Kara’s Game. Gordon Stevens

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      He topped up the coffee, checked the television monitors against the right-hand wall of the room, and placed the two radios on the desk – one VHF tuned to the frequency 3216 was using, and the other a transistor so that he could listen to the press reports of the progress of 3216, and ipso facto the details the hijackers were receiving.

      The Operations Room was silent, almost eerie. Just like one of the RSGs, Finn thought. He’d been down one once, part of an exercise. An attack on a Regional Seat of Government, one of the underground bunkers for use in the event of nuclear war: four levels in a hollowed-out hill in Essex. Everything ready for World War Three – desks and chairs and bunks, even the blankets folded on them and the notepads and pencils perfectly in position. Everything silent as everything was ready and silent in the Ops Room now. Everything waiting, except the Cold War had ended, the threat of the ultimate mushroom over the world had lifted, and the RSG had been decommissioned. Just like the Ops Room until twenty minutes ago. Then somebody had pressed the button: then the hijacker had requested a routeing for Heathrow.

      

      It was one-thirty London time, Lufthansa 3216 over the North Sea. The nerves had gone from her stomach now, and her mind was calm.

      … The next time the United Nations lets your people down … She remembered the moment he had told her. The corridor in the hospital, the night dark and freezing, the children crying and the Serb shells thundering outside. Adin somewhere on the front line and little Jovan in the makeshift ward two doors away.

      Look down on me this day, she told them both. Pray for me, my husband. Smile at me, my son.

      The next time the United Nations stands by and does nothing. She remembered why he had told her …

      ‘Contact London,’ she instructed Maeschler.

      ‘London. This is Lufthansa 3216. Approaching Refso.’

      Lufthansa 3216 approaching British air space, Strike was informed. About to leave Dutch air space. Now in British air space. Lufthansa 3216 now his problem, Finn thought.

      ‘Lufthansa 3216.’ They all heard the voice of the British controller. ‘Standard Lambourne Three Alpha arrival for landing runway Two Seven Left.’

      ‘What does that mean?’ Langdon demanded.

      Kilpatrick crossed to the telephones and asked the flight adviser to join them.

      Lambourne Three Alpha was the standard arrival route for aircraft coming in from Amsterdam, the adviser informed them. He was settled uncomfortably at the end of the table facing Langdon. Runway Two Seven Left was the standard runway at that time of day for aircraft coming in from Lambourne.

      ‘Which way do they come in from Lambourne?’ Langdon leaned forward.

      ‘You mean the route?’

      ‘Yes.’ Because Lambourne is to the east, Heathrow is to the west, and London is bang in the middle.

      ‘Up the Thames and over central London.’

      ‘Over the City? Directly over Westminster, Downing Street, and Parliament?’

      ‘Yes.’

      

      Lufthansa 3216 approaching the Essex coast, Strike was informed.

      ‘Lufthansa 3216. Descend when ready to flight level one five zero.’ Descend to fifteen thousand feet.

      The air traffic control room was rectangular; low lighting and quiet atmosphere, no smoking and not even soft drinks allowed. The watch supervisor’s desk was at the head of the room; along the left wall were four radar suites, each controlling a sector; another suite on the end wall farthest from the watch supervisor, and four more suites along the other long wall. At each suite were two radar controllers, headsets on and radar screens horizontal on the desk in front of them, the crew chief for the sector standing between them.

      The watch supervisor checked the time, left his desk and walked the twenty metres to the third suite on the left. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked the controller in the right-hand seat.

      ‘Fine,’ Simmons told him.

      ‘How long can we leave it before we stop everything else?’

      Because there are thirty-eight landings and thirty takeoffs every hour at Heathrow at this time of day. Of course we’ll clear a window for 3216, stop all landings and takeoffs. Do it too early, however, and we create chaos; too late and we risk adding to the problems.

      ‘Twenty minutes window,’ the crew chief told him. ‘As soon as she leaves Lambourne.’

      ‘Agreed.’

      ‘3216 over Essex coast,’ Simmons informed them. ‘Two minutes to Lambourne.’

      And at Lambourne he would direct 3216 left, so it would pick up the ILS, the Instrument Landing System, which would guide it on to runway Two Seven Left.

      

      ‘Lufthansa 3216 approaching the point at which they turn for the run-in to Heathrow,’ the intelligence major informed the Operations Room.

      The room was beginning to fill.

      So what are you thinking, Finn?

      I’m hoping that my assumptions are correct, that’s what I’m thinking. I’m hoping that the plans we laid this morning actually work. I’m hoping the preliminary diversion works, otherwise the press might see us approaching the aircraft and put it out on radio and television. And if they do, the hijackers will hear, and then they’ll be waiting for us.

      ‘3216 en route for Lambourne,’ the intelligence major updated the Operations Room. ‘Heathrow about to be closed down.’

      A Boeing 737 has six doors – that’s what I’m thinking, because that’s what I have to think about. Two at the front, two at the rear, and two emergency doors over the wings. All doors can be opened by handles on the outside. Three toilets where the hijackers might hide: one at front on left, assuming entry is through the front port door, and two at rear. And I’m thinking this, and nothing else, because from now on I can only think of what is relevant for when I go on to Lufthansa 3216 tonight. And I must assume that I’m going on, because otherwise I won’t be prepared. And if I’m not prepared, I’m dead.

      

      ‘Hold,’ the watch supervisor told the Clacton crew chief.

      ‘Hold,’ the crew chief told Simmons.

      The supervisor put the phone down, left his desk and hurried to them. ‘We need to re-route.’

      Getting tight to do it, they knew. Plus 3216 was running out of fuel.

      ‘3216 one minute from Lambourne.’ Simmons’s voice was almost mechanical.

      ‘Why re-route?’ the crew chief asked.

      ‘Orders.’ The reply was direct rather than blunt. ‘3216 can’t go over central London.’

      ‘Who says?’

      ‘Downing СКАЧАТЬ