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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Critical Mass
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“SWISSAIR ONE-FOUR-FIVE, YOU ARE CLEARED FOR IMMEDIATE takeoff, runway two-six. Wind two-eight-zero at eight. Barometer two-niner-niner-seven. Switch to departure control at one-two-niner-point-zero-niner out of the pattern. Have a good day.”
“Roger, tower, thank you,” Captain Josef Elver said, advancing the throttles so that the big jetliner could make the turn onto the runway.
“The numbers are green,” his first officer, Claude Piaget, said.
“Roger,” Elver responded as the bird came around onto the runway's centerline. “Here we go.” He advanced the throttles to the first position.
“Rolling,” Elver said as the A-320 started down the runway, ponderously at first, like a lumbering ox. Ridiculous to think that anything so huge, that weighed so much, could possibly fly.
“On the numbers,” Piaget said calmly.
The runway marker lights began to flash past them in a blur. Captain Elver quickly scanned the flight instruments in front of him, taking his eyes off the view outside the windscreen for only a moment.
“Vee-one,” Piaget warned to his right.
The Airbus was gathering speed rapidly now, and instead of sluggishly responding to his touch the rudder pedals and side-stick controller had come alive. They were flying, almost.
“Vee-R,” Piaget said.
“Rotate.” Elver eased back on the jet fighter-type stick to his left, and the jetliner's nose came smoothly off the surface of the runway. With his right hand, he maintained the throttles all the way to their stops, and the plane seemed to surge forward.
“My numbers are green,” Piaget said.
The jetliner's speed was approaching one hundred sixty knots, well into the partial flaps-down flying speed envelope for their weight. The runway markers were a complete blur.
“Vee-two,” Piaget announced.
“Lifting off,” Elver said, easing the stick back and the Airbus came off the runway, almost by itself, the bumpy ride instantly disappearing.
“On the numbers,” the first officer advised.
“Begin reducing flaps,” Elver ordered, and Piaget began retracting them. Their speed immediately started to increase and Elver eased the stick farther back, the plane barreling up into the cloudless sky.
Once out of the pattern, flaps up and landing gear retracted, Elver planned on turning over control to Piaget so that he could go back to the head. He was picking up a bug of some kind, and frankly, he felt like hell.
 
Boorsch's stomach was tied in knots. He'd known excitement in his life, and he had been anticipating this moment ever since he'd gotten the call forty-eight hours ago. But he'd never expected anything could give him such a lift, such intense pleasure as this.
The Stinger missile and launcher were comfortably heavy on his right shoulder where he stood behind the Air Service van. He could hear the roar of the huge Airbus, and he knew that it was off the ground now.
It was time.
Stepping away from the rear of the van, he raised the Stinger, finding and centering the jetliner's bulk in the launcher's sights. The plane was climbing directly toward him, impossibly loud and impossibly huge.
He no longer cared if he was visible from the tower. At this
point no power on earth could prevent what was about to happen.
He lost the aircraft in the Stinger's sights, but then got it again, centering the engine on the portside wing in the inner ring.
With his cheek on the conductance bar, he thumbed the missile's activation switch and the launcher began to warble.
“A miss almost always comes from too early a shot,” the words of their instructor echoed in his ears. “In this business one must have the patience of Allah.”
Allah had nothing to do with it, but Boorsch did understand timing. The Stinger was a fine weapon, but it could not produce miracles.
“Give it a chance and it will perform for you as you wish.”
The jetliner was climbing now at an increasingly steep angle, its engines producing their maximum thrust and therefore their maximum heat.
He pushed the forward button, uncaging the missile's infrared seeker head. Almost instantly the tone in his ear changed, rising to a high-pitched scream as the missile locked on to its target.
Still Boorsch waited, certain that by now someone in the tower must have spotted him and called security. Soon the airport and surrounding highways would be crawling with cops.
The Airbus passed directly overhead, and Boorsch led it perfectly.
At the last moment he raised the sights slightly, pulled the trigger, and the missile was off, the launcher bucking against his shoulder no harder than a 20-gauge shotgun.
“
MON DIEU!
RAYMOND,” ONE OF THE TOWER OPERATORS shouted in alarm.
The moment they had spotted the lone figure emerging from behind the Air Service van, with what even at this distance was clearly recognizable as some sort of a missile, Flammarion had gotten on the phone to security with one hand and on the radio to flight 145 with the other.
