EAST COAST OF THE UNITED STATES, INTERNATIONAL WATERS,
N 41°25’27”, W 65°49’23”
MARKLE CHECKS his mic, but it’s gone dead.
Kennedy has cut off the communication. There’s a cracking sound on the line, another very long silence, and then a different, deeper voice comes on.
“Air France 006 Mayday, my name is Luther Davis, commander of special operations for the Federal Aviation Administration. Could you identify yourself again please? Enter squawk code 1234.”
Markle makes a face while Gid types in the code. It’s not every day that you talk to a commander of special operations at the FAA…The line cuts out again. Then the voice comes back.
“Thank you, this is Luther Davis of the FAA. Could you give me your date and place of birth, Commander Markle?”
Markle sighs and provides the information.
“January 12, 1973, Peoria, Illinois.”
“Could you give me the first and last names of every crew member on board the flight?”
“Kennedy, I don’t know if you know this but I’m trying to land a damaged 787…”
Another long silence, the line is cut off again, and another voice, a woman’s, comes on.
“Air France 006? Kathryn Bloomfield from NORAD. Can you hear me?”
NORAD—aerospace defense. Really? Markle frowns.
“Air France 006 here, what can I do for you, NORAD?”
“For security reasons you need to disconnect your onboard Wi-Fi.”
Markle doesn’t argue and does as he’s told.
“Thank you,” the voice says. “Now please ask all your passengers to turn off their cellphones and all other electronic devices.”
“We did that a long time ago, NORAD, we hit turbulence and we—”
“Perfect. First Officer Favereaux, in the next few minutes you and the cabin crew will proceed with collecting all, and I mean all, devices that enable communication outside the plane: tablets, phones, medical beepers, game consoles, laptops, et cetera. Don’t forget augmented reality glasses and smart watches. No exceptions. Commander Markle, we’re facing an extremely serious threat of external hacking targeting the navigation system, and any electronic devices could be relaying information…In fact, you can pass on all that information to your passengers, if you feel you need to in order to ensure their cooperation.”
“But that will get them worrying…”
“Too bad. Make it clear that all devices will be returned in an hour, when you’ve landed in New York. Officer Favereaux, if you meet any resistance, emphasize the point about the plane’s security and the danger of interference with the plane’s instruments. You have full authority to collect all electronic devices. We’re following a very specific protocol.”
“But…all these devices…where are we going to put them?” Favereaux asks anxiously. “All cellphones look alike, how will we identify them?”
“Use sick bags, write the seat numbers in felt pen, deal with it. Reassure the passengers that they’ll get them back on landing.”
The copilot gives another vague, strangulated “yes” and gets to his feet. He heads off to pass on the orders to the stewards, while Markle explains the instructions in their entirety over the cabin mic. The copilot expects a wave of protests in the cabin, but—could it be retrospective terror about the turbulence, the threat that’s just been announced of electronic hacking, or the indisputable authority of the captain’s voice?—the overwhelming majority of passengers comply with his request. The few objectors even find themselves forced by those around them to follow the instructions. It could have been a tricky operation, but amazingly it takes only a few minutes. Once she has confirmation that all communications devices are being held in the cockpit, the NORAD officer picks up where she left off.
“This precautionary measure applies equally to all staff on board. And to you too. Your cellphones and laptops. You have full authority on that plane, Commander Markle. Your orders are to—”
“I’m the captain on this flight, Mrs. NORAD lady!” Markle snaps. “Of course I have full authority on this plane but you’re the one who—”
“Commander Markle, we’re dealing with a question of national security. We will work through Protocol 42 together.”
Markle is lost for words. He’s never heard of a Protocol 42.
“Air France 006, your new destination is McGuire Air Force Base, New Jersey. I repeat, McGuire Air Force Base, New Jersey.”
Fort McGuire…it was there that in 1937 the German airship the Hindenburg caught fire as it attempted to dock with its mooring mast and was completely destroyed. Markle carries out a slow southeasterly turn and resigns himself to announcing to the cabin that, Sorry, folks, but due to major damage, the flight has been redirected to New Jersey. This time a lot of passenger protest; some start booing, particularly as—and this is the ultimate provocation—Manhattan’s gleaming skyscrapers are taunting them to the west. Markle could distract them by telling them the story of the Hindenburg, but he knows intuitively now’s not the time.
New York comes back over the intercom.
“Kennedy Approach again. Commander Markle, I’m putting you in contact with the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon.”
Markle doesn’t have time to reply before there’s another voice, a man’s, on the line. His accent is nasal, drawling, very Yankee, very New Hampshire.
“Commander Markle, General Patrick Silveria, National Military Command Center. I’m talking to you under the authority of the secretary of defense. In about three minutes you will be joined by two Navy fighter jets. They’ve just taken off from the USS Harry S. Truman and will escort you into national waters. In the event of an attempt to escape or of any noncompliance with their instructions, they have orders to destroy your aircraft.” This time it’s gone too far. Markle bursts out laughing. He finally gets it.
“Commander Markle? This is General Silveria of the NMCC. Are you there?”
Markle can’t stop laughing now, to the point of crying. Well, what a huge joke. Holy crap, what a bunch of fuckwit air traffic controllers at JFK, what a pack of moronic aluminum-pushers, he came real close to swallowing the whole thing, NORAD, Protocol 42, and now the Pentagon…he picks up the intercom again.
“Howdy there, so-called General Silveria! Is that the best you could do? To be honest, I believed it, but what you said about taking the plane down, that was too much. Do you really think now’s the time, after the storm we just came through? And anyway, you messed up, my last flight’s the day after tomorrow, not today. But I gotta hand it to you, it’s a better parting gift than some lousy carrot cake.”
“Air France 006? This is General Silveria from the Pentagon. I’m putting you on the line to the aircraft carrier USS Harry S. Truman.”
“Yes, and I’m Captain Speaking! Is that you, Frankie? What a shitty fucking Yankee accent…you really are…thanks to your bullshit, we went ahead and gathered up all the devices from the cabin. Did you want us to be lynched by the passengers, was that the plan?” Another voice comes over the intercom, higher pitched and with a Texan accent this time.
“Air France 006? This is admiral John Butler of the USS Harry S. Truman.”
Markle still has a wry smile on his face.
“Hi, John Butler, the Mickey Mouse admiral. It’s okay, Frankie, you can stop your little accent show now. It’s not even funny anymore.”
“Commander Markle? Admiral Butler still. You’re currently under the protection of two of our F/A-18 Hornets. One is just behind your aircraft poised to intercept and the other…would you look to starboard, please.” Markle rolls his eyes but turns his head. A few meters from the tip of his right wing is a Hornet armed with air-to-air missiles. The pilot waves to him from the cockpit. “Now, please follow all my instructions.”