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Air Force One
Pacific Ocean
14 February
1222 Local Time
“Sir, can I ask you something?” Waxburn asked as they watched the last of the two fighter escorts finish refueling with the Air Force KC-10 Extender off their left wing.
“Piddle packs,” Sullivan replied, still watching the F/A-18 as it received its last hundred pounds of jet fuel through the refueling drogue.
“What?” Waxburn asked.
Col Sullivan smiled as he looked back at the nervous Waxburn. “That’s how they take a leak on long flights,” he responded. “Little plastic bags with gel crystals. I’ll take the oven and lavatory over that any day.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask, sir,” Waxburn replied.
“It’s a common question,” Sullivan offered. “Although going number two might be problematic.”
Waxburn laughed uncomfortably at Sullivan’s joke. His nerves were starting to get to him. He wanted to throw up the granola bar he had just forced himself to eat.
“Ok, what’s your question?” Sullivan asked.
“Have you ever had to make a really hard decision for your family?” Waxburn asked. He had flown with Sullivan several times before, but they had never really talked about anything more personal than favorite sports teams.
Sullivan’s smile vanished. He frowned before looking out the side window at the fighter escort off their wing. “I did,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry if it’s too personal,” Waxburn offered. He immediately regretted bringing Sullivan into his on-going dilemma.
“No, Jason, it’s ok,” Sullivan said. “It’s a decision that still haunts me to this day.”
“What happened?” Waxburn asked.
Sullivan sighed and then continued, “It was three years ago. My baby girl Lana had just turned nineteen. She was so beautiful. She was studying for her class a few days after her birthday and collapsed in the library on campus.
“Sheryl and I drove to the hospital as fast as we could. It was an eight-hour drive, and when we got there, they had just finished the MRI. They found a tumor and diagnosed her with brain cancer. When she finally came to, we were with her as the doctor broke the news. She was so strong. So brave.
“We went through all of the treatments. They did surgeries and radiation, trying to get the tumor under control, but nothing worked. She had lost her beautiful red hair. She was dying and there was nothing we could do to stop it.”
Sullivan paused as he fought back tears. Waxburn tried to stop him, but Sullivan continued his story.
“As the months went on, the symptoms got worse. She felt like her mind was slipping away. She had read about a girl who had a similar condition that set a date and had a doctor assist her with suicide. She wanted to die with dignity,” Sullivan continued.
Waxburn was riveted by the story. “I’m so sorry,” he muttered.
“After looking in her eyes and seeing the pain, I knew that was the right thing to do. Sheryl hated the idea and was vehemently against it. I told my baby girl that it was her choice. If she wanted to leave this Earth with dignity and not suffering, I would support it. She said yes,” Sullivan said.
“I drove her to Oregon from Charlotte. It was the shortest drive across the country I’ve ever had. Sheryl refused to go. She called me a murderer. Lana died peacefully in her sleep on her twentieth birthday,” Sullivan said, still fighting back tears.
“God, I’m so sorry,” Waxburn said. He thought about his own wife and son. He prayed they were still ok.
“Sheryl killed herself a few weeks later,” Sullivan added. “The loss was just too much for her to take.”
“Jesus,” Waxburn replied. “That’s terrible.”
“But you know, if I could have saved their lives, I would have,” Sullivan said. “I would have traded places with them in a heartbeat. I loved those women more than anything in this world. I don’t know what’s going on with you and your wife, but I pray for you, Jason. Family is important.”
“More important than this job?” Waxburn asked.
Sullivan nodded. “A thousand times over. If I had to choose between my family living and hauling around those crooked liars in the back, I’d choose my family every day of the week and twice on Sunday.”
“I’m really sorry,” Waxburn repeated as he clutched the fountain pen with the ceramic tip blade that he had snuck on board Air Force One. They were steadily reaching the point of no return, if he didn’t act soon, his family would be killed.
“Me too,” Sullivan said. “But I have faith that we will all be reunited one day. It keeps me going.”
Waxburn twisted the cap off the pen. His mind was made up. Everything took a backseat to his son and wife. They were his whole world, and even if he never got to see them again, he had to do everything in his power to give them a chance to survive – even if that meant cooperating with terrorists. He just couldn’t risk it.
As he unbuckled his lap belt and turned to get up, Sullivan stopped him. “Hold on, cowboy, where are you going?” he asked.
“Just going to use the bathroom before our last stretch to Honolulu,” Waxburn replied.
“Not so fast,” Sullivan said.
Waxburn froze in fear. Was Sullivan on to him? How did he know? Should I do it now and fight it out?
“All that talk about piddle packs and I have to pee,” Sullivan said with a chuckle. “You’re younger – you can hold it while I go.”
“Oh,” Waxburn said. His mind was racing. That was not part of his plan. Sullivan had to be eliminated in order for it to work.
“Now get your mask on so we’re legal,” Sullivan directed. It was both an FAA and Air Force requirement that while flying above twenty-five thousand feet, if one pilot were to leave the flight deck, the other had to don an oxygen mask and breathe one hundred percent oxygen. This was to ensure there would still be a pilot flying and conscious in the event of a sudden, rapid decompression.
“Yes, sir,” Waxburn said, still searching for answers. He reached down to his right and pulled out the oxygen mask. After turning it on and checking the flow, he gave Sullivan a thumbs up.
“Be right back,” Sullivan said as he exited the flight deck door and closed it behind him.
Waxburn put on his mask as his mind raced. He had to improvise quickly. He locked the three tamper-resistant deadbolts and returned to his seat. Looking up at the panel overhead, he found the panel marked CABIN ALTITUDE CONTROL. Using his left hand, he simultaneously pushed the buttons marked MAN L and MAN R, switching the 747’s pressurization system from AUTO to Manual. Once both buttons showed on, he turned the knob between them to the OPEN position, opening the pressurization outflow valves. Waxburn then confirmed that both outflow valve indicators moved to the OPEN position.
As the cabin altitude began to climb, Waxburn reached down and pressed the SILENCE button on the cabin annunciator. Due to its configuration, Air Force One was not equipped with overhead oxygen masks like most passenger airliners. Instead, individual oxygen bottles were placed underneath each seat. Passengers were briefed that in the event of a loss of cabin pressure, an audible alarm would sound, alerting them that they should grab the bottles and use them. Without the presence of the audible warning, Waxburn hoped that the passengers wouldn’t recognize the subtle rise in cabin pressure until it was too late.
As a CABIN ALTITUDE warning flashed on his display, Waxburn felt his ears pop. The cabin pressure of the large 747 jumbo jet was steadily climbing through ten thousand feet. Soon, the jet would be completely depressurized, leaving its occupants incapacitated without supplemental oxygen.
Waxburn entered the airport identifier of his divert destination into the Flight Management Computer. His new destination was just less than one hundred and fifty miles away. He just hoped that the effects of the hypoxia would disable everyone in the passenger compartment before they could attempt an assault on the cockpit and ruin his newly improvised plans.