SHOOTDOWN
00:20:15
The passenger in seat 2K in the business-class section of the Virgin Atlantic Airbus A340 stared through thick eyeglasses at the cockpit door. Only ten seconds before, his head had shot up from his copy of Newsweek at the sound of a loud bang coming from the cockpit.
Now, along with those around him, he sat stunned as the pilot’s words blared from the intercom.
“This is Captain Krull. We are experiencing technical difficulties. Everyone remain seated.”
The captain had made other announcements during the flight from London to New York. But this time his voice sounded stressed, edgy.
A flight attendant moved cautiously from the galley that separated first class and the cockpit. She stood silently in front of the heavily reinforced flight deck, still holding a towel that she had been using to clean a stain from her apron. The passenger in 2K followed her gaze to the lettering on the middle of the cockpit door, which read: Restricted area. No admittance during flight.
As he watched, the flight attendant pulled a handset from the wall and pushed a button that he assumed connected her to the cockpit. She spoke into the receiver and waited for a reply. He saw her facial expression change as she listened. Then, slowly, she hung up the handset and covered her mouth with her palm. Her face paled as she turned toward the passengers.
The man nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose and started to stand.
“Please stay in your seat, sir,” she said.
“What’s going on?” a woman called out.
“What the hell was that noise?” another passenger asked.
Despite her order, passenger 2K rose. “Is there something wrong with the plane?” he asked.
“No, the aircraft is fine,” she answered, still seemingly trying to digest what she had just heard.
“Are we being hijacked?” he asked.
She bit her bottom lip. “Captain Krull says he shot the copilot and is about to kill himself.” She took a step backward into the galley. “There’s no way to get into the cockpit and stop him.”
00:12:06
“Captain Krull, this is Thomas Wyatt.” Tall and trim in faded jeans and a denim shirt, Wyatt stood on the front porch of his cottage overlooking the dark waters of Alligator Lake in the backwoods of North Florida. “Can you hear me?” he said into the satellite phone.
No response.
“Captain, I’m here to help you.” Static.
Wyatt knew there were at least a hundred people listening to the call that had been routed directly into the aircraft’s communications system. He pictured groups of military and civilians at the Department of Homeland Security, the Pentagon, DoD, NORAD, the FAA, and countless other agencies leaning toward the speakers of their electronic devices. And he was acutely aware that he had only a short time before things would turn tragic. Virgin Atlantic Flight 45 was squawking a 7500 hijack code and would not be allowed to land in or even approach New York with a suicidal pilot at the controls.
Pressing the phone to his ear, Wyatt said, “Captain, no matter what brought you to this moment, there’s still time to turn back. This is not only about you, Captain, but about two hundred and eighty innocent people onboard your plane. They don’t deserve to die. Whatever issue you have, they are not responsible. Let’s put it into the hands of experts who can solve it for you.”
Wyatt glanced at his watch. He knew that two F-18 Hornets were vectored to intercept the airbus. They were under explicit rules of engagement regarding a 7500 code: force the plane to divert to a secure landing location or, if necessary, fire upon the aircraft and shoot it down. The airbus, big and lumbering, would present no challenge for the fighter pilots.
00:11:04
“Captain, you are a seventeen-year veteran,” Wyatt said, glancing at a three-page fax in his hand. “Your record is one other pilots aspire to achieve. You have a family—twin ten-year-old girls. Are you ready to leave them fatherless? Taking the lives of those innocent passengers onboard would affect hundreds, if not thousands, of lives as their friends and relatives grieve. And if you take this aircraft down with you, what about the lives on the ground? Why don’t you tell me what you want—I’ll do everything in my power to help you get it. It’s not too late.”
Wyatt knew there were usually three reasons someone takes hostages: martyrdom, murder, or suicide. The information he had been given clearly indicated number three. And number three was Thomas Wyatt’s specialty.
00:10:19
“Captain, we’re running out of time here.” He pressed his palm to his forehead as he looked out over the glassy surface of the lake that reflected the tall pines and palmetto thickets surrounding it. His cottage was the only one for twelve miles. Wyatt managed to retreat to it a few times a year to relax and fish. There would be no fishing today.
“Captain Krull, the world is a tough place. I know. Maybe the others don’t understand what stress can do to a man. But I do.”
Thomas Wyatt scanned the faxes once more. There was nothing in Krull’s profile that he could determine might have made the pilot go over the edge. No marital or financial difficulties. No drug or alcohol abuse. And that made Wyatt’s task more problematic. He had nothing to hook onto, nothing to target to convince the pilot that Wyatt was his friend—perhaps the only one he had right now. Wyatt needed Krull’s trust, but without finding something he could use to lead the pilot into conversation, Krull would never see him as an ally. That was bad news. There would be little chance of talking him down.
