THE COCKPIT OF THE AWAKENING sparkled like a restored classic car. The rich scent of freshly conditioned leather smelled sweet to Ashley. This seventy year old plane was refurbished in every detail. She shared little with the brainwashed fanatic sprawled on the deck behind her, but as a former flight instructor, she understood the pride a pilot takes in his aircraft. She closed the cockpit door and locked it.
The aircraft shifted suddenly. She felt unsteady on her feet. Ashley grabbed the pilot's seatback for balance. A sharp pain reminded her of the swollen head wound now throbbing. She gripped the seat and fought against the growing concern that her injury might degrade her abilities. When the pain cleared she felt a new fear descend over her. Can I do this? It's not only my wound. Can I remember my flight training well enough to fly this plane? She closed her eyes, tilted her head up, and without forming words asked for support.
The sun, low in the sky, reflected orange light though the cockpit windows. She buckled up, and studied the instrument panel. All the necessary items were there, but arranged in an odd pattern unlike a modern aircraft. This would take some getting used to.
With the loss of pressure the cabin temperature had dropped to near freezing. Ashley disengaged the autopilot and descended to a lower altitude. She noted the current flight configurations. The indicated airspeed read eighty-four knots. That explained why the plane was mushing through the air and the stall horn sounded off intermittently. She increased power to 120 knots. The current altitude was 2500 feet, well within uncontrolled airspace. Ashley noted a heading of 315 degrees NW. The fuel gauge read full. Not knowing the size of the tank or fuel consumption, she couldn’t calculate the aircraft's range. The autopilot controls were antiquated. Probably original design. She found the switch for the external red and green wingtip lights, and turned them on. Shocked, she saw the transponder turned off, which meant this aircraft’s identity was blind to Air Traffic Control and other aircraft in flight. She would deal with that shortly. First she must find her position.
Mr. Spread Eagle said he was going to Las Vegas. The 315 degree heading pointed in that direction. She had glanced out of the cockpit window every few seconds hoping to spot an identifiable landmark. When she saw an interstate highway bisecting urban sprawl she pictured a highway map of southwestern New Mexico. This early in the flight, the only location that fit that description was Las Cruces. She estimated the distance between there and El Paso to be about fifty miles.
She searched the cockpit and found three sectional flight charts. She spread the charts out, and using the map's scale, measured the distance from El Paso to Las Cruces–forty-four miles. Close to her estimate. To get an idea of how much fuel she had she then measured the distance from El Paso to Las Vegas, and found it to be 727 miles or 633 knots give or take. Maintaining 120 knots and factoring in the distance already covered, it would give her five to six hours of flight time depending on weather and headwind conditions. She had serious planning to do and needed all of that time.
Faced with many unanswered questions, she wrote down what she knew.
(1) The aircraft appeared reliable.
(2) Bashir carried enough fuel to reach his target plus ten percent: standard operating procedure.
(3) No transponder signal probably meant no flight plan had been filed, and there was no record of this flight.
(4) Based on the charts, they were in uncontrolled airspace flying under VFR, visual flight rules, often described as ‘See and be Seen’.
(5) At some time she would enter controlled airspace, and should contact Air Traffic Control–ATC.
(6) She could not disarm the bomb.
(7) The bomb will explode at an altitude of 500 hundred feet.
(8) She had to find a location where no harm would come to anyone.
The Pratt and Whitney engines emitted a steady hum as the ground below faded into twilight. The pinpoints of light down below grew in number and intensity. Towns and cities formed cluster patterns. Widely spaced lights suggested suburban or farm and ranchland where people lived. Ashley felt a tightening in her chest–there were so many lights. They were everywhere. Everywhere.
If only she had followed protocol, this could have been prevented. She should have called for backup, not burst into that hanger alone. But no, she was so damn smart she could handle anything. Right? Well, Special Agent Ashley Kohen, what are you going to do now? She shut her eyes and clamped her teeth shut. She knew if she didn't fix this mess, people would die.
She had to find a place where no one lived. A place that is off-limits for humans. She grabbed the flight charts and searched for restricted areas. The third chart displayed Las Vegas. Then it hit her like a divine revelation. Right there on the chart in big letters were the words Nellis Air Force Base–the bombing range where atomic bomb tests occurred in the forties and fifties. Tears welled up as she bowed her head and clasped her Star of David. It's a way forward, Mom. A way forward.
