Zero Separation (31 page)

Lauren glanced at the clock; it was a little after three in the morning. She felt both physically and emotionally battered. She'd been in bed for hours but hadn't slept. All of the packing was finished, but her mind wouldn't shut down. Her thoughts kept running through an entire range of possibilities, wondering what would happen next—news about Donovan's crash, or breaking reports about Robert Huntington. What happened first would dictate her actions. She was packed—poised to run, but now she was having second thoughts. If the Robert Huntington news broke first, she processed how each person in their mutual world would handle the news.

Michael and Susan would be the most difficult. Donovan's deception had spanned all the years of their friendship. He worked with Michael, had traveled with him, they'd faced death together. As with any high-stress job, a level of trust must exist for the partnership to succeed. When Michael found out the depth of Donovan's betrayal, Lauren imagined he'd be furious.

There was Calvin, she didn't even want to think about him—he'd not only be livid that she'd been complicit in what amounted to an epic lie—he'd be disappointed that she hadn't trusted him. The list of disappointed, hurt people seemed to stretch forever.

Exasperated, Lauren gave up on sleep and threw off her covers. She slipped into blue jeans and a tee shirt. She grabbed her phone and then, as always, she made a quick trip to check on Abigail before she headed downstairs.

In the darkness she made her way into the study. Out of habit, she clicked on the television and muted the volume. By now every
set in the house was tuned to CNN. As a commercial ended and the hour's top stories began, Lauren stood in the middle of the room and waited. Long moments passed as they previewed the upcoming news stories, she felt a small reprieve when Robert Huntington wasn't mentioned, but then she doubted the news would break in the middle of the night. Whoever had the information would probably wait for maximum impact.

On a nearby table sat her and Donovan's wedding picture. She tried to remember every perfect detail of that day, but all she could think about were the words:
till death do you part
. Lauren walked to the table and turned the frame face down. Still clutching her phone, she sat down on the oversized leather sofa, brought her knees up, and curled herself into a ball as if she could somehow make herself a smaller target for all that was about to come. She'd never felt so lost and alone. The tears came quickly, followed by wracking sobs that tore through her entire body. Her sorrow was so overwhelming she had no idea how she was going to make it through the next hour—let alone the rest of her life.

A tiny red light on her phone began blinking. She immediately thought the worst. If someone were trying to reach her at four in the morning the news couldn't be good, but it was only an e-mail. She opened the screen and as she read the contents a shock ran the entire length of her body.

From: Donovan. URGENT! Reply immediately—need help. Nash
.

Lauren tried to imagine how this was possible. What if this was just some sort of a weird delay? She prayed that wasn't the truth, and through tear-flooded eyes she typed her reply.

Is this really you? I need proof
.

The tears rolled down her face as she waited. Her frayed nerves felt as if they were ready to collapse. Could this be some cruel joke? Had someone hacked Donovan's e-mail account? The light flashed again.

Yes, it's me. You were right about Kipling. Have been kidnapped and now I'm in the back of the da Vinci—we're shadowing an airliner. D.C. anthrax attack imminent. Need help. Donovan
.

Lauren had her proof. Donovan was using the computer in the back of the
da Vinci
and he was in trouble. She quickly created a reply.

What can I do?

Find us. I don't know where we are or what airline. We're flying underneath an Airbus A330 coming from the Caribbean. Estimate 150 kilograms of anthrax aboard set to be dispersed
.

Typing quickly, Lauren pictured the situation.

I'll find you. Are you able to reach cockpit?

Yes, but any action will cause collision. Somehow need separation from Airbus
.

Give me five minutes and I'll have some answers
.

Lauren changed functions on her phone and called a number from her directory. A groggy-sounding Michael picked up on the fourth ring.

“Michael, it's Lauren. I need your help.”

“Lauren? What the—”

“Donovan's alive and he's in trouble. He just e-mailed me from the back of the
da Vinci
.”

“What?” Michael replied. “He's where?”

“He's been kidnapped. He said the
da Vinci
is flying underneath an airliner, an Airbus A330. There's anthrax aboard the Gulfstream and D.C. is the target.”

