The Bergamese Sect (47 page)

There was no feeling of panic in Jim’s chest. It was a situation that could be dealt with quickly, using his training and experience. But he felt a pang of excitement, the same rush of anticipation he’d found on each new level of
Space Invaders
. It was something unexpected, something to test his professionalism, his coolness.

He eyed the speckle of radiation as it coursed steadily to the southeast. He reached forward and toggled a switch to increase the flare from the raw signal. It was obviously a large object.

He remembered the call from South West 2023 and reached down to his radio while checking the plane’s position, keen to get the pilot off his back for a second; to give him time to assess the new threat.

‘
South West twenty-twenty-three. Denver centre. Good evening. I have you on radar fix. Call you back.’

Roger, twenty-twenty-three
came the pilot’s response.

He reacquired the unidentified radar return. He had no information about its altitude but the blip’s movement with each sweep of the scope implied it was travelling fast. Any infringement of the separation limits between his aircraft would be picked up by the conflict alert system, but not for a raw radar image. The computer had no way of telling the return was a real aircraft.

Jim reached to his side and picked up the phone, dialling a single digit to get through to the supervisor. He wanted some reassurance.

‘
Yeah?’ came Dan Robertson’s high-pitched voice.

‘
Dan, it’s Jim on southern sector, console three.’

‘
You after a breather?’

‘
No. I’ve got an unidentified return here,’ Jim said calmly.

Robertson paused. ‘Okay, have you tried contact?’ he asked.

‘
Not yet. I wanted you down here first.’

‘
I’ll be right there. Try and get him on the sector frequency.’

Jim hung up the phone and flicked on his radio. ‘Unidentified aircraft,’ he said, ‘heading one-one-eight, forty miles southeast of PGA VOR, please identify.’ He was reading the basic information of the object’s path expertly from his display.

There was nothing but static crackle in his ear. He tried again. ‘Unidentified aircraft, your transponder is not transmitting, please identify.’ Still there was silence.

The reflection was approaching the centre of Jim’s airspace now, and in just a few minutes would be nearing two of his east-west jetways. But he had no way of knowing whether the target would pass below or above his designated altitudes, or plough suicidally through the busy routes.

He tried again. ‘Unidentified aircraft, forty miles southeast of PGA VOR, you are impinging busy airspace, please turn heading zero-two-zero immediately.’

The radar blip continued to coast toward the busy jetway. Jim’s earpiece was hissing frustratingly. He scanned around the screen again, his subconscious skills taking over, every synapse calculating the possible threats. He glanced to the southeast of the unidentified aircraft’s track and spotted an American flight near the likely crossing point of the J72 route. The suicidal aircraft was heading almost right at him.

He flicked on the mike. ‘American fourteen-twenty-seven. At one o’clock four miles eastbound, unknown altitude, do you see traffic there ahead of you?’

Jim waited for a reply, his eyes watering as he stared at the radar blip that would soon threaten the safety of his charges. The unexplained object was moving through the skies obliviously.

Denver. Standby. Fourteen-twenty-seven
the pilot answered. Ten long seconds ticked by before the voice sparked into life again.
Yes, sir, we do have that aircraft. Low. Climbing at one o’clock.
 

‘
Okay, very good,’ Jim said quickly. ‘Keep your eye on him.’ He stared at the display, beads of sweat now condensing at his temples as the bright green blip inextricably headed toward probable disaster.

‘
Unidentified aircraft, sixty miles southeast of PGA VOR, this is Denver ARTCC, please identify immediately.’ The aircraft refused to respond.

Dan Robertson, a heavy, tired-looking man with a crew cut, appeared at Jim’s shoulder. He bent over to assess the huge circular radar display. Jim grunted something at him and pointed at the threatening blip on the screen. ‘He hasn’t responded to the sector frequency.’

Dan wiped the droplets of cold coffee off his moustache and said ‘try emergency frequencies’. His voice seemed higher than normal.

Jim reached over the console and turned a knob to change his transmitting frequency. He cycled through all the standard emergency channels, angrily shouting for identification on each, waiting a few seconds for a response. But there was silence on every one. He turned and shook his head at Robertson. ‘I have a flight with visual contact,’ he offered.

