Poison sky, p.1
Poison Sky, page 1
For Kate, Megan, Killian and Michael
First published in 2021 by Ashbury Publishing
County Wicklow
Ireland
All rights © 2021 Paul McNeive
Paperback ISBN: 978 1 78846 215 0
eBook ISBN: 978 1 78846 216 7
Amazon paperback ISBN: 978 1 78846 217 4
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All characters and events featured in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead, organisation or event, is purely coincidental.
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Also by Paul McNeive
Small Steps (non-fiction)
The Manhattan Project
Praise for The Manhattan Project
‘With an extraordinary, original and well-researched plot, contemporary themes, action, twists and turns, The Manhattan Project has all the ingredients of an international bestseller.’
– Glenn Meade, New York Times bestselling
author of The Romanov Conspiracy
‘With a plot as fast-paced as the writing – bioterrorism meets big pharma – and a storyline stretching from Japan through the Middle East to the USA, The Manhattan Project is a cracking debut thriller. Guaranteed to be read in an all-night sitting!’
– Paul Carson, author of Inquest
For further information on Paul McNeive’s books and speaking engagements visit paulmcneive.com
Prologue
Dubrovnik, Croatia, 1452.
Jakov inched his way along the stony beach, dragging the precious bag behind him. Blood from his knees oozed through his trousers, and his hands ached, despite his special leather gloves. Suddenly the clouds parted, the moon lit the shore and he pressed himself down into the pebbles. He gasped as a sharp stone stabbed his ribs. His heart was thumping so loudly he feared that the soldiers would hear it. He stayed as still as possible. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the sea, just yards to his left.
Close now. Nearly time. He raised his head gradually and risked a glance upwards. There they were! Towering above him. The massive stone walls that had protected Dubrovnik for centuries. The walls were lower near the sea, and that was why he had been told to launch his attack from the beach, after walking down from the hills to the east.
His family were so proud that he had been hand-picked for this important mission. His skill with the trebuchet, or catapult, had been noted and nurtured from an early age. His mother had wept and hugged him tight when the Bosnian soldiers arrived to take him on this mission. His father had shaken his hand firmly, with tears in his eyes, as he presented Jakov with the catapult he had made especially for this task.
Jakov estimated the distance. Another ten yards or so.
The clouds re-joined and a veil of darkness fell over the beach. Jakov crawled forward, then stopped and undid the strap holding the catapult on his back. He pulled the leather bag closer, opened it and took out the first piece of ammunition. He put it into the catapult and held it there, firmly. He waited for a little more light. The clouds thinned again and Jakov knelt up, his left foot and his right knee on the stones. He held the catapult tightly in his strong left hand and pulled his deadly missile backwards, as far as he could manage. He judged the arc of the shot and then fired. He watched the projectile sail over the wall, then he threw himself face down on the beach as he heard a dull thud in the distance.
Yes! Success! That sounded like a roof.
Five minutes later, the moonlight reappeared and Jakov took his second shot. This time he aimed a little further to the right, closer to a church spire. Another good one. He heard the sound of timber splintering, but this time he also heard shouting and he could see movement along the battlements.
Jakov dropped to the ground again, his heart racing. It would be dangerous now to take another shot. But there was just one more piece of this valuable ammunition. He could not go home without completing his task. He loaded the last one into his catapult, lay still and waited. Eventually, the moonlight flickered through again, enough to give him a view of Dubrovnik’s silhouette. He knelt up and unleashed the shot with all his might. From the second it left him, Jakov knew the shot was good. But the crossbow bolt that buried itself deep in his heart was a good shot too. Jakov fell dead onto the stones, still clutching his catapult.
*
Lumo Kinotoa closed his favourite book slowly, a tear in his eye. No matter how many times he read it, he was always moved by the story of the boy, Jakov. He let his head fall back against the leather headrest and he closed his eyes. Such bravery. And such brilliance. Biological warfare in the Middle Ages.
And amazing how some things stay the same. Even over centuries. It was from the same hills to the east that the Yugoslav People’s Army had shelled Dubrovnik in 1991.
He sat for several minutes, enjoying the silence, and thinking about the boy Jakov. And then a smile spread over his face. Brilliant! That’s what they call lateral thinking.
Kinotoa edged his right hand slowly forward and grasped the toggle on his armrest. He moved it to the right and the silence was broken by a hum as his electric wheelchair responded. He stopped at the table in the middle of the room, at the centre of which was a chess-set of hand-carved ivory pieces. He reached out and moved a black pawn forward, one square. He was still smiling. Game on.
Part One
The First Crash
Chapter 1
Les Barrett loved flying. Now fifty-eight years old, he still sometimes pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Most nights, he did dream about flying.
His alarm chirped at 6 a.m. He turned it off and leaned over to kiss his wife on the forehead. She never stirred. She was well used to his irregular working hours. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he logged into the company system and checked that there was no change to his departure time. There wasn’t.