“Oh God. How far out are they?” Michael said, sounding fully alert.

“I'll know after I make my next phone call.”

“I'm on my way over. Tell your protective detail I'm coming. I don't want to get shot.”

“Will do.” Lauren severed the connection. Adrenaline was flying through her body as she wiped away the last of her tears, opened the door, and yelled for Buck.

Moments later he appeared. “What's happening?”

“I just got an e-mail from Donovan. He's alive.”

“Are you sure it's him—someone might be trying to draw you out in the open.”

“I'm positive it's him. He's in the back of the
da Vinci
and it's headed this way. Whoever is flying is planning to release anthrax on D.C.”

“That's crazy—no unidentified airplane will get within fifty miles of D.C.”

“Donovan says they're flying underneath an airliner. If he storms the cockpit, he's afraid there will be a collision, which means they're flying with virtually zero separation to look like one target on anyone's radar.”

“I'm calling the Pentagon.” Buck stepped away and pulled out his cell phone.

“No! Buck, can we wait before we make that call? We both have a pretty good idea what their response will be. If you call the Pentagon, they'll scramble fighters and shoot them down—no questions asked. Am I right?”

“We have credible intelligence about a biological attack.” Buck's fingers hovered above the keypad. “What would you have me do?”

“Donovan told me he could reach the cockpit, but it would probably cause a collision. Same result. Mission accomplished. Let's try and find a way to save all those lives.” Lauren snatched the secure phone from its cradle and punched in an unlisted number.

“Who are you calling?”

“The DIA. I already called Michael, he's on his way over. Can you get him in here as fast as possible?” As she waited she could hardly draw a full breath. There was no time to fully absorb what was happening. All she could do was react to the situation and do
it quickly. Donovan was still alive, but if she failed, then she'd have lost him all over again.

“Ops desk, Fletcher speaking.”

“Regan, this is Dr. Lauren McKenna. I need a favor.”

“Dr. McKenna, of course. What can I do for you? Is everything okay?”

“I'll explain later, but I need you to pull up the FAA data stream and tell me how many A330s there are inbound to the D.C. area from the south, say South America or the Caribbean.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Hang on a sec,” Regan replied. “Okay, that was easy. There's only one. Liberty Airways Flight 401, en route from São Paulo to Dulles.”

“Can you give me a position for that flight?”

“Let me pull up the NORAD screen. Here we are. Flight 401 is just about to cross overhead Norfolk, Virginia. They'll be on the ground in about half an hour.”

“Thank you, Regan. Do you happen to know exactly where Liberty Airways Operations is?”

“Yes,” Regan replied. “Concourse B.”

“I thought so. Thanks again, and I'll see you later.”

“What did you find out?” Buck asked.

“That we have to get to Dulles Airport as fast as possible.”

“Michael Ross just pulled up,” Andy transmitted to Buck over the radio.

“We're coming out,” Buck replied. “Abigail is your responsibility.”

“Roger that.”

Buck threw a jacket on, covering his holstered weapon, and turned to Lauren.

“Do you have your DIA credentials?”

Lauren grabbed them from the desk drawer. Buck held the front door open for her just as Michael came up the stairs. He was dressed in jeans, loafers, and a dark blue sweatshirt with Eco-Watch printed in gold letters across the front. She could tell that he was in pain; he winced at each impact his foot had with the ground. She
hugged him and quickly explained what she knew as the three of them piled into Buck's SUV.

Buck fired up the throaty V-8, it was a Pentagon vehicle and he lit up the red-and-blue flashers embedded in the grille. He backed out of the driveway, then slammed it into gear and burned rubber as he accelerated down the street.

“Did you find him?” Michael asked.

“Liberty Airways Flight 401, en route from São Paulo, Brazil, to Dulles International,” Lauren said then hesitated. “They're over Norfolk, Virginia. Which is why we need to get to Liberty Operations.”

“Oh no,” Michael said under his breath as he quickly did the math. “That puts them less than thirty minutes out.”

“I've got to make a phone call,” Buck said. “We can't ignore this threat.”

