Warning Light Read online

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2014, 2018 by David Ricciardi

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  Original edition published by the author.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ricciardi, David, author.

  Title: Warning light / David Ricciardi.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017006920 (print) | LCCN 2017027798 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399585746 (eBook) | ISBN 9780399585739 (hardcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: International relations—Fiction. | Americans—Iran—Fiction. | Political fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3618.I275 (ebook) | LCC PS3618.I275 W37 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017006920

  First Edition: April 2018

  Cover art: Paris © fladendron/iStock

  Cover design by Peter Garceau

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For Julie, the love of my life

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe debts of gratitude to a great many people for their help with Warning Light: James Thayer, Andrew Malkin, Betty Sheridan, Bob Morelli, Charlie Robertson, Maggie Crawford, and especially Jack Romanos; my agent at Aevitas Creative Management, Rick Richter; my editor, Tom Colgan, and the rest of the team at Berkley. And most of all, to my family: parents, brothers, wife, and children, for their unwavering support.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  PROLOGUE

  The ground was still shaking when the scientists at the University of Tehran realized that the earthquake would end in tragedy. The seismographs at the Institute of Geophysics had pinpointed the epicenter near the Dehshir Fault, under the small city of Sirjan in southeastern Iran. When it was over, the quake measured 8.4 on the Richter scale. Strong aftershocks buffeted the region for days, hampering rescue efforts and wreaking further destruction.

  Initial estimates indicated more than twelve thousand dead. The injured were too numerous to count. Homes that weren’t completely destroyed had been rendered structurally unsound. Collapsing buildings claimed additional victims as residents tried to rescue family members or salvage possessions. Those who hadn’t been killed or hurt had lost friends and relatives, homes and livelihoods. Thousands were still missing, and their chances of survival decreased with every passing hour.

  Offers of assistance poured in from around the globe. Friend and foe alike volunteered money, manpower, and supplies to help the beleaguered residents rescue their loved ones and feed their families. A U.S. Navy ship exiting the Persian Gulf offered her heavy-lift helicopters to clear wreckage and transport the injured. Expert rescue teams from earthquake-prone Japan and Indonesia were standing by, ready to arrive in-country within twenty-four hours. In a rare sign of compassion and unity, every nation bordering the Persian Gulf pledged aid to their wounded neighbor, yet Iran turned them all away.

  Publicly, the government stated that it had dealt with earthquakes since ancient times and had all the resources it needed. Indeed, Iran was one of the most seismically active countries in the world and was well equipped to perform search and rescue operations. But the real reason, what the government didn’t mention, was that the most secret facility in its growing nuclear complex was just minutes outside the stricken city of Sirjan, and no foreigner was going anywhere near it.

  ONE

  “Speedbird 337, maintain heading one-one-five. Contact Tehran Defense Radar on 127.8. Good day.”

  Inside the cockpit, First Officer Edward Blake responded to the Turkish air traffic controller.

  “Roger that, Ankara Center. Speedbird 337 maintain heading one-one-five. Switching to 127.8.”

  He glanced to his left and caught Captain Sam Allard’s eyes for a moment before turning the VHF radio to the new frequency. The British Airways flight, radio call sign “Speedbird,” was closing in on Iran’s Flight Information Region and needed permission to enter Iranian airspace.

  “Tehran Radar, this is Speedbird 337 heavy.”

  “Go ahead, Speedbird 337.”

  “Tehran Radar, Speedbird 337 with you at flight level three-niner-zero, estimate crossing your FIR at 15:20 hours.”

  “Roger, Speedbird 337, squawk 0413 and proceed as filed.”

  The radio fell silent while the Iranian controller verified the radar contact and flight plan that the British Airways pilots had filed before taking off from London.

  In peaceful times, the flight would have followed the great circle route through Uzbekistan and Afghanistan before heading south below the Himalayas on its
way to Singapore. For the past decade, however, hostilities in the area led most airlines to divert their jets to the south, over Iran. The detour added a few minutes and several thousand dollars to the cost of each flight, but it was safer than flying through a war zone.

  “Speedbird 337, identified, cleared for entry. Contact Tehran Center on 133.4. Good day.”

