Radar contact. Maintain ten thousand feet, fly heading one-eight-zero, radar vectors direct Indianapolis.”

“Level ten, one-eight-zero on the vector for direct, Voodoo Solo.” The captain banked his aircraft to the left until the compass read 180 degrees, then ran through his after takeoff and cruise checklists. His speed was over four hundred knots and he’d be ready for descent at Indy in no time at all. Things happen fast in an A-7D.

As if on cue, the radio chirped in his ear. “Voodoo Solo, Voodoo Tracker, slow to 250 knots, descend and maintain five thousand feet, contact Indianapolis Approach Control on one-one-nine point three. Good day, Sir.”

“Two-fifty speed, down to five, approach on one-nineteen three. Voodoo Solo.” The pilot pulled the power back to ten percent and dropped the nose, then called Indianapolis Approach Control, who gave him a heading to fly before handing him off to the tower for his touch and go. He would not stop. Instead, he’d just set the wheels down then power back up, take off toward Fort Wayne, and repeat the procedure there before heading back to Grissom AFB.

Still slightly high on the approach, he pulled the power back to idle for just a moment to slow the aircraft before dropping the landing gear. Once he had the proper speed, he pushed the power lever back up to maintain his desired rate of descent.

He was less than half a mile to go on his approach to the end of the runway when the fuel control unit failed and the jet’s engine spooled down and died.

Nine people had twenty seconds to live.

 

__________

 

 

Watch now as our cab driver, the very first to die, opens the trunk for the bags he’ll carry from the lobby. Watch as he happens to look upward, across the street at the bank building and imagine what thoughts must run through his mind as he tries to process what he sees. Watch the way his jaw unhinges and his mouth forms a perfect O so large you could fit three fingers in there and pull him away from the danger of the approaching aircraft if only there were enough time.

The pilot has already ejected and the jet is no longer flying—it is falling. It falls on top of the bank building and bounces upward slightly after this initial impact. It is this upward movement that causes our cab driver to make the O with his mouth. He turns his head toward the hotel, not in denial of what will come, but out of curiosity of what is about to happen. His life does not flash before his eyes, nor does he think with regret of the things not yet accomplished in his life. The last thought his brain processes is no more complicated than the shape his mouth has formed. It is simply “Oh.”

See the jet now, it’s fuel tanks ruptured from the impact with the roof of the bank building. Watch if you dare as it crosses the street and its kinetic energy seeks out the victims in its path. Observe the jagged edge of its broken wing as it decapitates our cab driver with such efficiency that for an instant, even while his head flies toward the lobby his body remains standing erect. Feel the heat as the fireball erupts and follows the twisted hulk of the aircraft into the lobby of the hotel as if the jet’s autopilot and navigation systems were set to home in on a free continental breakfast. See the looks upon the faces of the victims as their clocks come to an end on a final tick or a tock. See it, and feel the flash of pain the way the victim’s family members will feel it most every waking moment for the rest of their lives.

Watch the news stories as the days turn to weeks, then watch as the story, sensational as it may have been in the moment, is all but forgotten. It is, off the radar you might say.

But you would be mistaken.

 

 

 

 

2

__________

 

Present Day

 

As far as the Sids were concerned, there really was no other way they could do it. Their target, Franklin Dugan, CEO of Sunrise National Bank in Indianapolis was simply too private, too protected, and too damn stubborn to vary his routine. So in the end they said fuck it and did it the hard way.

At forty-two years old, Sidney Wells Sr. had planned, waited, prepared, and dreamed of this moment for half his life. He raised Sid Jr. in the same manner, which is to say he raised her to hate. “Raised her right,” he’d say, if anyone ever asked him.

No one ever did.

Morning came, and the light of a cloudless dawn filtered through the windshield of the Sid’s van. They were parked a block and a half away on a side street that cornered the property line of the Governor’s mansion. Sid Jr. was checking the time on the dashboard clock while alternately looking through binoculars at the State Police cruiser parked across the street from the mansion. Junior made sure the time on the dash matched her wristwatch.