Chapter 9 - The Net Tightens
The electronic buzz of the terminal lobby suddenly felt deafening. All around us, travelers glancing up at the overhead security screens began doing double-takes, their eyes shifting nervously between the monitor and the crowds moving through the hall.
"We've got thirty seconds before someone connects the face on that screen to the man standing next to the baggage carousel," Hayes said, his hand sliding inside his jacket pocket to grip the handle of his sidearm. "We need to move, Dan. Now."
"If we run for the curbside, we walk right into a blockade," I said, scanning the exits. Federal transit police were already streaming through the glass doors at the far end of the hall, their hands resting on their holstered weapons as they systematically checked the crowd.
"Then we don't go out," Vance said, his voice remarkably calm given that his own face was likely flashing on screens inside the Pentagon at that exact moment. "We go up."
"Up?"
"The airport transit shuttle," Vance explained, pointing toward the elevated glass tube connecting the terminal to the midfield concourses. "It runs autonomously on an independent rail line every three minutes. If we board a departing shuttle, we can cross over to Concourse C, slip through the airline maintenance docks on the opposite side, and reach the general public access road beyond the perimeter fence."
It was a reckless, high-risk play—moving directly into the heart of the airport rather than away from it—but in a situation this compromised, it was the only move they wouldn't expect.
"Let's move," I said.
We navigated through the thick knot of tourists waiting near the baggage carousels, keeping our heads turned away from the roving patrols of transit police. Every step felt like walking across a minefield. Twice, officers in dark blue uniforms swept their gazes past our group, but the casual slouch of ordinary travelers protected us just long enough to reach the bank of escalators leading up to the aero-train platform.
As we stepped onto the metal grating of the escalator, a sharp chime echoed through the terminal, followed by an automated public announcement:
“Attention passengers and airport personnel, security alert level has been elevated to maximum. All terminal exits are temporarily sealed.”
Panic rippled through the crowd below us. People began shouting and surging backward, creating a chaotic bottleneck at the base of the escalators.
"They've sealed the terminal," Hayes cursed, breaking into a fast walk the moment we reached the upper platform.
The automated transit shuttle was already sitting at the platform doors, its sleek silver doors open, waiting for its final cycle of the night. Only a handful of weary travelers sat inside the glass cabin.
We slipped through the sliding doors just as they began to close, collapsing into the molded plastic seats near the back corner. Through the reinforced glass walls of the shuttle, I watched the platform outside erupt into motion as a squad of armed federal police swarmed the escalator landing, shouting orders and pointing directly toward our car.
The shuttle doors hissed shut, sealing tight with a pneumatic thud. A mechanical voice chimed overhead:
“Departing for Concourse C. Please hold on.”
The car lurched forward smoothly, accelerating into the dark, subterranean tube that connected the terminals. For a fleeting second, it felt like we had broken clean.
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Then the lights inside our shuttle car flickered violently, dimmed, and completely died, plunging us into absolute darkness except for the flickering red emergency strips along the floorboards.
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