ABOARD SF COMMAND TRANSPORT 3, OVER THE PERSIAN GULF
As soon as Corrigan described the Sri Lanka connection, one of the operators at a nearby console put up his hand and started waving at Corrine. “There’s a Sri Lankan aircraft approaching grid space F-32,” he said. “It’s a 747.”
“Get planes on it.”
“They’re already approaching.”
The aircraft in question was a cargo version 747 just entering air space over Malaysia. It took about three minutes to arrange for a radio feed directly into the pilots’ circuit. Slammer One-Four and Slammer One-Six were about sixty seconds from having the plane in visual distance. It had already been checked electronically, and Corrine’s own information confirmed that the plane was on a scheduled flight to Brunei.
“We want them to land at Subang,” Corrine told the pilots. Subang Air Base was part of Kuala International Airport. Two American Special Forces soldiers were assigned as advisors to an army unit there, and the Malaysian military had been contacted to stand by and secure any diverted aircraft. “They’re to land there immediately.”
“Understood,” said the lead pilot, Commander Daniel “Wolf” Clarke. Wolf and his wingman were coming toward the 747 at about thirty-eight thousand feet, at roughly a thirty-degree angle from its nose. The Sri Lankan pilot had not yet answered their hails.
“Four MiGs from Malaysian Number 17 squadron preparing to take off,” relayed one of the controllers.
“I don’t think the Navy needs their help,” said Major Gray.
Corrine’s aircraft was several thousand miles away, helping coordinate the search over Iran for the supposedly downed jet, which more and more looked as if it hadn’t been downed at all. The interplay between the two Tomcat pilots made her feel as if they were just a few miles away—as if she might go to one of the windows at the front of the aircraft and spot them up ahead.
“Slam Six, you getting a response?” Wolf asked his wingman.
“Negative, Four. You sure these guys speak English?”
“Yeah all right, I see him, correcting—stay with me six. Definitely a 747.”
“SF Command Transport 3 copies,” said Gray. “You have a 747 in sight. Does it have markings?”
“Negative. No markings. No markings at all,” said Wolf. “They’re holding course. We’re coming around.”
The two F-14s banked, circling around so they could come at the 747 from the rear. Though as far as they knew it was incapable of offensive actions, they nonetheless approached it gingerly, their adrenaline level steadily climbing. The Sri Lankan plane still had not answered their calls on any frequency, nor had it acknowledged the order to land. The Tomcat crews were close enough to see in the cockpit, but the Sri Lankan pilots steadfastly refused to look in their direction. It was five minutes from landfall.
“There’s no way they don’t they see them,” Gray told Corrine.
“Get their attention,” Corrine told the Navy flight. “Make sure they know you’re there.”
The Navy aviator hesitated for just a moment, then requested permission to fire a few rounds “across the bow.”
“Yes,” said Corrine. “Do it.”
The bursts lasted no longer than a second and a half. The big plane lurched off its flight path, seemingly in the direction of Slammer One-Four. Wolf tucked his wing and cleared away from the Boeing’s path. It took a few seconds for the two Tomcat pilots to sort out the situation and make sure they weren’t in each other’s way.
The Boeing pilot, meanwhile, began accelerating, his nose pointing downward.
“He’s descending,” Wolf radioed. “But he’s still not answering our hails.”
“He’s not heading for the airfield,” said Gray. “He’s going south. He’s on a direct path for Singapore. He’ll make landfall in two minutes. We have to get him over the water. Now.”
Singapore sat more than two hundred miles to the south of Kuala Lumpur, a fat and inviting target. And in fact while the cities and towns along the coastline were considerably smaller and much, much poorer, they were all potential targets, once the aircraft was over land.
“Slammer One-Four, fire more warning shots,” said Corrine. “Advise him that we will shoot him down if he does not immediately respond to your commands.”
“I’ve done that.”
“Do it again,” said Corrine. She pushed her sweater away from her wrist, noting the exact time on her watch.
Samman Bin Saqr felt something in the aircraft giving way or breaking behind him; there was noise deep in the cargo bay, something like a muffled explosion, though the engines themselves seemed in order.
The explosives had been packed and arranged to prevent accidental ignition; his engineers bragged that neither lightning nor fifty rounds from an American 20 mm cannon would set them off until the proper moment. But there had definitely been a sharp crack in the back, a noise that to him sounded like an explosion.
With no way to check the problem, he checked his position on the GPS device, making sure that it coincided with
the internal navigation equipment. There was no deviance; the plane would fly itself perfectly to the target once he left.
“Basher One-Four to Command Transport Three. No response.”
Corrine watched the seconds adding themselves one by one to the window on her watch. There was no question in her mind now that she was going to order the plane shot down; she wanted merely to wait until the last possible second—the lawyer in her forming the opening argument.
The seconds clicked off until there were forty left.
“Basher One-Four, has the aircraft responded?”
“Negative,” said Wolf, surprised that she asked again.
“Shoot it down. Now,” said Corrine. “Do not let that aircraft go over land.”
“Basher One-Four, confirming order to shoot down Sri Lankan cargo aircraft registry 5SK.”
“Confirmed. Shoot it down immediately,” said Corrine.
The Navy pilots traded terse commands, then Wolf took the shot, opening up with his cannon from point-blank range from behind the airliner.
“He’s going in,” said Basher One-Six.”
“Watch yourself! Watch!”
The two aircraft had to pull off as debris flew from the stricken 747. The terrorist plane turned into a fireball, spinning toward the ocean just short of the coastline.