‘
See if they can identify it. I’ll try the military.’

Dan picked up the phone and began punching a sequence of numbers as Jim contacted the American flight again.

‘
American fourteen-twenty-seven. Can you give me visual identification of that traffic ahead of you?’

The response was immediate.
Negative centre. Standby. Fourteen-twenty-seven.
Then, after a pause, the pilot’s voice was back in Jim’s ear.
Okay Denver, he’s just passed very close under us, off our starboard side, climbing I think. Could not identify… ah, he’s probably a military aircraft. Small jet of some kind. He’s not showing navigation lights. Moving very fast.
 

‘
Thank you,’ Jim replied, and then added, ‘do you have an altitude?’

We’re at flight level two-eight-zero. I guess he was about 500 feet below us.

‘
Fuck,’ Jim said, ripping the headset from his ears. ‘He’s right in the middle of J72! What’s this lunatic doing?’

He watched the radar blip separating from the data block of flight AA1427. It had now crossed into the busy jetway and had turned north slightly, as if to line up with the oncoming eastbound flight path. Ahead of him was the flight Jim had taken over only five minutes ago, Cactus 879, now cruising over the Polacca Wash west of Chinle. The heedless aircraft was heading straight down the field at the commercial airliner! At almost the same altitude!

Dan was talking on the phone hurriedly, completely engrossed in his conversation. There would be only minutes available to avert a disaster. But Jim was powerless, the unidentified plane unable, or unwilling to respond to federal aviation directions. Jim stood suddenly, turned into the busy control room and shouted at the top of his voice, ‘anyone missing an aircraft? I have an unidentified return! Anybody have contact?’

A few of the other thirty controllers in the room had heard him through the confusion of their headsets. They shook their heads. Others ripped off their radios and asked colleagues what the commotion was all about. But no one put their hand up to claim the errant danger. Jim threw himself back down in the seat just as Dan slammed down the phone. He put his headset back on.

‘
Military say there’s nothing of theirs in the vicinity. I guess we have to believe them.’

Jim ignored Dan’s words, too concerned with the consequences of what was happening on the screen in front of him. He flicked on the radio mike.

‘
Cactus eight-seven-niner,’ he said clearly and calmly. ‘This is Denver centre, traffic alert, ahead of you, two miles and closing, ascending rapidly, advise you turn left, heading two-two-zero and descend to flight level two-five-zero, expedite.’

There was an uncomfortable silence as the radar blip sped on. To Jim it seemed like an eternity of dead air.

Turning two-two-zero, descending flight level two-five-zero
the pilot responded, the buoyant southern accent strangely unconcerned.

Jim sighed. The America West pilot had responded. That was a start. He watched as the data block began to change. The velocity vector shifted round to the left, the flight level indicator ticking down in one-hundred-feet decrements.

Jim gave the pilot a minute to stabilise his manoeuvre then called out again. ‘Cactus eight-seven-niner. Do you have visual contact with that traffic?’ Jim’s earpiece crackled. The radar returns edged closer.

Centre. Standby. Eight-seven-niner heavy.

Jim turned around and realised a small group of people were gathering around the console; associate controllers able to leave their desks and check on the interesting situation at the front of the room. Dan Robertson was whispering something to his assistant. Jim noticed the perfect features of Kat staring at him from the back of the crowd. He wanted to smile at her, but he wouldn’t allow himself.

He turned back to the console. ‘Cactus eight-seven-niner?’ he said, but still there was no response.

‘
Cactus eight-seven-niner? Do you copy?’

The raw radar blip was now almost on top of Cactus 879’s data block. ‘He must be able to see him,’ Jim screamed at the display. ‘For God’s sake answer me.’

Then the sound of the pilot cut through the static hiss, his voice almost drowned out by the pulsed wailing of his cockpit’s collision avoidance system. There was a noisy confusion in the aircraft; the faint mechanical sound of a recorded voice saying ‘descend, descend’. But the captain’s voice was calm.

Denver, we, ah…

The transmission stopped abruptly, replaced again with a ghostly radio hiss. Jim stared at the radarscope. The two radar blips approached each other, for a moment seemed to coalesce, then separated again.