  “Roger that, Radar, Speedbird 337 cleared for entry, switching to 133.4.”

  Captain Allard adjusted the autopilot and the six-hundred-twenty-ton Airbus A380 banked gently to the right before settling onto its new course. He scanned his instruments and cross-checked his flight computer. Underneath the wings of the Airbus, four Rolls-Royce Trent 970 engines were running smoothly, each delivering over eighty thousand pounds of thrust. The radio in the cockpit chirped sporadically as air traffic controllers directed the other planes in Sector Two around Tehran. Most of the flights were domestic, but Emirates, Air India, and other international carriers were not uncommon.

  The long-haul flight was on schedule as Allard gazed out the cockpit windows. The late-day sun was starting to form shadows behind the mountains below. It was his first flight over Iran. It was more rugged and beautiful than he’d expected, but his reverie was interrupted by the copilot.

  “Captain, we have a warning light on the number-three engine . . . Exhaust gas temperature is spiking and oil pressure is dropping quickly.”

  An automated voice in the cockpit called out another warning and a message flashed on the centralized aircraft monitor inside the cockpit. Captain Allard silenced the alarms. He was already looking at the engine data on his own monitors.

  “I don’t think we’re going to be able to keep it running. Give me maximum continuous thrust on the good engines and let’s run the engine shutdown checklist.”

  Blake made eye contact with his senior officer and took a deep breath. “Yes, sir, commencing in-flight shutdown on the number-three engine.”

  Blake pushed the button for the Fasten Seat Belt sign while Captain Allard switched to the air traffic control frequency on his headset.

  “Tehran Center, Speedbird 337 requesting immediate clearance to flight level two-seven-zero. Our number-three engine has lost oil pressure and we’re shutting it down.”

  The radio was quiet for a few long seconds. Allard and Blake shut down the malfunctioning engine and trimmed the aircraft’s rudder to compensate for the off-center thrust.

  “Speedbird 337, you are cleared to flight level two-seven-zero, understand number-three engine out. Are you declaring an emergency at this time?” asked the controller.

  Allard looked at his copilot. “Take her down to two-seven-zero as soon as we hit driftdown speed.”

  “Center, 337 leaving flight level three-niner-zero for two-seven-zero. That’s negative, repeat, negative on the emergency. We don’t know the cause of the pressure loss yet but the other three engines are running smoothly.”

  “Roger, Speedbird 337. Confirm you are an A380?”

  “That’s affirmative, Center.”

  “Speedbird 337, nearest capable alternate airport is Esfahan, approximately sixty miles northwest of your position. Would you like vectors to the alternate?”

  “Center, 337, negative on the alternate. We are proceeding on course, descending through flight level three-six-zero. We’re going to look at restarting our number three once we reach engine-out altitude.”

  “Understood, Speedbird 337. Maintain heading one-two-five degrees, flight level two-seven-zero, and keep us advised of your status.”

  “Maintain heading one-two-five, Speedbird 337,” confirmed Allard.

  When the aircraft started its descent, most of the passengers felt a touch of weightlessness before their seat belts pulled them down. Flight attendants walked down the pitched aisles, waking the sleeping passengers and enforcing the seat-belt rule. Questions from the passengers were politely deflected despite the clearly elevated vigilance on the part of the crew.

  Captain Allard picked up the handset for the internal public address system as the aircraft descended.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. You may have noticed that we’ve slowed down and descended over the past few minutes. Everything is fine. We’ll soon be leveling off at twenty-seven thousand feet where we’re going to stay for a bit. One of our engines was acting up so we decided to shut it down until we can correct the problem and get it restarted. The A380 is designed to fly quite well with only three engines and can get by with two if necessary. In the meantime, please listen to your flight attendants and remain in your seats. We will keep you apprised of the situation. Thank you.”

  The pilots spent a few minutes preparing to restart the idle engine but the warning lights flashed again. The mood in the cockpit remained businesslike despite the mounting problems.

  Blake spoke calmly. “We’ve just lost Yellow hydraulic pressure.”

  The forces involved in moving the control surfaces on such a large aircraft were enormous. Without hydraulics to move the rudder, ailerons, and elevator, the pilots would be unable to maneuver the plane. The hydraulic systems were so critical that the A380 had two systems, Green and Yellow, to prevent a single failure from turning into a catastrophe.