The Swissair copilot came back first. “Swissair one-four-five.”
For an instant Flammarion stood with his mouth open, hardly believing what he was seeing with his own eyes. The missile had been fired.
“Abort! Abort!” he screamed into the microphone.
“Security, Bellus,” a voice on the telephone answered.
“Say again, tower?” the Swissair copilot answered calmly.
The missile's exhaust trail was clearly visible in contrast against the perfectly blue sky. About one hundred feet above the ground it made a slight loop before it began its graceful curve up and to the west directly behind the departing jetliner.
In that short instant it struck Flammarion that the weapon was a live thing; a wild animal stalking its prey, which in effect it was.
But it was so incredibly fast.
“Abort!” he shouted as the missile suddenly disappeared.
For a split second Flammarion's breath was caught in his throat. Something had happened. The missile had malfunctioned. It had destroyed itself in mid-air. It had simply
disintegrated, the pieces falling to earth much too small to be seen from this distance.
A fireball began to blossom around the engine on the left wing. Suddenly it grew to tremendous proportions, and pieces of the jetliner—these big enough to easily be distinguished from this distance—began flying everywhere.
 
Something had struck them on the port side, and the Airbus began to sag in that direction, slowly at first, but with a sickeningly increasing acceleration.
Alarms were flashing and buzzing all over the place, and Elver's panel was lit in red.
“We've lost our port engine,” Piaget shouted.
“I can't hold it,” Elver shouted. “She's going over!” He had the stick and right rudder pedal all the way to their stops, but still the jetliner continued to dive as she rolled over to port.
He thought it was almost as if they had lost their left wing.
The entire wing!
His co-pilot, Piaget, who had been on the radio with the tower, was speaking loudly but calmly into the microphone. “Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is Swissair one-four-five, just off the end of runway two-six. We've lost control. We're going in. We're going in. Mayday, mayday, mayday!”
Elver reached out and chopped all power to the starboard engine. The powerful thrust on that wing was helping to push them over.
Piaget should be given a commendation for his coolness and dedication under pressure. It was just a fleeting thought, replaced by the certainty that none of them were likely to survive beyond the next fifteen or twenty seconds.
The reduced thrust on the starboard wing seemed to have the effect of slowing their port roll, but only for a moment or two. Then they continued over.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday … !” Piaget was shouting into the microphone.
The ground was very close now. Looking out the windshield
Elver estimated their altitude at less than one hundred feet.
He could hear people screaming in utter terror and hopelessness back in the passenger compartment, but a moment of calmness came over him now that he knew for sure he was going to die.
It was happening too fast, Elver thought. And much sooner than he'd ever expected.
The moment before impact he reached out for the master electrical switches.
 
“Putain,”
the cabbie swore, and he suddenly jammed on the brakes and hauled the taxi over to the side of the highway.
McGarvey, seated in the back, had been thinking about the last time he and Marta had parted. That had been Lausanne, several years ago. She'd been sitting in their kitchen, and on his way out with his suitcase, he looked back in at her. A pistol lay on the table, but she made no move to reach for it.
He wondered what he would have done had she picked it up and pointed it at him. He supposed he would have done exactly as he had done.
He was shoved violently forward. At first he thought they'd hit something. The driver was looking back the way they had come even before he'd brought the taxi to a complete halt.
“Qu-est qu'il-y-a?”
McGarvey shouted, irritated, but then he turned and looked in the same direction as the driver, and his gut instantly tightened.
An airliner was down. A huge ball of fire and smoke billowed up into the clear sky to the southwest. He'd heard no noise, partly because of the distance, partly because of the traffic noises, and partly because the cabbie had been playing the radio very loud.
Traffic on the N7 was coming to a standstill as McGarvey jumped out of the cab. It was definitely a downed airliner, and he knew in his heart of hearts that it was the Swissair flight he'd just put Marta on.
The cabbie got out of the taxi and crossed himself. “They are all dead,” he muttered half under his breath.
A big puff of black, oily smoke was slowly dissipating in the air not too far to the east, about where McGarvey figured the main east-west runway ended. Below that, and a little farther east, the faint traces of what appeared to be a small jet contrail also hung in the air.
The trail was distorting on the very slight breeze, but it was still identifiable.
McGarvey stared at it for a full second or more, willing himself
not
to come to the conclusion that had formed almost instantly in his mind. But it was inevitable.