Suddenly, the Cactus 879 data block disappeared and for a brief second there seemed to be three radar returns. Two of them quickly faded away but the third continued on the path of the unidentified aircraft.

‘
Cactus eight-seven-niner?’ Jim said. There was silence. ‘Cactus eight-seven-niner?’

Then a voice came through Jim’s headset.
Denver centre, er…, we just saw an explosion out here. South West twenty-twenty-three.
 

Jim frowned. The pilot’s words simply hadn’t registered. ‘South West twenty-twenty-three, say again.’

Okay, we’re seeing some kind of explosion here, ahead of us, a little lower, maybe twenty-eight thousand.

The voice was croaky, revealing the shock of what the pilot had just witnessed – a blinding light above the dark Arizona plateau, a shimmering fireball in the cold atmosphere.

Jim was silent for a moment. He tried to speak but the words stuck in his throat. He blinked at the screen, unable to function. Then he felt Dan’s finger in his back.

‘
Roger, twenty-twenty three. Standby,’ he said into the mike. ‘Cactus eight-seven-niner? If you hear centre, identify.’

Silence.

‘
Cactus eight-seven-niner?’ Jim repeated, his words carried off into the noise of the headset.

Then another pilot’s voice cut through the eerie silence.
Denver. South West one-two-zero. I can confirm that explosion. Out of my eleven o’clock position we just had what looked like a huge fireball, about five miles.
 

‘
Thank you South West one-two-zero. Centre.’

Jim felt lame. All he could do was thank his pilots, while somewhere above northern Arizona hundreds of people could be dying. Air traffic control was a great job, but when something went wrong, the helplessness was unbearable.

Centre. We’re over that explosion right now. About forty-five miles from Tuba City VOR. I can give you a position if you like. Twenty-twenty three.

‘
Sure, thank you.’ Jim’s face had gone white. The beads of sweat were now running freely down his cheeks. Ten minutes earlier, he’d been choreographing an intricate ballet of moving targets. Now, all hell had broken loose. Cactus 879 was nowhere to be seen on the radar display. The raw radar image from the unidentified aircraft was still there, but was now turning in a wide arc back toward the north.

The South West pilot was back on the air.
Okay, Denver, it’s north thirty-six, zero five, eleven point two, west one hundred niner, zero seven, zero niner point two. You got that? We can see burning from here. There’s fire and smoke down there.
 

Jim didn’t acknowledge the radio call. He kept flicking his mike on. ‘Cactus eight-seven-niner?’ he said. ‘Cactus eight-seven-niner, do you copy?’

A hand touched him on the shoulder. He turned to see Dan Robertson’s face, his expression like an ER doctor conceding a patient’s refusal to be resuscitated. He was telling Jim to give up, the radarscope confirming that the aircraft no longer existed.

Jim felt a sharp anger shooting through him; he wasn’t going to let this happen. He never lost a game; never let the balls drop. He pulled his shoulder away from Dan’s reach and flicked his mike on again.

‘
South West one-two-zero. Do you see that unidentified traffic ahead of you? He should be crossing your path about a mile or two ahead?’

Roger Denver, we can just see his contrail. Looks like a small jet.

‘
Okay, keep visual contact as long as possible. Is he damaged?’

Er…, I don’t think so, Denver, he’s descending steadily, banking away from us.

Jim watched the jet’s blip heading rapidly to the north. It began to fade, the radar reflection decreasing in power as the aircraft descended below the radar beam.

‘
Looks like a mid-air collision,’ Dan said.

‘
No,’ Jim replied sharply. ‘That aircraft didn’t hit anything. A jet that size can’t destroy an Airbus 319 and survive. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he shot that airliner out of the sky.’

An uncanny hush descended over the onlookers.

‘
Let’s not speculate,’ said Dan, ‘and don’t repeat that to anyone outside this room.’ He reached for the phone. ‘I’ll call the NTSB.’ He looked from face to face. ‘Somebody get hold of the FAA and the Air Force Rescue Coordination Centre. Find out where that plane came down and call the local emergency services. Lock the doors. This is going to be a long night.’