Monday, 8:11 a.m.
Hartmann drummed his fingers on the desk, glancing quickly at the clock hanging on the opposite wall. Eight eleven. “Come on. Come on,” he shouted into the empty room. “Answer the god damn phone.”
“Federal Aviation Administration. Phil Cruz speaking,” the voice said.
Hartmann breathed a sigh of relief. “Mr. Cruz? This is Special Agent William Hartmann. FBI out of San Francisco. The Deputy Director of the FBI gave me your name. He said you were the only FAA person on the west coast who could change the flight path of a plane already airborne. I need you to do that immediately.”
“Sir, I can’t do that unless …”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Cruz, but there’s no time for I can’t do that. You’ve got to get that plane back on the ground. There’s a bomb on board.”
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