Chapter 6 - THE MID-AIR INTERCEPTIONThousands of feet above the Atlantic Ocean, Grant Calder reclined in the leather-swivel chair of his private Gulfstream jet, sipping vintage champagne. His laptop rested on his lap, displaying a real-time progress bar of the Zurich server purge: 89% Complete.
"Just a few more minutes," Grant muttered to himself, a smug grin spreading across his face. "Once those servers format, the old man and his little army cronies are dead in the water. We walk."
Suddenly, the cabin lights flickered from warm white to harsh, blinking red emergency status. The gentle hum of the jet engines stuttered violently, throwing Grant forward against his tray table.
"What the hell is going on?!" Grant shouted, unbuckling his seatbelt and stumbling toward the cockpit door.
He threw the cabin door open. The cockpit was bathed in flashing warning lights. The co-pilot was slumped unconscious over the yoke, and the captain was wrestling with the flight computer as warning klaxons wailed.
"Sir! We've lost primary and secondary flight control systems!" the captain yelled over the noise, sweat pouring down his forehead. "An external override command has locked our nav computer. We are being forcibly rerouted!"
"Rerouted by whom?!" Grant screamed, panic gripping his chest. "I am a United States citizen, you cannot—"
"By order of the United States Air Force Strategic Command," a calm, digitized voice boomed over the aircraft’s public address system. "Gulfstream November-Seven-Zero-Delta, you are intercepted by two F-35 Lightning fighters. You will immediately alter course to Joint Base Andrews. Any resistance will be met with immediate kinetic interception."
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Grant stared out the cabin window in sheer horror. Just off the starboard wing, the matte-black silhouette of an F-35 fighter jet cruised alongside them, its afterburners glowing faintly against the dark expanse of the stratosphere.
Down on the ground at Joint Base Andrews, two companies of armed military police and federal marshals were already waiting on the tarmac, their headlights forming a brilliant cage of light around the designated landing zone.