He splashed cold water on his thin face after he shaved, then crept down the stairs of their house in Ronkonkoma, Long Island, although ‘the kids’ were even less likely to wake. After a short run, a shower, an orange juice and a bowl of muesli, he was on the road at seven-thirty, in his old Civic coupe, a fiftieth birthday present from his wife. This gave him two hours for the ninety-minute drive to JFK Airport. He would never be late for a flight.
The traffic got steadily busier as he neared New York and he made his routine stop at a shopping mall about a mile before the airport. He bought Java coffees and doughnuts for himself and his co-pilot. Better than the bland fare at the airport. As he reversed out of his parking spot, there was no reason for him to notice a well-dressed young man getting out of a white van and pulling a suitcase towards the taxi rank. Their lives would soon intertwine.
He arrived in the employee parking lot at 9 a.m., cleared security and walked into JFK Flight Operations.
‘Hey, Les!’ His co-pilot, Karen Chamberlaine, was waving at him from a table by the window. Her uniform was immaculately pressed, her dark hair just visible in a ponytail below her cap. She took the airline’s policies on grooming very seriously.
‘Hey, Karen,’ Les said, sitting down and sliding her coffee and doughnut across the table.
‘Oh, lifesaver, thank you,’ Karen replied, biting into her doughnut. ‘Skipped breakfast. The damn traffic is becoming impossible.’ She brushed a few crumbs off the table.
Ten minutes later they were signing in to fly the Boeing 777 to Los Angeles and checking the weather and their flight plan. Karen, already an experienced pilot, was in her first probationary year with the airline and Les gave her a pleasant surprise. ‘You like to fly the first leg to LA?’ he asked.
‘You betcha, Captain,’ she smiled. Wow. Pressure. Okay, let’s get the planning right.
‘Um, there’s a NOTAM and Flight Plan remark,’ Karen said a few minutes later, looking up from her iPad. ‘We’re to use CPDLC.’ This was a new communication system being introduced across the US, which saw aircraft communicating with air traffic controllers by automated texts, as well as by radio.
‘No problem,’ Les said. ‘I used it a lot in Europe on the 767s.’
Karen nodded. ‘Yeah, I completed the training module, but I’ve never worked it live. All about reducing potential human error.’ Hell. This is all I need. Nothing simple.
After twenty minutes talking through the flight, the pilots grabbed their rollaboard suitcases and flight cases and were at their gate by 10 a.m. Les and Karen introduced themselves to the flight attendants and briefed them on the flight.
Les volunteered to do the pre-flight walkaround inspection of the Boeing, which was unusual for captains, but he still got a thrill from just looking at the beautiful big jets. And besides, it was a beautiful summer’s day. Most captains operated what pilots called the seventy/thirty rule. If it was above seventy, or below thirty degrees Fahrenheit, there was only a thirty percent chance the captain would do the walkaround.
Back in the cockpit, Karen was setting up the flight management system. Most important, she knew, was to verify that the route she downloaded into the system matched the route that air traffic control had cleared them for. Today they were cleared via the Kennedy Five departure, and then they would navigate for almost two thousand five hundred miles, via a series of waypoints. The last waypoint, Karen noted, was CRCUS, and as with most waypoints at the end of a flight, it has a holding pattern built into it, just in case there was a delay in getting clearance to land.
‘All looking good, Karen,’ Les Barrett said, as he stowed his flashlight and yellow safety vest. He put his jacket on a hanger in the cockpit closet and slid into his seat. As the non-flying pilot on this leg, Les worked through a series of check lists, including their radio frequencies, switches and circuit breakers. Then he checked their fuel load for the three-hour-fifty-nine-minute flight. Yep … thirteen thousand, four hundred and thirty-two US gallons. Everything was in order.
Walking slowly along the airbridge, and trying to look relaxed, Baber Hana was sweating. Because he had a business class ticket, he was one of the first to board. Most importantly, on a Boeing 777-200, the door into the business class section was just five feet from the cockpit. He could almost hear his heart pounding. This damn tie. It feels like it’s choking me. He resisted the temptation to stick a finger inside his shirt collar to try and make more space. He had been warned that security would be looking for signs of people looking uncomfortable, or ill at ease.
The elderly couple in front of him had almost reached the door. He could see a blonde flight attendant inside, ready to switch on her smile. He had practised this routine so many times at the fake door in the farm shed. He knew he could do it. Allah be by my side.
He took his cell phone out of his pocket with his right hand, held it to his ear, and began talking into it, as if he was on a phone call. He was carrying a bundle of documents under his left arm. He stepped into the plane and looked left. As always during boarding, the cockpit door was open, and he could see the two pilots’ backs, heads down, as they did their paperwork.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the smiling stewardess. ‘Your boarding card please?’
‘Oh, of course, sorry,’ Baber replied.