The Swissair flight was down because someone standing near the end of the runway had shot it down with a handheld ground-to-air missile.
Either a Russian-made SA-7
Strela,
or the American Stinger. Both were readily available on the market for a couple of thousand dollars each. And either would be effective in bringing down a jetliner.
In the next minutes all efforts would be concentrated on the crash site in a desperate effort to rescue anyone who might have survived the crash. Allowing the man or men who had fired the missile a chance to escape in the confusion.
Not if he could help it.
McGarvey shoved the cabbie aside, jumped behind the wheel and took off, back toward the airport, the wrong way down the highway.
LIEUTENANT BELLUS FINALLY MADE SOME SENSE OF WHAT Flammarion was screaming, and his blood went cold.
“It's crashed! It's down! Oh, God, there's fire everywhere! It's horrible!”
“Scramble the crash units,” Bellus shouted.
“They're on their way! But I tell you no one can survive down there. Don't you see, the wing was off. It was gone, in pieces. They didn't have a chance.”
“Calm yourself, Raymond, and tell me what happened,” Bellus shouted.
Marie-Lure was taking a call, and her console was lit up like a Christmas tree, but she was staring at the shift supervisor.
“Oh, it's horrible! Horrible!”
“What happened to that airplane?” Bellus demanded. “Raymond, pull yourself together. Other lives may depend on this. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I see,” Flammarion responded, calming down a little. “The fire units are halfway across the field. We're diverting all traffic to De Gaulle and Le Bourget.”
“Very good. Now, exactly what happened?”
“It was a rocket, I think.”
“What do you mean, a rocket? Was it a warplane? What?”
“No, from that Air Service van. I saw it with my own eyes, Jacques. He held it on his shoulder, and fired it when one-four-five took off. Just after she lifted off.”
“The Swissair flight?”
“Yes, yes. I thought it would be all right … but then
there was a flash and the wing started to come off. They didn't have so much as a chance, Jacques.”
Bellus held a hand over the telephone mouthpiece. “Is there any word from Capretz or Gallimard?” he asked Marie-Lure.
“Nothing yet.”
“What about Dubout? He should be out there by now.”
“He doesn't answer his radio.”
“Who else is on the apron?”
“Péguy, Bourgois and Queneau.”
“Tell them I want that Air Service maintenance man picked up. But tell them to be careful, he'll be dangerous.”
“Sir?”
“He shot down the Airbus, and it's got something to do with the Americans.”
“My God.”
Bellus turned back to the phone. Flammarion was babbling something. He had gone to pieces again.
“Listen to me, Raymond,” Bellus said. “Listen. Can you still see that Air Service van out there?”
“What … the van? Yes, it's still there. I'm looking at it now. But your jeep is gone.”
“Jeep? What jeep?”
“Your office asked permission for it to cross one-eight.”
It was Dubout. “You say the van is still there. Do you see anybody there? Anybody nearby?”
“No, there's nobody.”
“Do you see any bodies, Raymond. Any bodies in the vicinity of the van?”
“No.”
“Anything lying on the ground?”
“Nothing.”
“All right, Raymond. Now look around out there. Is there anything moving? Any sign of that jeep?”
“Are you crazy? Of course there's movement. Jeeps, ambulances, fire trucks.”
“All going toward the crash. But look now, Raymond. Is
there anybody
leaving
the scene? Is there anybody going in the opposite direction?”
“I don't know.”
“Look,” Bellus shouted. “This is important if we want to catch the bastard who did this.”
“There are people dying out there. Burning to death.”
“That's right. Now, can you see any movement away from the airport? That jeep?”
“Wait.”
“Hurry, Raymond. There may not be much time,” Bellus said, and he held his hand over the telephone's mouthpiece again.
Marie-Lure looked over. “They're on their way.”
“
Bon
. Get my helicopter here on the double. Have Olivier pick me up just outside. Then get your weapon, you're coming with me. Marc can take over here.”
“There it is,” Flammarion shouted excitedly.
“Is it the jeep, Raymond?” Bellus asked.
“Yes, it's just beyond the crash. South.”
Bellus looked up at the situation map on the wall, and visualized where the Airbus had gone down, and therefore where Flammarion was telling him the jeep was headed.
“He's headed toward the highway. The N7. Can you see that far?”
“No. He's gone. The fire and smoke. He's on the other side now.”
