to fight the impulse. But she did it anyway. She quickly unbuckled her seat belt so she could reach down and stuff the contents back into her purse.
For Blotzinger, this was only his third time flying the new 797. He had eighty-eight souls on board, including the crew and flight attendants, as he taxied the big jet into position for takeoff from O’Hare airport.
Moments later Blotzinger gently lifted the big jet off the runway. Their flight path took them over Schiller Park, but when the jet was directly over Ulema Salvage Yard, the copilot noticed something. A blip on the radar screen — a blip streaking right toward them. Suddenly the attack-warning buzzers went off in the cabin, and a yellow light started to flash.
The copilot blurted out, “Bob, incoming — ”
Blotzinger hit the countermeasures button. The flares designed to deflect heat-seeking missiles blew out from the underbelly, but they were not close enough to the Stinger missile to distract it. The missile kept streaking toward its target.
Blotzinger could see what was happening. “Fire the RTS!” he screamed.
The copilot hit the control for the RTS antimissile system while Blotzinger swung the big jet into an avoidance pattern.
Their eyes were riveted to the screen.
But for some terrifying reason the linear blip kept coming, closing in at a blinding speed, heading right for the belly of the jet.
The RTS should have worked. Should have instantaneously transmitted a data-capturing/data-reconfiguring laser beam aimed straightfor the guidance system in the missile. Should have reversed the flight path of the FIM-92A Stinger that was streaking toward the jet and turned it around, sending it back to its source.
But something had gone horribly wrong.
The last sound on the cockpit voice recorder was a millisecond-long scream of the copilot when he got a glimpse of the long steel cylinder full of explosives momentarily flashing into sight just before it struck.
There was an unearthly blast. And in one blinding explosion they were all gone.
On the ground a man was walking his dog. He screamed and jumped at the sound of the sky exploding into fire overhead. His dog howled and cowered on the ground. When the man looked up, he saw the fireball expanding in the air. Then he screamed again. He saw the charred pieces of the fuselage, cockpit, and wing assembly falling from the sky all around him and crashing onto the streets and houses of his Chicago suburb.
Soon National Airlines Flight 433 out of JFK would be winging its way high in the sky over the warehouse where Ramzy nestled the missile launcher against his shoulder. Standing directly below the now-open retractable skylight, Ramzy peered through the clear pane of plastic on the launcher’s viewfinder, ready to line up the big 797 jet in its rectangular lines.
As Deborah bent down to stuff the spilled items back into her purse, Ethan March joked, “No seat belt? Leave it to the Army to ignore flight regulations …”
At that moment, the cockpit crew heard a shrill warning bell. The copilot pointed to a flashing light on the flight deck. An oblong object on the LCD screen was streaking toward them.
The copilot shouted, “Oh my G — ”
The pilot thrust his finger down on the primary countermeasurebutton. A flare shot out from the underbody of the jet toward the incoming heat-seeking missile in an attempt to detract it. But the missile kept coming.
More alarm bells rang.
The security screen flashed: “6 S ECONDS TO I MPACT .”
The pilot punched the button marked “RTS.” A laser beam shot out of a small orb on the belly of the National Airlines jet. The beam struck the missile’s guidance system right behind the heat-seeking tip.
The pilot knew he had to put distance between the heat of his jet engines and the approaching missile, so he tried to bank into a twenty-degree yaw to the left. Passengers screamed as magazines, jackets, and purses flew into the air.
In an instant, Deborah,
For Blotzinger, this was only his third time flying the new 797. He had eighty-eight souls on board, including the crew and flight attendants, as he taxied the big jet into position for takeoff from O’Hare airport.
Moments later Blotzinger gently lifted the big jet off the runway. Their flight path took them over Schiller Park, but when the jet was directly over Ulema Salvage Yard, the copilot noticed something. A blip on the radar screen — a blip streaking right toward them. Suddenly the attack-warning buzzers went off in the cabin, and a yellow light started to flash.
The copilot blurted out, “Bob, incoming — ”
Blotzinger hit the countermeasures button. The flares designed to deflect heat-seeking missiles blew out from the underbelly, but they were not close enough to the Stinger missile to distract it. The missile kept streaking toward its target.
Blotzinger could see what was happening. “Fire the RTS!” he screamed.
The copilot hit the control for the RTS antimissile system while Blotzinger swung the big jet into an avoidance pattern.
Their eyes were riveted to the screen.
But for some terrifying reason the linear blip kept coming, closing in at a blinding speed, heading right for the belly of the jet.
The RTS should have worked. Should have instantaneously transmitted a data-capturing/data-reconfiguring laser beam aimed straightfor the guidance system in the missile. Should have reversed the flight path of the FIM-92A Stinger that was streaking toward the jet and turned it around, sending it back to its source.
But something had gone horribly wrong.
The last sound on the cockpit voice recorder was a millisecond-long scream of the copilot when he got a glimpse of the long steel cylinder full of explosives momentarily flashing into sight just before it struck.
There was an unearthly blast. And in one blinding explosion they were all gone.
On the ground a man was walking his dog. He screamed and jumped at the sound of the sky exploding into fire overhead. His dog howled and cowered on the ground. When the man looked up, he saw the fireball expanding in the air. Then he screamed again. He saw the charred pieces of the fuselage, cockpit, and wing assembly falling from the sky all around him and crashing onto the streets and houses of his Chicago suburb.
Soon National Airlines Flight 433 out of JFK would be winging its way high in the sky over the warehouse where Ramzy nestled the missile launcher against his shoulder. Standing directly below the now-open retractable skylight, Ramzy peered through the clear pane of plastic on the launcher’s viewfinder, ready to line up the big 797 jet in its rectangular lines.
As Deborah bent down to stuff the spilled items back into her purse, Ethan March joked, “No seat belt? Leave it to the Army to ignore flight regulations …”
At that moment, the cockpit crew heard a shrill warning bell. The copilot pointed to a flashing light on the flight deck. An oblong object on the LCD screen was streaking toward them.
The copilot shouted, “Oh my G — ”
The pilot thrust his finger down on the primary countermeasurebutton. A flare shot out from the underbody of the jet toward the incoming heat-seeking missile in an attempt to detract it. But the missile kept coming.
More alarm bells rang.
The security screen flashed: “6 S ECONDS TO I MPACT .”
The pilot punched the button marked “RTS.” A laser beam shot out of a small orb on the belly of the National Airlines jet. The beam struck the missile’s guidance system right behind the heat-seeking tip.
The pilot knew he had to put distance between the heat of his jet engines and the approaching missile, so he tried to bank into a twenty-degree yaw to the left. Passengers screamed as magazines, jackets, and purses flew into the air.
In an instant, Deborah,
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