At this the Air Force general redirected the conversation. “With all due respect to Mr. Austin’s theory, we’ve had satellites scanning every square inch of open terrain in the aircraft’s range. Every island. Every field. Every empty highway and abandoned air base. We’ve found no sign of it. No heat plumes from the engines, no smoking craters to suggest it crashed. No sign of it whatsoever. If the aircraft is on the ground, then it’s hidden in a hangar somewhere. And that brings us back to Russia.”
The President nodded thoughtfully before turning to the CIAdirector. “Carson,” the President said, using the DCI’s first name. “What do you have?”
The DCI cleared his throat and then spoke up. “I would have to agree with Austin,” he said reluctantly. “We don’t think the plane is in Russia. There’s no sign of increased signals to and from Moscow. Nothing to suggest any sense of celebration or glee within the higher levels of their command structure. On the ground floor, we’ve seen no unusual activity at any Russian air base. A large American aircraft coming in from the northwest at low altitude would set off all kinds of alarm bells once it got close enough to appear on radar.”
“Not if they knew it was coming,” someone suggested.
“In which case they would send up fighters to escort the hijackers in. Both to keep us from attempting to shoot the plane down and to keep the hijackers from changing their minds.”
The President concurred. “Standard procedure, but it didn’t occur.”
“No, it didn’t, Mr. President. Furthermore, we’ve seen nothing in Murmansk to indicate any hangar large enough to hide the C-17 has been put into special use. No signs of increased vehicle and foot traffic—which we would expect to see as Russian experts and intelligence personnel gathered at an airport to study the newly arrived plane. No signs of other planes being pushed out onto the ramp to make room for a larger aircraft. What we do see is business as usual. The Russians are busy winterizing their fleet this time of year. Buttoning things up. Putting things away. Packing the hangars to the gills with vulnerable aircraft and locking the doors and windows. There’s nothing to indicate them doing anything special to make room for the EAGL.”
The President was feeling more confident as the meeting went on. Perhaps his worst fears had been avoided. “So, it’s not in a Russian hangar, and not anywhere out on open terrain. That leaves only onepossibility. The aircraft went down over the ocean. Do we have anything to support this?”
At this the director of the National Reconnaissance Office chimed in. The NRO was in charge of America’s spy satellites, collecting and disseminating information to the various military branches and intelligence agencies.
“There is one thing,” he began slowly, “onepossiblepiece of evidence to suggest the aircraft hit the sea. Though I’m not sure we should fully rely on it.”
“Give it to us,” the President ordered.
“Approximately two hours after the hijacking, one of our satellites picked up an unusual radio signal in the Barents Sea. It was a continuous burst on multiple frequencies at the same instant. It lasted only three-quarters of a second and then vanished. No intelligible data was recovered, but the recorded frequencies match up precisely with systems used on the C-17.”
“What are you trying to tell us?” the President asked.
“It might be nothing,” the NRO’s director said. “It could be a fisherman thumbing his radio switches in the middle of the night or a malfunction on some nearby container ship. But it’s possible that we picked up what’s known as an ‘impact jam signal.’ An erroneous radio burst triggered during a crash when radios and other equipment are exposed to powerful destructive forces. It’s thought to occur as the impact shatters equipment, causing the remaining standby energy in the circuits to be channeled through the transmitters. Think of it as an electronic shout from a dying machine.”
The President nodded. “And this ‘jam signal’ would suggest the plane crashed?”
“Possibly,” the NRO’s director said. “But—and I cannot stress this enough—I would not label this a high-reliability indicator.”
Kurt saw the President’s face change even as the NRO’s directorwarned him not to put too much stock in what they’d picked up. The President wanted to believe it, he needed to believe it. In his mind it was the proverbial smoking gun.
“Where did this transmission occur?” the President asked.
“Only one station picked it up,” the director admitted, “which prevents us from triangulating its exact location. And that gives us a line to draw on the map, instead of a single point.”
The mild-mannered director tapped on the computer terminal in front of him and the line appeared on the map for everyone to see. It ran diagonally from a spot in the middle of the Barents Sea, up to the northwest, terminating twelve miles short of an island chain known as Franz Josef Land. To everyone’s dismay, a red flag labeled the islands as Russian possessions. At no point however did the signal cross the land.
The President turned back to the Air Force general, who’d conducted the briefing. “Could the aircraft survive intact if it hit the sea?”
“Doubtful,” the general told him.
“Why not?” the President said, pressing him. “A few years ago, someone landed a plane on the Hudson River. It came down in one piece.”
“A river is child’s play in comparison to the ocean,” the general said. “The Barents Sea sports large waves, floating chunks of ice, and swaths of fog that stretch for miles. Landing safely on its surface would be extremely unlikely. Hitting it and flipping or breaking apart is a much more plausible result.”
“Would that destroy the plane?” the President asked hopefully.
“It would be rendered inoperative,” the general said, “but it’s possible that the top secret components would remain intact and retrievable.”
Exactly what no one wanted.
The President turned back to Kurt. “NUMA,” he said, “what kind of depth are we talking about here?”
Kurt knew what the President wanted to hear, but it wasn’t in the cards. “Unfortunately, Mr. President, the waters of the Barents Sea are relatively shallow. It can be described as a tabletop between the deeper waters of the Arctic and the Atlantic Ocean. Depths probably average no more than seven hundred feet along the route indicated by the signal line. In some places less.”
“So not deep enough?”
