felt the nose ease upwards. Straining, he continued pulling and ever so slowly it slid towards him. Gravity returned, pulling him into the seat.
Why was it so hard?
A shrill vibration began to shake the jet.
Steve adjusted his feet for better leverage and pulled more effectively, his eyes fixed on the few lights flickering through the intervening haze. Gradually, so gradually, they moved lower as the jet’s nose fractionally rose.
As gravity returned, he heard a muffled sound behind him. The floating knot of men had landed on the floor. Looking for assistance, he twisted his head around, but saw no movement from them. They lay in a strewn heap of legs, torsos, and arms. Beyond, through the still open cockpit door, he glimpsed rows of frightened faces and locked eyes for a moment with the terrified face of a man in the first row before he turned back to his battle with the control yoke.
Gravity came on in earnest, now. His increased weight pressed him deep into the seat.
“What’s . . . going on?” rasped a voice behind him. It was the new pilot’s voice.
“I’m pulling . . . on the yoke.” Gravity stuffed Steve’s words back into his throat.
The man grunted with strain. “Keep pulling . . . hard.”
A mechanical voice cut through the din: “Terrain, pull up. Terrain, pull up.”
“What else?” Steve croaked.
Gravity distorted Steve’s vision and his shaking arms felt like he was holding up the entire plane.
The vibration worsened as if the plane were shaking apart.
They were below the clouds now. He could see lights and even some cars on the streets below. Jesus, they were close!
“Keep . . . pulling.” The voice from behind sounded tremulous from the vibration, like he was talking into a fan.
The gravity fought to drag Steve’s arms off the yoke but the sight of streets, cars, and buildings rushing by underneath kept his hands locked in place.
A deafening bang rattled the plane. “What?” Steve exclaimed. The vibration ceased, but the massive jet swayed sickeningly like a car on ice.
“Coming . . . apart,” Steve heard Verness’s barely audible voice.
Steve glimpsed some buildings up ahead, through . . . trees?
Tree tops slapped at the nose of the plane. Dead ahead, three office buildings, modern and well lit, loomed directly in his path. The buildings rushed towards him at a breath-taking rate.
Shit! We’re not high enough to clear!
With a massive effort, he yanked hard at the yoke and it pivoted back even more. The jetliner’s nose moved higher and the buildings vanished under the jet.
Chapter 5
L ieutenant Scott Kuss slid his F-16 just outboard of the left side of the 747. The two jets skimmed at 120 feet of altitude and cruising at 622 knots. He had just watched the jetliner flatten out after diving from altitude.
What in the hell was going on? It sure looked like a terrorist act.
Phillip Piper, his wingman, trailed the jetliner in a position to fire if necessary.
Pulling even with the cockpit, he looked over. In the dim light of the 747 cockpit, Kuss saw . . . Jesus! A pilot that looked like a civilian.
The control tower had been unable to raise the United flight. Either the damn civilian couldn’t operate the radio or he didn’t want to.
He keyed his own mike to see what would happen. “United 1733, this is the F-16 off your port side. Please respond. You are in restricted airspace.”
No answer. And no apparent response from the man in the cockpit that Kuss could see.
His wingman spoke. “Kisser, I can’t get heat lock. I think the engines are cold.”
“Cold? How?”
“No shit. I’m backing off for a radar shot.”
“Roger.” What in holy hell was going on? The engines were out, a near supersonic dive to an altitude below radar coverage, radio silence—and a civilian pilot. If there were an explanation not connected to a terrorist attack he could not think of it. Worse, the Pentagon was directly ahead; he had to assume the worst.
He changed radio
Why was it so hard?
A shrill vibration began to shake the jet.
Steve adjusted his feet for better leverage and pulled more effectively, his eyes fixed on the few lights flickering through the intervening haze. Gradually, so gradually, they moved lower as the jet’s nose fractionally rose.
As gravity returned, he heard a muffled sound behind him. The floating knot of men had landed on the floor. Looking for assistance, he twisted his head around, but saw no movement from them. They lay in a strewn heap of legs, torsos, and arms. Beyond, through the still open cockpit door, he glimpsed rows of frightened faces and locked eyes for a moment with the terrified face of a man in the first row before he turned back to his battle with the control yoke.
Gravity came on in earnest, now. His increased weight pressed him deep into the seat.
“What’s . . . going on?” rasped a voice behind him. It was the new pilot’s voice.
“I’m pulling . . . on the yoke.” Gravity stuffed Steve’s words back into his throat.
The man grunted with strain. “Keep pulling . . . hard.”
A mechanical voice cut through the din: “Terrain, pull up. Terrain, pull up.”
“What else?” Steve croaked.
Gravity distorted Steve’s vision and his shaking arms felt like he was holding up the entire plane.
The vibration worsened as if the plane were shaking apart.
They were below the clouds now. He could see lights and even some cars on the streets below. Jesus, they were close!
“Keep . . . pulling.” The voice from behind sounded tremulous from the vibration, like he was talking into a fan.
The gravity fought to drag Steve’s arms off the yoke but the sight of streets, cars, and buildings rushing by underneath kept his hands locked in place.
A deafening bang rattled the plane. “What?” Steve exclaimed. The vibration ceased, but the massive jet swayed sickeningly like a car on ice.
“Coming . . . apart,” Steve heard Verness’s barely audible voice.
Steve glimpsed some buildings up ahead, through . . . trees?
Tree tops slapped at the nose of the plane. Dead ahead, three office buildings, modern and well lit, loomed directly in his path. The buildings rushed towards him at a breath-taking rate.
Shit! We’re not high enough to clear!
With a massive effort, he yanked hard at the yoke and it pivoted back even more. The jetliner’s nose moved higher and the buildings vanished under the jet.
Chapter 5
L ieutenant Scott Kuss slid his F-16 just outboard of the left side of the 747. The two jets skimmed at 120 feet of altitude and cruising at 622 knots. He had just watched the jetliner flatten out after diving from altitude.
What in the hell was going on? It sure looked like a terrorist act.
Phillip Piper, his wingman, trailed the jetliner in a position to fire if necessary.
Pulling even with the cockpit, he looked over. In the dim light of the 747 cockpit, Kuss saw . . . Jesus! A pilot that looked like a civilian.
The control tower had been unable to raise the United flight. Either the damn civilian couldn’t operate the radio or he didn’t want to.
He keyed his own mike to see what would happen. “United 1733, this is the F-16 off your port side. Please respond. You are in restricted airspace.”
No answer. And no apparent response from the man in the cockpit that Kuss could see.
His wingman spoke. “Kisser, I can’t get heat lock. I think the engines are cold.”
“Cold? How?”
“No shit. I’m backing off for a radar shot.”
“Roger.” What in holy hell was going on? The engines were out, a near supersonic dive to an altitude below radar coverage, radio silence—and a civilian pilot. If there were an explanation not connected to a terrorist attack he could not think of it. Worse, the Pentagon was directly ahead; he had to assume the worst.
He changed radio
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