SEAL Team Six Hunt the Scorpion(77)

Fuck.

The sound numbed his ears and filled his nose with cordite. He was gaining control of the pistol when the pilot bit down on his hand. Crocker clocked him in the mouth with the side of the pistol five times, hard, until blood, teeth, and saliva spilled over his hand and wrist, and the pilot collapsed.

Now Crocker occupied a tight space between three bleeding bodies, adrenaline pounding through his veins, the nerves in his wrist, hand, and the back of his head sending distress signals to his brain.

He pushed himself past the pilot’s body and took his seat, scanning the many instruments. Focused first on the engine panel in the middle, which indicated that all three engines were operating at 46,200 pounds of thrust; a machmeter, which measured the ratio of true airspeed to the speed of sound; then an altimeter, horizontal direction indicator, flight director, digital vertical speed indicator.

To his right he found the radio and audio selector panels, a VHF navigation and communications panel, an ADF panel with digital readout and rotary knob control. Overhead, a light panel divided into two sections—cockpit lighting and exterior lighting. Also overhead were subpanels for ignition, alternate flaps, cockpit/cabin/ground call systems, cockpit voice recorder, cargo fire detection/suppression system, wing-engine anti-ice, window heat, and pilot heat.

Crocker tried not to be overwhelmed. A Delta Airlines pilot had once told him that in a few years the only flight crew required on a large commercial jet would be a man and a dog—the man to feed the dog, and the dog to bite the man in case he tried to touch any of the controls.

He had friends who were ST-6 pilots and operated what they referred to jokingly as the top-secret Teeny Weeny Airlines. Several times they’d allowed him to take off and land Learjets and other small planes. Many years ago he’d also spent several afternoons training on a PPL flight simulator at an air force base near Las Vegas.

But this was many times more complicated—a big, 153-foot 727-200 at least twenty years old, which meant that it wasn’t equipped with the very latest technology.

He knew enough to set the engine thrust to 85 percent and pitch the nose five degrees above horizontal to maintain current speed and altitude. The problem was that the Sperry SP-50 two-axis autopilot was engaged and programmed to direct the aircraft to Tehran. It was headed east at 479.8 mph, altitude 21,022 feet.

Crocker didn’t know whether he should try to contact ground control or try to turn the jet around. Concerned about alerting the Iranians, he chose the second option. He grabbed hold of the steering tiller in front of him and started to move it to the left.

Immediately an alarm went off and a red light started flashing, causing Crocker to panic. He realized that he had forgotten to shut off the autopilot first. Once that was accomplished, he said a quick prayer. With stars glimmering through the front and side cockpit windows, he slowly moved the tiller to fifteen degrees. His hand perspired as the plane bounced and started to dip and bank slowly left. It felt as if he was steering an enormous, inflated bus.

Once the jet had made the gradual turn, he set a course west-southwest, then breathed a sigh of relief.

They were headed back in the direction of Tripoli, with clear skies.

My good luck.

Moonlight glistened off the sea below. Blood from the pilot was sticky under his feet.

Feeling alone and slightly elated, Crocker figured that he might be able to locate the north coast of Africa, might even be able to find Tripoli. Then he realized he was getting way ahead of himself, because even if he did manage to navigate back to Tripoli, which was somewhat unlikely, how the hell would he land the big jet?

Since the aircraft was probably carrying a nuclear bomb or nuclear material, there was significant risk involved even in trying to land it.

Wouldn’t it be better to crash it into the Mediterranean Sea?

That way he wouldn’t expose tens of thousands—maybe hundreds of thousands or millions of people—to dangerous radiation. It was the safest, most sensible option. Even better, he thought, than trying to fly the plane out over the Atlantic Ocean.

Better to end it here. Get it over with, before he lost control of the plane or passed out from loss of blood.

He thought of Captain “Sully” Sullenberger landing US Airways Flight 1549 in the Hudson River. Remembered seeing him interviewed on Letterman after the incident, this humble, soft-spoken professional who had kept his head and made the right split-second decisions in a moment of crisis. But Flight 1549 had landed on a river, not an ocean, and Sullenberger was an experienced pilot, not a novice with little training.

Crocker’s options were more limited.

The jet was currently 21,000 feet above the Mediterranean. Crocker lowered the flaps and pulled back on the throttles until the 727 slowly started to descend.