  “OK. What’s Green system pressure and quantity?”

  Blake was already looking at his monitor.

  “Green is at 96 percent.” He paused for a moment. “Make that 94 percent. Quantity is definitely falling. We may have a leak.”

  The pilots ran through a checklist to locate the cause of the problem. Years earlier, a Qantas Airways A380 had suffered a hydraulic failure after an engine exploded just after takeoff. The explosion had also been preceded by an oil-pressure loss. Only the skill of the crew, and much good luck, had allowed the aircraft to land safely.

  The air traffic controller had just finished handling a domestic Iran Air flight when Blake switched his radio back to the air traffic control frequency.

  “Tehran Center, Speedbird 337 . . .”

  “Speedbird 337, this is Tehran Center, what is your status?”

  “Center, our number three is still out, we’ve lost primary hydraulic pressure and are running on our secondary systems. Requesting vectors to the nearest capable alternate.”

  “Stand by, 337,” ordered the controller before the radio went quiet.

  A minute later, the controller returned. “Speedbird 337, turn left heading three-one-zero and descend and maintain flight level one-eight-zero. Prepare for landing at Beheshti International.”

  Allard and Blake looked at each other. The captain smiled, then shook his head.

  Blake keyed his microphone and calmly said, “Center, Speedbird 337. Unable to comply.”

  “Speedbird 337, this is Tehran Center . . . Please say again.”

  The radio was quiet.

  “Speedbird 337, this is Tehran Center. Please acknowledge.”

  There was silence from the cockpit.

  TWO

  Area Control Center, Sector Two, was a cold, modern room dominated by computer monitors and communications equipment. The radio frequency handling Flight 337 was being broadcast over the loudspeakers and all eyes were on the air traffic controller working the flight. The veteran controller had worked planes with communications trouble, aircraft that had strayed off course, and even emergencies, but no one had ever disobeyed an instruction before. He looked over his shoulder for guidance from the sector chief.

  “Why won’t he divert to Beheshti?” shouted the chief.

  The controller turned back to his monitor. Radar showed the British Airways flight continuing on course.

  “They seem to be losing altitude and their course is oscillating.”

  “If they are going to avoid the restricted airspace, they must divert now. Raise them again,” the chief ordered.

  “Speedbird 337, this is Tehran Cente
r. Come in.”

  For reasons of national security, safety, or even recreation, most countries have restricted airspace. Some parts of the sky are simply off-limits to aircraft that don’t have permission to be there, and the airspace in front of the struggling Airbus was most definitely off-limits.

  “Speedbird 337, this is Tehran Center. Do you copy?”

  The chief became angrier as the seconds passed in silence. “I am willing to believe we have an aircraft in distress if they communicate and divert, but they cannot simply ignore us. We have to assume a possible Trojan horse. Alert Western Area Command. Tell them we have an unresponsive aircraft and an imminent violation of the airspace around Sirjan.”

  The turbulent politics of the Middle East had led Iran to put military officers or reservists in control of its civilian air traffic control centers, and the Trojan horse scenario was one that all of their air defense specialists had studied. With air traffic control radar unable to distinguish an A380 on a routine passenger flight from a B-52 bomber intent on attacking Iran’s nuclear facilities, controllers could only establish an aircraft’s bona fides by assessing the pilot’s communication, behavior, and prefiled flight plan, all of which could be faked. This plane was already in central Iran and headed toward prohibited airspace, which was even more sensitive than restricted airspace. But the Iranians were ready.

  With wars to its west and north, and unfriendly aircraft regularly patrolling the Persian Gulf to its south, Iran had fighter jets and surface-to-air missiles stationed throughout much of the country.

  A technician in the air traffic control center picked up the third of several red phones on a console and spoke rapidly to the air force officer on the other end.

  “Western Command, we have a foreign aircraft headed toward the Sirjan prohibited area, possible Trojan horse. Aircraft is one hundred and twenty nautical miles southeast of Esfahan, heading one-three-zero, twenty-five thousand feet . . . Aircraft has ignored instructions and is not answering its radio . . .” The technician listened for a minute. “I understand. One moment.”