Chapter 37 - The Black Jet’s Harpoon
The high-power microwave pulse from the escort jet struck Flight 001’s outer sensor arrays, scorching the primary VHF antennas and frying the remaining flight management computers. The cabin plummeted into near-total silence as both massive Rolls-Royce Trent engines surged violently, their digital engine control units thrown into emergency backup mode.
In the cockpit, Captain Vance was battling the controls as the aircraft began to buffet in violent, teeth-rattling clear-air turbulence.
"They’re using an electronic warfare jammer to fry our fly-by-wire buses!" Vance yelled, his arms shaking under the strain of the vibrating yoke. "They want to force us into an uncommanded stall! If our airspeed drops below two hundred knots at this altitude, we’ll enter a flat spin and tear the wings off!"
"Can you hand-fly her?" Elena demanded, leaning over the center console.
"Not without manual trim, and the trim motors are fried!" Vance shouted. "They're herding us like cattle. They want us to bleed off altitude until we have no choice but to follow them into their landing corridor!"
Suddenly, the encrypted satellite phone in Elena’s pocket buzzed again. The military jammer hadn't knocked out her Swiss federal device—it operated on an ultra-secure, frequency-hopping military band designed to survive nuclear EMP bursts.
Elena hit the speakerphone button and slammed the device onto the pedestal between the pilots.
"Evelyn," Elena said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, steady calm. "Your pet marshal is tied like a hog in my galley. Call off your attack jet, or you will never touch a single cent of the Zurich vault."
A bitter, chilling laugh crackled through the small speaker.
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"You always were so arrogant, Elena," Evelyn’s voice answered over the hiss of static. "You think you hold the leverage? Look at the altitude gauge on your dashboard, darling. You have less than twelve minutes before your pilots lose aerodynamic control completely. Surrender the digital keys, order Vance to follow my escort, or drown in the Atlantic with three hundred innocent souls on your conscience."
***
