Powerless by Tim Washburn Page A

London.”
    Cheryl quickly searches her map, trying to pinpoint their position. She scans the instruments, looking at the altimeter and compass heading then back to the maps.
    â€œI found a small field near Northampton.”
    â€œHow small?” Steve says as he uses every ounce of energy to control the plane. They’re still socked in with clouds.
    â€œThe runway’s about forty-one hundred feet. I don’t know if we can make that.”
    â€œWe’re going to have to. We’ve burned off most of the fuel, so maybe. What’s my heading?”
    â€œCome to two-one-zero. By my calculations we’re about five miles from the landing strip.” She stares at the dense whiteness surrounding them.
    At thirty-two hundred feet they break through the heavy cloud cover, and both exhale an audible breath.
    â€œYou see the runway?” Steve looks out the side window, and the damage to the outermost left wing becomes apparent. “The tip of the left wing is sheared off and she’s yawing to the right. I need full flaps to bleed off some speed.”
    Cheryl pushes down the handle that controls flap settings. “Full flaps. Make your heading two-three-zero. We should be about four miles from Northampton.” She points out the window. “I see the airport.”
    Steve follows her outstretched hand and centers his gaze on the long strip of concrete.
    â€œThis is going to be nearly impossible. See any other traffic?”
    Cheryl sweeps the horizon. “No, it looks clear. Slow and steady, Steve. We’re almost there.” Her voice is reassuring, calm.
    He banks the plane in a short, right turn, lining up on the runway as Cheryl deploys the landing gear. A nasty crosswind is playing havoc with his efforts to control the wounded jet. Steve’s feet are pushing one way then the other, using the rudder to control the side-to-side drift. He eases back on the throttles. “Damn, that’s a narrow son of a bitch.” He struggles to keep the nose centered on the runway.
    A computer voice in the cockpit says, “One hundred.”
    â€œIt’s wide enough,” Cheryl says. “Sit her down, nice and easy, like every other time.”
    â€œFifty . . . forty . . . thirty . . .”
    The captain eases back on the throttles a little more and pulls up the nose.
    â€œTwenty . . . ten . . .”
    â€œC’mon, damn it.” With a squeal, the tires make contact and the nose slowly lowers, touching down. He slams the throttles to the reverse thrust position and uses both feet to stand on the brakes. Sweat is pouring down his face as the jet shudders.
    â€œDon’t know if I can get her stopped.” His legs are Jell-O as every item not tied down in the cockpit slams against the front bulkhead.
    Steve glances out the window as the rushing scenery begins to slow. His legs are locked against the pedals. “Oh shit,” he says when he glances back toward the front.
    At the very end of the tarmac is a large excavator parked perpendicular to the runway, surrounded by piles of earth. The brakes howl in protest as he continues to stand on the pedals. Slowly, the giant plane loses speed.
    Only a hundred feet of runway remain as the large excavator looms ever larger in the windshield. The plane jerks to a stop. Steve sucks a deep breath and hits the cutoff switches for the three remaining engines. He looks out the cockpit window to see a lone car approaching, lights flashing. He turns to look at the small cluster of industrial buildings, and for some reason the fact that all the buildings are dark registers on his subconscious.

C HAPTER 28
    The Oval Office
    Wednesday, September 29, 3:36 P.M .
    Â 
    S cott Alexander is keeping an eye on the breaking news playing on the television in the Oval Office. He triggers the remote and the volume increases as the mayor of New Orleans conducts a live press conference.
    â€œMr. President, I’m asking for your help