“Captain Krull,” Wyatt said, knowing this was his last opportunity to deter the pilot from whatever plan he had. “There are F-18 fighter jets approaching your aircraft from the rear. One is about to pull alongside and signal you to decrease your airspeed, drop to ten thousand feet, and follow him to an alternative landing site. Do you understand?”
The silence was as empty as Wyatt’s hopes. He looked at his watch again. “Captain?”
00:09:25
“Oh God!” a woman screamed from a few rows behind where passenger 2K sat. She pointed out the window. “They’re going to shoot us down!”
Within the last few moments, the anxiety level in the airbus grew from whispered concerns to panic. Now, as they all glared in disbelief out the port side of the aircraft, passenger 2K saw the threatening, sleek shape of a military jet fighter. Twin tail fins reminded him of knife blades. The long needle nose looked like an insect about to sting. Sitting inside the swept-back cockpit, the pilot motioned to attract Captain Krull’s attention.
As passenger 2K glared out the window to get a better look at the fighter, he saw something that caused his pulse to quicken and his breath to be sucked from his lungs. Attached to the wingtip of the jet fighter was a small yellow guided missile. Would it be the one used to turn Flight 45 into a raging ball of flames and drop the airliner into the cold waters below?
“Holy shit,” a teenage passenger shouted.
“Everyone remain calm,” the flight attendant shouted over the screams of the passengers. “This is standard procedure. That plane is just here to escort us safely to the closest landing site.”
“Why?” the teen yelped. “What do we need an escort for? What’s wrong with landing at JFK?”
“There’s another one!” someone cried from the opposite side of the cabin. The second F-18 was so close that the pilot’s face could be seen.
Passenger 2K felt his knees give way as he slumped back into his seat. He took his glasses off and closed his eyes. Standard procedure? he thought. Escort us in? If the copilot is dead and the pilot is threatening to shoot himself, who will fly the plane?
00:04:02
“Captain Krull, I know that by now you can see the F-18s off each side of your aircraft.” Wyatt paced his deck as sweat formed on his brow. The weathered two-by-fours creaked under his boots. He heard the screech of blue jays as they argued over the peanuts Wyatt had thrown in the grass for them just before getting this call. If his problem could only be as trivial as theirs right
now.
00:03:23
“Captain, those pilots are hearing every word I say. So is the NORAD commander. There will be no hesitation if he feels that you and I are not coming to terms. His sworn duty and that of his pilots is to protect the citizens of the United States. Captain, they are under orders that have no ambiguity, no flexibility. A single word from me and I can call them off. I know you’re a good man, a father, a husband. The lives of so many are now in your hands. Please tell me what you want. I’ll move mountains to get it for you. I can do that. I’ve done it for others. Just let me hear your voice.”
00:01:02
The muffled pop caused everyone in the business-class section to stop as if someone had pushed the pause button on a DVD player. A bitter taste rose into the throat of passenger 2K as he stood and took a step toward the cockpit door. His glasses fell to the floor. The flight attendant was two paces ahead of him, and another was coming up the aisle.
“Let us in!” the attendant screamed, pounding on the door. “Open up!” Passenger 2K shoved the attendant aside and kicked the door with all his strength. He felt as if he had kicked a block of stone— his leg flamed with pain. Another passenger came from behind, a fire extinguisher in his hands. Using the bottom as a battering ram, he struck the door repeatedly, leaving behind only smears of red paint.
Suddenly, the nose of the plane pitched down, causing everyone to tumble. At the same moment, a woman a few rows back yelled, “We’re going to crash!”
The airbus pitched again.
Luggage, blankets, pillows, drinks, and passengers dropped to the floor and slid toward the bulkhead.
Passenger 2K was slammed to his knees as the man with the fire extinguisher fell onto him, the breath knocked from his lungs. He opened his mouth to call for the other passenger to get off when a sound like the crack of thunder struck his ears. He turned his head to look down the aisle. Without his glasses, what he saw was blurry, but he knew it for what it was. A wall of flame raged toward him like a searing, fiery wave. He cried as he took his last breath, knowing the small yellow guided missile had found its target.
00:00:00
GILLEY’S FOSSILS
Dinosaur Valley, Texas
“We are what we think. All that we are arises in our thoughts. And with our thoughts, we make our world.” — Buddha
“The world is about to change, Ted,” Cotten Stone said into the cell phone. She held it in one hand and the steering wheel in the other as she drove the rental car along Highway 67 toward Glen Rose, Texas. “This will stand a lot of people on their heads.”
