Al Haggerty
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SAMPLE CHAPTER
THE FAILOVER FILE
prologue
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It started in the dark.
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The controller on duty saw the jet's lights at the end of the runway and keyed his microphone. "November two-one-five echo sierra, Peterson Tower, cleared for takeoff, runway one-seven left."
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The pilot acknowledged the clearance, took one last look around the cockpit and smoothly advanced the thrust levers to takeoff power. The aircraft surged down the runway in the darkness, splashing sheets of water off the rain-soaked concrete as it gathered speed.
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The pilot smiled to himself, delighted with the power of the pristine new business jet. The ship had been in service less than one hundred flight hours since leaving the factory. It was gloriously modern, with every safety feature and performance to spare. And it still smelled like a new car.
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The twin fanjet engines at the rear of the fuselage gave a muted roar under precise computer control while the nose wheel tracked the runway centerline perfectly, the plane's course held by inputs from the automated flight management system in the ship's tail section.
The young copilot called out rapidly increasing speeds while lightning flashed in the distance. A thunder storm had passed to the south of the field fifteen minutes before, but a climbing left turn would clear the storm easily. The pilot felt a gust of wind rock the wings as the plane accelerated through a hundred knots but a light touch on a rudder pedal held the ship on the runway centerline.
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The copilot called out liftoff speed and the pilot eased the control yoke backward slightly. The long, pointed nose of the business jet lifted, rotating the racing aircraft back on its main landing gear. Lift swelled beneath the long, sharply swept wings. The pilot grinned to himself again as that magic moment came when the wheels grew light on the runway and the airplane gathered itself to fly.
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A second after the wheels broke free of the ground the pilot knew something was not right. The aircraft's nose continued to rise rapidly past the pitch angle the pilot had commanded, and he pressed forward on the yoke to counteract the motion. Turbulence, he thought. But the nose kept rising toward the dark clouds that hovered just above the ground, and the air was smooth.
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The pilot shifted his vision from the outside world to the instrument panel, scanning the electronic flight control screens as the glow of the runway and city lights faded to cloudy blackness. A glance at the attitude indicator confirmed that the nose was continuing to rise dangerously. He increased his forward pressure on the control yoke, the first tinges of fear beginning to enter his consciousness. He knew this could not be happening, but it was.
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The nose continued up through fifty degrees from the horizontal, and the pilot saw that the plane had ceased to accelerate. It hung briefly at a safe speed before beginning to slow because of the extreme nose-up attitude. He was now pushing so hard on the yoke that his hands were white. His breathing labored from the strain, but there was still no decrease in the aircraft's uncontrolled rise.
The copilot stirred in his seat, watching the instrument displays in confusion. "What the hell?"
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"I know, dammit. I'm pushing." The pilot now felt an icy wave of terror wash over him. This would not end well.
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They watched helplessly, nearly lying on their backs in their seats now while the plane's nose pitched past seventy degrees above the horizon and the airspeed dropped below eighty knots. The yoke pulsated in the pilot's hands as the stick-shaker warned him of an impending stall.
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Years of experience and flight training told him not to give up. He turned the control yoke hard left. If he worked fast enough, the unwanted pitching might be converted into a turn, and the high climb angle could be wrestled down with rudder control.
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But the pilot could tell from the aircraft's drunken response that he was too late. The aircraft was unable to continue its steep climb as gravity won out over lift and engine thrust. It gave a hard shake and rolled drunkenly to the right. The nose began to fall now, the wings fully stalled, lift gone.
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He felt a sickening sensation of falling and spinning in the pit of his stomach as the aircraft tumbled out of control. Dirt rose up from the carpet and into his eyes.
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The copilot grabbed instinctively at his shoulder straps. He had to swat with one hand at a ballpoint pen as it rose off the center console and attacked his face like a hornet.
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Both men struggled to bring the aircraft back under control, but it was no use. The uncontrollable motions continued, and the pilot watched in horror as the plane spun completely inverted and beyond.
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"Shit," the pilot shouted. "Oh, no."
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In the rear cabin, the lone passenger grabbed at his laptop as it tried to rise off the solid walnut table in front of him. He ducked as a crystal tumbler of excellent scotch flew past his head, spewing the thirty-year-old liquid and a few ice cubes as it passed. The heavy glass rolled for a second on the ceiling, and then made a second pass at his head on its way to the floor. He felt himself surge upward against his seat belt. Fear and his abused sense of balance sent a blast of nausea through him.
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J. Wesley Corso, Captain of Industry, Arbitrageur, Magnate, did not expect such gyrations from his private jets. His surprise and fear were overruled by anger at such unacceptable behavior from his hired help. He was reaching for the intercom handset to call the cockpit when the lights of the airport came into view again through the cabin window at his side, whirling crazily past the airplane's wing tip.
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Corso did not have time to react to the sight of the airport's blue and white lights as they raced up to meet him. He did, however, briefly recognize the fact that he was going to die. The beginnings of a scream formed in his throat.
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An instant later, the hurtling jet smashed into the ground belly-first near the airport perimeter and was engulfed in a mass of flames.
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