The bombing range had five separate off-limit areas. In the middle of this spiraling complex she discovered what she wanted: a small centered restricted area far from human habitation. Area R4807 would became her target. It would be the safest place to detonate the bomb. Any radioactive material would be carried aloft and dissipate over a large and remote landmass.
She knew such a small area would force her to design a near perfect decent approach. It would be a tricky maneuver even for a pilot checked out in this aircraft. Without knowledge of the plane's basic configuration and flight characteristics, she could fail. Failure was not on her list of options.
She needed a Pilot's Operating Manual, usually stored in the cockpit of every plane. When she found the charts she didn’t see a manual. She'd have to make assumptions, a fancy word for guessing. There was too much at stake for guessing. Her other choice would be to contact ATC and have them talk her through the approach. If they agreed to do that, she would become dependent on them. Not an acceptable alternative, at least not yet.
Time to examine the rest of the plane for the pilot’s manual. She checked the autopilot and the charts to be certain she was on course and clear of near objects. She felt for her gun and unlocked the door. Bashir began screaming obscenities. "You Jew bitch! Untie me you whore of the gutter or Allah will strike you....” Ashley ripped off a foot of duct-tape and slapped in over his mouth. If only everything was that easy to fix.
In the rear of the plane she found three large cabinets and overhead bins. She had kicked open one cabinet earlier and now did the same to the last two. They were full of miscellaneous junk: assorted parts, control cables, a dirty flight jacket, tools, a battery box, and Bashir’s rolled prayer rug. In the bottom of the last compartment she found a pile of books and magazines. With a tremor of excitement, she sorted through them but found no flight manual. Crap. The bastard has been flying this make and model for so long he doesn't need one.
Feeling the urge to relieve herself, Ashley opened the nearby rest room door and stepped into the small space fitted with a stainless steel sink and toilet. A metal cabinet supported the tarnished sink. Overhead a cracked mirror vibrated. Ashley finished and reached for toilet paper and found none. She opened the small cabinet door under the sink, and spotted two rolls of paper on the floor. She leaned forward and got one. Under the second roll lay a tattered pilot's manual. She snatched it up like a kid who found her lost puppy.
Clutching the manual, she started forward. Suddenly her vision blurred and she braced herself against the bulkhead near the shot-out window. The cold wind screamed though the opening, chilling her body. When her vision cleared she realized it would get colder every hour. She returned to the open cabinets and recovered the dingy jacket she had found minutes earlier. It smelled of aviation fuel, but it would keep her warm. With the flight manual she moved past Bashir, whose eyes bulged with anger.
Back in her seat, with the door locked, Ashley searched through the manual for the information she needed. Could she trust the manual? Did Bashir alter this aircraft so it no longer conformed to these standards? If he had, her planning would be off. She remembered the picture of Bashir wearing a ton of gold braid standing in front of this DC 3. Ashley deduced from his history he would have stayed with what he knew and not make significant changes. She decided to go with the manual.
She set about noting the critical information she needed: cruising speed 120 to 158 knots; fuel consumption 100 gallons each hour at neutral cruising speed; fuel capacity 810 gallons.
Ashley calculated how much fuel it would take to reach the restricted area that was eighty miles north of downtown Vegas. She had enough, but only enough. She could conserve fuel if she slowed her current speed and gained altitude. A steady 100 plus knots would reduce fuel burn, and a higher altitude would lessen drag. But with the loss of cabin pressure, she flirted with oxygen depletion and the chance of blacking out if she got above 10,000 feet. She would climb to 6,000, and hope the western headwinds were weak.
The soft glow from the instrument panel offered a haven from the black night. Patches of mist slipped between her and the twinkling lights below. The mist thickened and obstructed her view. Visual Flight Rules no longer applied. It was 8:20–time to contact ATC.
A flip of the switch turned on the transponder. Now her aircraft became a tiny beacon showing itself as DC-3, N-149L. Ashley turned on the radio equipment overhead and studied it. A weather screen lit showing bands of clouds moving northeast. She mounted headgear and plugged in. Her hand shook as she reached for the frequency dial. Ashley realized she couldn't remember the frequencies. She rubbed her hand over her face. Think. You know this stuff. She began turning the dial hoping to hear chatter. Then she remembered the radio frequencies were on the sectional charts.
Based on the charts she calculated she might be nearing Tucson's Class B airspace. The Awakening bounced when it entered a thick cloud formation. The twinkling lights down below disappeared.