“I’m impressed,” Ted Casselman said, his voice starting to cut out. Cotten looked at the signal-strength indicator on her phone. It flickered between one bar and none. She hoped she wouldn’t lose him. Ted had been her boss when she worked at the Satellite News Network. Even though she had landed the chief investigative correspondent job at NBC after leaving SNN, Ted remained her friend and mentor.
“I’ve seen all the media blitz, Cotten, but of course it’s shrouded in mystery. They’ve done a great job of hyping your exclusive. And that’s what I thought it was—just hype. I had no idea. How long have you been working on this?”
“Couple of weeks. I waited for the coverage on the Virgin Atlantic shoot down to cool off. I still can’t believe that a pilot of a commercial aircraft would do something so horrific. Don’t they get tested for mental stability?”
“It’s interesting that the pilot recently went through his yearly evaluation with no problems. We’re continuing to do follow-up human-interest pieces on it. Having to shoot down a plane full of innocent passengers was a real wake-up call for a lot of folks. Even after 9/11, I don’t think anyone thought it would ever come to this.”
“I understand the plane was transmitting a hijack signal.”
“Yes,” Ted said. “They figure the copilot triggered it to get the attention of the air traffic controllers.”
As Cotten Stone listened, she pictured the tall, forty-four-year-old black man. He was graying early, and she knew she could be blamed for many of those premature gray hairs. Wanting to move away from the tragic airliner incident and bring the subject back to her story, she said, “I feel really strong about my exclusive, Ted. It’s going to be amazing.”
“More than amazing. You’re going to crumble an entire mountain of scientific data.” Ted laughed into the phone before sighing. “I hope it works out. You’ve got a lot riding on this.”
Cotten felt trepidation trickle through her veins as she caught a glimpse of the Paluxy River, now so shallow it couldn’t be paddled. But after a heavy rain, she’d been told, it transforms into raging white water—the only rapids in North Texas. Just as the rain transforms the river, she believed, her news story would bring about a drastic transformation as well.
“What did you say the network paid?” Casselman asked.
“Eight K,” she answered, hearing Ted whistle. “Don’t give me a hard time. I’m absolutely sure it’s the real thing. If the network hadn’t bought it, it would have sold on the black market for way more than that. And somebody else would’ve gotten the story—and the glory. I’ve checked it out, Ted. The experts say it’s the real deal.”
“Checking something out and confirming authenticity are two different things, kiddo. Nobody should know that better than you.” He paused. “I just don’t want you to turn into Geraldo opening Capone’s vault—or worse, another Dan Rather debacle. Know what I mean?”
“I had a paleontologist examine the fossil. He gave me a thumbs-up.”
“Listen to how it sounds, Cotten—just so you’re ready for whatever comes. Good old Gilley—that was the dealer’s name, right? God, is everybody in Texas named Gilley?”
“No, there are some George Ws and Lyndons. But honestly, that’s how he introduced himself—Gilley.”
“Better than Deep Throat, I suppose. Anyway, Gilley the Texan, son of a junk collector with a pile of old dinosaur bones, finds this mind-blowing fossil in his old man’s basement in a box with a bunch of other bone fragments. He calls you, all on the QT, offering you the big story for a reasonable fee—otherwise he’s going to sell this thing on the black market for a bundle. But out of the goodness of his heart—”
“No, it wasn’t the goodness of his heart. He figures with the notoriety he’ll get if we cover the story, his fossil store will reap tons of bucks. He can write a book, do interviews, and have his fifteen minutes. His other choice is to sell underground, and he’ll realize the same amount up front, but no flash. Said that either way to him is fine. But he’d prefer the flash.”
“And the paleontologist? Where’d he come from?”
“Come on, Ted, give me a break. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”
“Because you’re like my own daughter. I worry about you. Don’t want you to get sloppy amidst all this fame.”
Cotten’s body relaxed back into the seat, and she glanced at the speedometer. She was doing eighty-nine in a sixty-five zone, so she eased off the accelerator. Ted really did worry about her. “His name is Waterman. That’s Waterman with a P-H-D at the end. I met him at a party the Museum of Natural History had for the press a couple of months ago. Worked out perfect. He offered to go down to Texas. Of course, he had to sign a nondisclosure until we air the story. And it took some doing to persuade Gilley to let Waterman see it. Only the brass at NBC, Waterman, Gilley, me— and now you—know about this. And I’d get fired if they knew I was having this conversation with my competition.”
“Waterman,” Ted repeated. “Got a first name?”
“Henry—no, Harry,” Cotten said. “Harry Waterman. Why?”
“Just curious. Maybe I’ll see what I can find out about him.”
“He wrote the network a letter stating his opinion that it was authentic. If he hadn’t, I don’t think they’d have sprung for the money.”
