, “Just leave it bland. DHS all the way. When they ask questions, tell them you’ll answer after the threat’s gone. Get to a radio in the tower.”
The SUV pulled up and I stopped, leaping out and acting like I owned the place. They had no weapons drawn, but their hands hovered over the butts of their pistols. I started shouting and waving my arms. The commander of the vehicle approached, and I gave him my line of shit. He asked for a badge.
Shit.
Jennifer stepped into the breach, shouting about the threat and poking him in the chest for results. The action took him aback. He paused, then began shouting in Tagalog at his men, getting them back into the vehicles.
I couldn’t believe it.
You don’t trust me, but you believe her.
I hollered at the captain and told him about Bayani, getting one vehicle moving toward his last known location. Maybe they’d catch him, maybe they wouldn’t, but it was worth a shot.
We raced to the tower and exited like a pot boiling over, Jennifer in the lead with me struggling to keep up. I caught her at the elevator, wincing from the pain. The elevator arrived and we spent a surreal time riding up with Michael Bolton music playing. The door opened and I saw Johnny across the tower, two teammates behind him, the plate glass windows offering a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the entire airfield.
He was shouting at a controller, who apparently wasn’t listening. We jogged over and I turned to the cop who’d met us on the tarmac. “Get him to relay. Right now.”
The cop said, “Wait, wait. We cannot interfere with the flights. This is above my position. Let me call my supervisor.”
I looked at the air traffic controller’s scope, identified the flight number, and saw he was cresting twenty-five thousand feet. I had no idea how accurate that barometric detonator was. I grabbed the cop’s collar and shouted, “Get him to call. Tell the pilot to level off, or you’re going to have a dead airplane from
your
airport. Because
you
sat on your ass.”
He shouted in Tagalog to the controller, and the controller started talking to the plane in English. I heard the captain come back, asking why the correction. I knew what was going on immediately.
That damn pilot thinks this guy is a chucklehead.
And we had seconds to correct it.
I’d never met a pilot that didn’t think they were the grace of the earth. They all thought the tower was full of idiots. But in this case the back-and-forth would cost him his aircraft. Along with his life.
Jennifer said, “Tell him that he has a—”
I jerked the headset off the guy and slapped it on my head, saying “Delta pilot, Delta pilot, this is the Department of Homeland Security. Level your aircraft right now. Do not continue to ascend.”
He came back, “Who is this? What’s your callsign and why are you on the radio?”
I saw him passing twenty-eight thousand feet and said, “You stupid shit, you have a bomb on your aircraft! Level the fuck off or die. Is that plain enough for you?”
I got nothing back. We waited, me looking at Jennifer and seeing the fear on her face. I called again but received no response. I knew what that meant. I was pulling the headset off when the pilot came back.
“Okay. I’m level at twenty-eight. What do you want me to do?”
Johnny sagged against the control panel and Jennifer actually clapped, like she’d just seen a fabulous golf shot.
I said, “Drop lower. Get it down to twenty thousand. And get your ass back to Manila.”
The controller heard my words and freaked out, screaming that I couldn’t tell him that with all the aircraft in the air. I passed him the headset and said, “You figure it out, but he’s not going any higher than twenty thousand.”
I
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