“Who are you calling?” Lauren was torn between what she knew was right and how she felt. If Buck sent up the alarm, the Air Force would scramble their fighters, intercept Donovan, and fire on the
da Vinci
. The protocols had been in place since nine-eleven. Everyone who died would simply be chalked up as an acceptable loss, collateral damage in the war on terror.

“General Porter made it possible for me to take this assignment,” Buck said. “I'm going to report directly to him.”

Lauren looked at her watch. “Are there fighters already airborne or will they have to scramble from their base?”

“That's classified,” Buck replied.

“I probably have a higher security clearance than you do. What I'm trying to ask is: will they have time to intercept the Airbus before it reaches Washington D.C.?”

“Yeah, there's time.” Buck said. “Can I at least tell General Porter we're working on a plan to get control of the Gulfstream? Would I be lying if I told him that?”

“No, you wouldn't be lying,” Lauren replied.

“What is our plan?”

“We have to get to Operations,” Lauren said. “Concourse B.
Donovan said he needs some separation from the Airbus, and then he can storm the cockpit and get control of the airplane.”

Lauren's phone flashed that she'd received another message. “It's from Donovan.” She read the message out loud.

This is not the first attempt. We think the Bristol Technologies airplane collided with the Pan Avia 767. The anthrax is from prewar Iraq. The terrorist is Israeli. Nathan Strauss
.

“Oh Jesus,” Buck whispered.

“Who's Nathan Strauss?” Michael asked.

“He's the man who shot you.” Lauren turned to Buck. “If we can get to Liberty Operations, I think we can communicate directly with the crew aboard the Airbus—without Strauss knowing. Donovan can maintain his element of surprise.”

“She's right,” Michael said. “This Strauss guy is without a doubt monitoring each and every frequency that the Airbus crew is given. With the equipment in the
da Vinci
, they can monitor VHF, UHF, as well as HF frequencies. Our only advantage is they don't think anyone knows they're there.”

“How can we do that then?” Buck asked. “You already pointed out that the terrorists could be monitoring all of the frequencies.”

“They can't monitor everything,” Michael said. “There are dedicated data links that can communicate directly with the Airbus. Once we're inside Liberty Operations, we could send what amounted to a text message, via satellite, to any of their airliners, anywhere in the world. Not only that, the crew could send a message back to Operations the same way. We need that secure data link.”

“I'm sending Donovan a message telling him what we're doing,” Lauren said.

“I've got to make my call,” Buck said. “Tell Donovan he's going to have company shortly. If I can convince General Porter not to shoot, they may get at least one chance to get control of the airplane.”

“Tell Porter that if they launch a missile, the pressure wave from the explosion will undoubtedly disperse some part of the anthrax into the atmosphere,” Lauren said. “Donovan told me he thinks there's at least a hundred fifty kilograms of anthrax aboard, that's roughly three hundred pounds.”

“Is that a lot?” Michael asked. “I mean, how bad is this?”

“It's apocalyptic,” Lauren replied. “I worked on a project to calculate biological and nuclear fallout models factoring varying atmospheric conditions. We calculated models for this very scenario. There won't be enough antibiotics stockpiled to cure more than a fraction of the victims. The rest of the people are going to die a horrible death. If they release the full hundred fifty kilograms of anthrax aloft, on a clear, calm night like tonight, the fatalities could reach over a million, maybe even as many as five million. This is why you need to tell General Porter not to shoot them down. If even three percent of the anthrax is dispersed into the atmosphere, the death toll could easily reach into the tens of thousands.”

“I'll tell him,” Buck said.

Lauren sent her message to Donovan. She took a moment to examine the cloudless night sky. She imagined dozens of armed fighters roaring off into the sky to intercept her husband, their afterburners shattering the predawn calm. She had no idea how much time Donovan had before the Air Force started shooting. She knew enough to understand that after 9/11, the official position of the military was to shoot first, ask questions later. She hoped Buck was persuasive. She looked at her watch—she and Michael now had less than twenty minutes to find a solution or Donovan was going to die.