“So, you’re shooting live for the evening news?”
Cotten’s muscles tensed with excitement. She was back on top. This evening, her face would be in everyone’s living room. God, she loved it.
“Yep,” she said. “Today’s the big day.”
“Guess I’d better start getting my crew in place.”
Cotten heard anticipation in his voice. “What do you mean?”
“Think about the huge follow-up story. How are the scientific community and the fundamentalists going to respond to seeing proof that the Bible literally got it right? Somebody’s going to eat crow—or maybe a brontosaurus steak.”
“I like a good roasting,” Cotten said.
There were at least three seconds of silence before Ted responded. “Take care, kid.”
“Talk to you soon,” she said, and ended the call.
Cotten peered at the bloated, galvanized gray clouds hanging low in the sky. She might get to witness the Paluxy River’s transformation.
Up ahead, she saw the faded sign: Gilley’s Fossils and General Store, One Mile. This was it. The moment she had waited for. The story that would put her on top once again. The Grail conspiracy had been one thing. But this—undisputed proof that man had lived during the time of the dinosaurs. Her fifteen minutes just kept getting longer.
During the last visit to Glen Rose, Gilley had taken her a couple of miles down the road to visit the Creation Evidence Museum. She’d found it fascinating, especially the collection of dinosaur and human footprints. She’d talked to several people there who were passionate in their beliefs. Wait until they got a load of what she was about to broadcast.
As Cotten pulled into the gravel-filled parking lot of the rustic tourist attraction, she felt that old familiar rush of excitement. She had created huge headlines over the last two years: when she found the Holy Grail—twice; when she persuaded the Vatican to open its vaults and allow the Jews to reclaim the sacred menorah of the Second Temple brought to Rome by Titus in AD 70; when she covered the amazing find of more ancient scrolls in caves near the Dead Sea; and when she announced the discovery of the thirty pieces of silver that Judas Iscariot was paid to betray Christ. But this would be her crowning achievement. When it came to religious sensationalism, Cotten Stone ruled the airwaves. And now she had the chance to single-handedly debunk the basic scientific theory of evolution right here on a hot afternoon along a dusty stretch of Texas highway. She was riding high, feeling the adrenaline flush her face and throat.
Cotten pulled in beside the NBC 5 Dallas-Fort Worth remote video truck parked in front of Gilley’s. It was ready to beam her next world-changing story up to an orbiting satellite and back down to an awaiting audience. She was about to show the world a dinosaur bone with a spear point embedded in it— proof that man had lived alongside the dinosaurs.
As she got out of the car, she looked into the cloudy Texas sky. Hang on to your shorts, she thought. Cotten Stone is about to rock the evening news again.
***
Only a week after what was supposed to be her finest hour, Cotten stood before the cameras again. But there was no burnishing glow of excitement in her cheeks, no perk in her voice. Instead, her eyes wore heavy makeup to disguise the swollen lids. Her whole body seemed to sag, and when she spoke, her voice was riddled with shame.
“I would like to apologize to anyone I have betrayed or offended,” Cotten said, avoiding eye contact with the camera. She stared down at her prepared notes, sensing the studio crew glaring at her, their contempt palpable. “It was not my intention to lie or conspire to lie to the viewers of the National Broadcasting Company or its affiliates. Deception was not my goal. I’ve been accused of ignoring evidence that indicated that what is now being called the creation fossil was an elaborate hoax. I adamantly deny having any prior knowledge that it was a fake, and I never intended to trick or deceive anyone. If I have been an embarrassment to any group or person, I am deeply sorry. I hope that you can forgive me.”
Cotten let the notes slip from her fingers onto the studio floor. She walked out of the bright lights and off the news set. No one followed. No one wished her well. She thought she’d never get to the doors to escape the horrible silence.
On the crowded sidewalk outside, news photographers snapped her picture, shouting questions.
“Ms. Stone, is it true you were forced to resign?”
“Are you going to continue trying to prove the Bible was right about creation?”
“What’s next, now that you’re out of a job?”
She saw Ted Casselman standing beside a yellow taxi. He motioned, and as she approached, he opened the car door.
“Didn’t think you’d feel like dealing with flagging one down,” he said.
She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for coming. You’ve always been my rock.”
“Told you before, you’re like my own daughter.” Cotten slipped into the back seat, and Ted leaned in.
“You sure you want to do this? Leave New York?” he asked.
Cotten nodded. “South Florida sounds real good to me right now.” “Remember, you’ve got friends here.”
She gave him a faint smile.
“All right then, kiddo. You’ve already been to hell and back. You can do it again. I know you can.” He kissed her forehead and then closed the door.
As the cab pulled away, Cotten felt her soul sink into the abyss.