what they’ve told us to do.’
‘We can’t.’ Simmons’s eyes were riveted to the solid line against the black of the radar screen, the last details of Lufthansa 3216’s flight pattern trailing in a cone behind it.
‘Why not?’
‘Tail wind from the west is eighteen knots.’ It was the crew chief. ‘Maximum tail wind for a 737 is ten.’
‘3216 thirty seconds from Lambourne.’
The supervisor turned, ran to his desk, and punched the number. ‘This is the watch supervisor at West Drayton. We cannot divert 3216 from its planned course because that would involve a landing from the west, and the tail wind is too strong.’
‘How much too strong?’
‘The maximum permitted wind speed is ten knots and the actual wind speed at the moment is eighteen.’
‘The west approach,’ Langdon told him curtly. ‘Do it.’ Because there’s no way I’ll allow Lufthansa 3216 to fly over central London. No way I’ll allow the bloody hijacker to fly over Westminster when I’m sitting in the Cobra rooms below Downing Street.
‘3216 at Lambourne,’ Simmons said calmly.
The layer of cloud was thin below them. It was time to turn left, she knew, time to angle towards London, pick up the ILS beam, then swing right and follow it up the Thames and into Heathrow. Because that was what Air Traffic Control had instructed the other flights from Amsterdam when she had sat listening to the airband at Heathrow four days before.
‘Lufthansa 3216.’ The voice of the controller sounded different. ‘Turn right on to two eight five for landing on Zero Nine Left.’
Which is not what Control had told the other planes. Which was why she had made the Heathrow check. She sensed the way the first officer froze and Maeschler hesitated.
‘They’re re-routeing us.’ She was still calm, still controlled. The Zastava sub-machine gun was across her lap, the M70 was in the shoulder holster and the grenades were in her pocket. ‘We should be turning left, not right. Any course above two hundred and seventy means we’re going north of the runway.’
‘Correct,’ Maeschler told her.
‘Check ATIS again.’
‘Runway in use is Two Seven Left.’ The details on the automatic message were the same as earlier. ‘Surface wind two six zero, eighteen knots.’
‘Tell Control that,’ she ordered Maeschler. ‘Nothing else, just point out that they’re telling us to land with an eighteen-knot tail wind and the maximum is ten.’
‘Control, this is Lufthansa 3216. Repeat last directions.’
Something was wrong. Finn ignored the other men round him and listened to the exchange.
‘Lufthansa 3216. Turn right on to two eight five for landing on Zero Nine Left.’
‘Control, this is Lufthansa 3216. You originally told me to land from the east on runway Two Seven Left. Now you’re telling me to land from the west on runway Zero Nine Left.’
‘Affirmative, 3216.’
‘But according to ATIS there’s an eighteen-knot tail wind from the west, and the maximum tail wind for a 737 is ten knots.’
There was no reply.
Finn swung in his chair so that he could see the TV monitors. There had been no live pictures of Lufthansa 3216 since the Boeing had left Amsterdam, therefore ITV and CNN were replaying the takeoff from Amsterdam, and the BBC were running a studio discussion: a presenter and what Finn thought of as the inevitable panel of experts.
‘What’s ATIS?’ the presenter asked.
‘Airfield Terminal Information Service,’ the flight consultant told him. ‘It gives the latest airfield report to incoming pilots.’
‘What’s the difference between a tail wind of ten and eighteen knots?’
They stopped talking as Maeschler spoke again.
‘Control, this is Lufthansa 3216. If I follow your instructions and land from the west, the tail wind will mean that I might run out of runway.’
For the second time there was no reply.
‘Is that correct?’ the presenter asked the panel.
‘Yes.’
‘So if they land from the west, they might not make it?’
‘They should make it …’
‘But?’
‘There’s a chance they won’t.’
‘And the authorities are aware of that but are still telling them to do it?’
Be careful, the expert warned himself. Wrong answer and he wouldn’t be invited as an expert again; right answer and he might jeopardize his government contracts. ‘So it would seem,’ he agreed.
What’s happening? one of the sergeants in the police unit supervising the demonstration in Parliament Square asked the woman next to him. Heathrow’s changed the route in, she told him. Heathrow’s told them to land from the west, but the tail wind from the west is above the permitted speed and it means they might run out of runway. Bloody politicians, the policeman said aloud.
‘Control, this is Lufthansa 3216. Be aware we are fuel priority.’ Lufthansa 3216 running out of fuel, they understood. ‘I repeat. Be aware we are fuel priority.’
So what do I say, the radar controller stared at the crew chief, what do I do? ‘She’s turning.’ He picked up the first movement. ‘Repeat. She’s turning.’
‘3216 turning,’ the crew chief told the shift supervisor.
‘Lufthansa 3216 turning,’ the supervisor informed Downing Street.
‘3216 turning left,’ Simmons told the crew chief. ‘Confirm, she’s turning left.’
‘You mean right.’ Because that’s what we told her to do. That’s what we were ordered to tell her.
‘No, I mean left.’
There was nothing on VHF and there should be something. ‘What’s happening?’ the BBC presenter asked the panel.
‘One of two things.’ It was the flight expert again. ‘Either Lufthansa 3216 has turned north. Except that’s what Air Traffic Control instructed, which seems unlikely.’
‘Or?’
‘She’s disregarded Air Traffic Control and turned left, which would be the normal route in. Then she’d head south at an angle till she picks up the ILS beam,