“All right, Raymond, thank you very much, you have done a fine job. Go back to your duties now,” Bellus said, and before Flammarion could reply he broke the connection.
“Three minutes,” Marie-Lure said.
“Go out and hold it, I'll be right there,” Bellus said, and he punched up an outside line and dialed the confidential emergency number he and all French security people were supplied with for the American embassy in Paris. He had such a number for every embassy. The number was answered on the first ring. “Seven-eight-one-one.”
“This is Orly Airport Police Lieutenant Jacques Bellus.
Swissair flight one-four-five has crashed. I believe two or more of your people may have been aboard.”
“One moment please,” the woman said.
Two seconds later a man was on the line. “Lieutenant, my name is Tom Lynch. I'm a special assistant to the ambassador. What's this about Swissair one-four-five?”
“It has crashed, monsieur. Did you have people aboard? Messieurs Cladstrup and Roningen, along with a third, unidentified gentleman?”
“Yes,” Lynch said heavily. “What has happened?”
“Apparently someone shot that airplane out of the sky on takeoff.”
“Shot … ? What the hell are you talking about?”
“With a missile.”
“I'm on my way out.”
“Yes, monsieur, your presence will be most helpful. There will be some questions, among them the name of another man who may have been aboard that airplane.”
“We'll discuss that third man later …”
“No, monsieur, this is a fourth man. Kirk McGarvey.”
Lynch said nothing.
“Is this name familiar to you?”
“Yes,” Lynch said. “I'm on my way.” The connection was broken.
 
As McGarvey raced back toward the airport, dodging traffic the wrong way on the divided highway, he tried to work out how the terrorist or terrorists had gotten through Orly's tight security, and then how the shooter expected to get away.
Another part of him forcefully held off any thought about Marta and the other people aboard the downed airliner, except for the CIA officers aboard. He didn't believe it was a coincidence. The shooter wanted those officers dead. Why?
The N7 throughroute ran south directly to the airport, with on-off ramps leading up to the terminal, before it plunged under the airport itself for 1400 yards, coming out on the opposite side of the east-west runways.
Traffic had come mostly to a standstill by now, but several
accidents had occurred and he had to drive around the wrecks. In one case a large articulated truck had jackknifed across the highway apparently in an effort to avoid slamming into a car that had stopped short. The truck had tipped over and blocked almost the entire width of the highway. No police were on the scene yet, but as McGarvey passed, the driver was crawling out of the cab. He looked unhurt.
The shooter had been positioned somewhere near the end of the active runway, which meant he'd been in plain sight of anyone in the tower.
But apparently no alarm had been raised, which meant the shooter must have been disguised to look as if he belonged there. Airport security, most likely. Or as a runway inspector, or a maintenance person working on one of the approach systems.
Afterward he would have simply driven off. Possible to a rendezvous point where he would transfer to another vehicle for his escape.
Check that, McGarvey thought.
If he had been in plain view of the tower before the shot, then he would have remained in plain view afterward. Only then he'd be known for what he was.
In addition, any movement at that end of the field
away
from the downed airliner would come under immediate suspicion.
Approaching the terminal ramp leading off the N7, McGarvey turned that last thought over. Something was there. Something he was missing.
He visualized what the situation had to be like across the field. The shooter brought the Airbus down. Then he got into his vehicle and went … where?
Toward the crash, of course. Where he would merge with other rescue units.
Or, if he had put the burning wreckage between himself and the tower, he would have disappeared for all practical purposes.
Long enough for … what?
To drive down to the N7, and come back this way, beneath the airport, back to Paris where he could easily meld into the background.
The logic was thin, McGarvey had to admit to himself, passing the terminal ramp. The highway dipped into the tunnel, no traffic whatsoever now. All of it must have been stopped on the other side of the crash site. But if the shooter had done anything else, if he had gone in the opposite direction, there'd be nothing McGarvey could do.
An Orly Security Police jeep with blue and white markings came directly toward him at a high rate of speed, its lights flashing, its siren blaring.
McGarvey had to swerve sharply to avoid a head-on collision, and as the jeep passed he got the distinct impression that the lone man behind the wheel wasn't dressed as a cop. He'd been dressed in white coveralls.
Definitely
not
a police uniform.
McGarvey slammed on the brakes, hauled the Citröen taxi around in a tight U-turn and accelerated after the jeep.

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