True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)
Lee Goldberg
CHAPTER ONE
Honolulu. July 17. Noon. Hawaii-Aleutian Standard Time.
The assassin wore only a Speedo and his lean body was slathered with sunscreen that made him smell like a baked coconut. His name was Doric Thane and he sat on a poolside chaise lounge that faced Waikiki. To his right, and in the distance, was Honolulu International Airport. Behind him, the hotel tower stood against the backdrop of Diamond Head volcano and pale kids with floaties around their chubby arms frolicked loudly in the overchlorinated pool. There was a closed MacBook on his lap and a cold lava flow cocktail on the table beside him. He scratched absently at the puckered gunshot scar on his stomach and sighed with contentment.
Thane opened his MacBook and a detailed simulation of an airplane cockpit control panel filled his screen. The photo-realistic animated graphic looked identical to the actual control panel in the cockpit of TransAmerican Flight 976, which at that very moment was preparing to depart from Honolulu filled with sunburned tourists in loud aloha shirts and board shorts heading back to Cleveland.
Captain Avery Jenkins went through his preflight checklist. He had a touch of gray at his temples that conveyed stability, experience, and wisdom. Those were qualities that every passenger wanted to see in a pilot and for some stupid reason, the patches of gray bestowed it all upon him. So he’d begun coloring his hair years before the gray came naturally. Jenkins had a new first officer on this flight, Billy Shoop, who was busy plugging coordinates into the flight management system. Shoop was youthful enough to regularly get carded at bars and looked like he had second-degree burns on his face. The captain saw traces of his younger self in Shoop and it made him a bit wistful.
“First layover in Hawaii?” Jenkins asked.
Shoop nodded. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. Let me share a little captainly advice. Next time you’re here, don’t fall asleep on the beach.”
“I didn’t. I’m very fair skinned. I get burned if someone aims a flashlight at me.”
“Then we’d better get you back to Ohio before you burst into flames,” Jenkins said. “You’re taking us up. Let’s get push clearance.”
“Yes, sir.” Shoop radioed the tower. “Honolulu Ground, TransAmerican 976 requests push clearance off Gate 4.”
The air traffic controller responded right away, his voice as flat and emotionless as an automated recording. “TransAmerican 976, you’re cleared to push. Advise when ready to taxi.”
Five miles due south, from a chaise lounge at the Diamond Head Tradewinds Resort, the assassin studied the live readings on the airplane control console on his MacBook screen. TransAmerican Flight 976 was leaving the gate.
Doric Thane smiled. The fun was about to begin.
TransAmerican Flight 976 taxied to the runway and First Officer Shoop dutifully waited for the go-ahead from the tower.
“You are cleared for immediate liftoff on Runway 8R,” the controller said by rote. “On departure, fly heading 140.”
The runway was on a reef that pointed at the resorts along Waikiki, so the controllers always ordered departing planes, no matter where they were bound, to immediately head south to avoid buzzing the beach and destroying the tropical tranquility for the tourists.
“Roger. TransAmerican 976 cleared for takeoff on Runway 8R, heading 140,” Shoop confirmed, then looked to the captain for the official confirmation.
“You have the aircraft,” Jenkins said.
“I have the aircraft.” Shoop sat up straight in his seat, confident and eager, and pushed the thrust levers forward and activated the auto-throttle.
The plane raced down the runway, picking up speed. Shoop pulled back the sidestick and the plane began climbing into the sky at two thousand feet per minute toward Diamond Head in the distance, where Doric Thane sat on his chaise lounge, his fingers poised over the keyboard of the MacBook on his lap.
The assassin tapped a few keys, initiating the autopilot on his cockpit console, stopping the climb and changing the flight’s heading to 090. He was in control of the flight. The cockpit crew was as powerless as the passengers now. They might as well order a drink, eat some peanuts, and enjoy the ride.
Captain Jenkins instantly noticed that the plane was flying parallel to Honolulu on their left rather than veering to their right toward the open sea. But that wasn’t all that was wrong. The altimeter showed them leveling off at twelve hundred feet when they should have been climbing.
“What are you doing?” Jenkins asked Shoop. “The heading is 140.”
“I know that,” Shoop said, struggling with his sidestick. “But the stick isn’t responding.”
The reason why was obvious. The captain saw that the green autopilot light was lit up on the instrument panel, indicating that the system had been activated. He sighed with irritation at the kid’s carelessness. “That’s because you accidentally engaged the autopilot.”
Chagrined, Shoop pressed the autopilot button on his sidestick to disengage the system. But the light stayed on.
He shot the captain a frightened look. “It won’t turn off.”
“TransAmerican 976, turn immediately to 140,” the controller yelled into his ear, some life in his voice now. “You have leveled off. I repeat, turn to 140.”