He balanced his cell phone between his shoulder and his ear and stretched his right hand across to the left-hand outside pocket of his jacket. As he pulled out the boarding card, he dropped the bundle of documents under his left arm, and they slid across the floor, to the left. ‘Oh. I’m so sorry,’ he said.
‘Can I help you?’ the stewardess asked. ‘Take your time.’
Baber handed her his boarding card and bent down to pick up the papers he had dropped. As he bundled them up, he made sure to hold the top of the Jiffy envelope open, and he gave it a shake towards the open cockpit door, which was now right beside him. Flushed, he straightened up and smiled at the stewardess. ‘I’m sorry. I seem to be so clumsy today.’
‘Don’t you worry, sir, we’re in no hurry. Now, you’re the window seat in the third row,’ she added, handing him back his boarding card, and pointing down the aisle.
‘Thank you,’ said Baber, and he forced a smile.
Thirty minutes later, the pilots were looking down the full length of Runway 22 Right. Karen Chamberlaine pushed the throttles forward, let the giant General Electric engines stabilise and then activated the auto-throttle. The big jet thundered down the runway, the engines now consuming two gallons of fuel per second, and Karen made small corrections on the pedals to keep them on the centre line. Les Barrett called ‘V1,’ the abort decision speed, and then, when they had reached the optimum speed, ‘Rotate.’ Karen gently raised the aircraft’s nose and FunAir Flight 1211, with two hundred and ninety-nine passengers, eleven flight attendants, and two pilots on board, roared into a clear blue sky.
Chapter 2
If Detectives John Wyse and Deke Hansen had looked skywards to the west from Manhattan, they could have made out the shape of the 777 as it climbed. The detectives were walking to Poppies, for lunch, from 1 Police Plaza, the headquarters of the Joint Terrorism Task Force.
‘So I softened my brain and I hardened my heart. All at the same time,’ Hansen was saying. He was talking about the period after his divorce, when he had been drinking too much.
Another classic Hansen line, Wyse thought. He hadn’t even known that Hansen was divorced.
In the cockpit above them, Karen Chamberlaine was climbing the aircraft up a series of steps, each requiring a separate air traffic control clearance. At ten thousand feet, Les Barrett sounded a double ding on the seatbelt sign, to advise the cabin crew that they could begin the in-flight service, and that passengers could use the toilets. He scratched his elbow, which was itchy. The last step was to their cruising altitude of thirty-six thousand feet. When she was cleared by air traffic control, Karen reached up to the altitude selector knob on the glare shield and rotated it clockwise.
Once the autopilot had established them in the cruise, Les Barrett made a short announcement to the passengers, telling them that they were cruising at thirty-six thousand feet, and wished them a pleasant flight. Karen, who was concentrating hard, allowed herself a smile. If there was one height that they certainly weren’t at, it was thirty-six thousand feet. There were some things that passengers were better off not knowing. At these altitudes all pilots adjust their altimeters to a standard air pressure setting of 1013 millibars, which was almost certainly not the correct pressure at their location. But at this height, with separation of aircraft the main priority, the only important thing was that everyone was wrong by the same amount.
Karen and Les discussed the flight management system. Their waypoints now would be in Cleveland, Indianapolis, Kansas and Denver’s airspace.
‘I always enjoy picking out the racetrack at Indianapolis,’ Les said. ‘I raced there a coupla times.’
‘It’s the Rockies for me,’ said Karen. ‘Can you believe that view from six miles up? And we’re getting paid for it?’
Les laughed, and Karen scratched the back of her neck.
They configured the flight management system for the rest of the flight to Los Angeles. Communication and navigation from here on would now be via automated texts between the aircraft and the various waypoints. Now that they were safely cruising on autopilot, they could relax a little more.
‘Hey, you heard the rumours about the airline maybe ordering some Dreamliners?’ Les asked. He cleared his throat and coughed. Might pop two Tylenol. Bit of a headache coming on. Think I’ve some in my case.
‘Wow. Wouldn’t that be great,’ Karen said, scratching the back of her neck again. ‘I heard they’re talking about flying international. Think of all those lovely new routes. Lots of downtime and pay increases.’
They fell silent for a while, continuously scanning their instruments and the sky. Les blinked a couple of times and began coughing. What? His view of the instruments was getting blurry. He blinked hard again and tried to focus on the altimeter. What the fuck? He tried to rub his eyes, but he could hardly raise his arm. His vision was getting blurrier. He was finding it hard to breathe. He forced his head to the right and tried to call Karen. The last thing Les Barrett saw before he blacked out was Karen, apparently asleep, her head drooped down on her chest, some foam on her lips.
Chapter 3
‘Heads up,’ Sergeant Tom Bull shouted, as he turned on the TV screen in the open-plan office area of the Joint Terrorism Task Force. There had been an outbreak of detectives’ cell phones ringing over the last minute or so, as news spread. ‘Something’s wrong with a flight over LA,’ he added.
