for what? from the door lynn travis, late 40's, athletic, short bobbed hair, in tennis togs, appears.
hell, i thought that was tomorrow. i already made plans to run into d.c., drop by the pent.
has delta been alerted?
then let's go see what the hell this is all about.
cahill. the jules verne kid from advanced projects research. two years ago, right? that screwball experimental airplane you were trying to justify to the appropriations committee. what the hell was it called, 'ramona?'
ramora. right. what the hell are you doing here?
yes, highly unusual.
obviously hassan is up to something.
so, what's the punch line? grant refers to an open folder before him.
i'm aware of its capabilities, captain. grant stops, his briefing finished for the moment. he looks to director nelson, the dci, who picks up a computer printout.
a major strike against the u.s. again grant speaks up, referring to his notes. he is obviously well prepared for this briefing.
yes, sir, no other choice. but i'm at a loss, mr. kaplan. if this is all true, where does my team fit in? kaplan glances at grant, then to the dci.
jesus h. christ.  all eyes are on travis.
excuse me, mr. kaplan, but i see where you're going with this. my team is thoroughly versed in carrying out assaults on hijacked aircraft. but on the ground, not five miles above the earth. i informed mr. cahill two years ago that we had little use for this 'aircraft' in special ops. this thing was designed to transfer flight crews to and from strategic bombers, requiring special adaptation to the aircraft. its application with a civilian aircraft was dismissed as posing too great a risk to the passengers. a hijacked aircraft eventually has to land somehwere where we can deal with it.  travis realizes the irony of his last statement, even before kaplan speaks up.
how much time? grant speaks up.
one question. you have enough confidence in this gadget to stake your life on it, under these circumstances?
well, good. because i want you to go along. i don't want anything left to chance. cahill is stunned. he starts to speak but a withering look from the dci shuts him up. cahill looks sick. kaplan speaks up, dealing his last card.
excuse me, general. i'll take him. he could prove useful. he fixes grant with a look that says, "okay, let's see how you handle the real thing."
curious why i didn't vote against your coming, captain? grant is curious but remains silent.
because this whole operation was your idea, wasn't it? your little brainstorm. the look on grant's face says it all.
and my boys get paid for putting it on the line. i'm not faulting your ideas, captain. like kaplan said, under the circumstances it's a brilliant plan. and crazy enough that it just might work. except we know we shouldn't be doing it in the first place, don't we?
then i'll enlighten you. where you intel boys fucked up was cooking up this hare-brained scheme to put jaffa on trial in the first place.
oh, horse shit. i know a hell of a lot more about what goes on in your world than you think. it was a c.i.a. op, an executive decision from the beginning. we both play for the same team, captain. the only difference is, you don't have to pull the trigger.
law? the only law animals like jaffa and ali understand comes from the end of a gun. you should have killed them all when you had the chance. grant reflects on this.
don't count on it, captain. the jeep pulls to a halt beside a massive hangar, just as a ch-46 helicopter roars into view over the top, quickly settling to the tarmac, travis and grant turning to avoid the prop wash. emerging from the helicopter are seven men, wearing watch caps, dark green pullovers, black cargo-pocketed pants, and light weight, crepe-soled boots. quickly they unload dark duffel bags and abs plastic suitcases. travis swings from the jeep, leaving grant behind, making his way to the team. they cluster momentarily, travis warmly greeting them.
outstanding, gentlemen. any problems? one of the men, baker, good-natured, wide beaming face speaks up.
boys, this is captain grant, i.s.a. he's along in case we get into any serious trouble. let's go. we'll brief in flight. the men pick up their gear, walking towards the hangar. another of the men, a wiry, intense chicano, nicknamed "rat" for his expertise in surreptitious entry, looks around him, searching for something.
not this time, rat. we're traveling light. the huge doors begin to part.
cut it down! close-quarter weapons, bomb kit, detection and surveillance gear, and the sleep agent. dump the rest! let's go! immediately the team begins digging through the equip- ment, taking only the essential items, leaving the rest on the hangar floor. as travis and grant stand next to each other, travis's driver appears.
the stakes are high on this one, gentlemen, the most important mission we've ever been handed. this assault is untested and carries more than the usual element of chance, but under the circumstances, it's the only chance those people on board have. a quick look to grant, then to cahill.
otherwise, it's a standard suppression op, just as if we had boarded on the ground. all right, let's go through it. baker. baker turns to a video screen, part of a portable high- tech communication and tracking system. he plots a simulated course, showing an intercept point of the 747 and the delivery plane over the atlantic.
give me that schematic. baker snaps an exploded-view cell, showing the 747 in intricate detail, into a light box. the team studies the glowing, back-lit schematic.
grant, you're up after baker, find a hole and sit tight while baker sets up the intercom link with the pentagon. sleep-agent is next. rat, five bottles on the port manifold, charlie, five on starboard. grant's voice breaks in, drawing several annoyed looks from the men.
you've done your homework. any problems with that?
correct. what's your point?
good point. baker?
increase it. we'll take the chance. catman, you ready to fly it? catman, smooth, confident, a pilot's manual for a 747 open on his lap, looks up.
once we've got control, rat, you and cappy start the sweep through the forward baggage compartment. if we find a bomb we divert. baker.
all right. that's it. see to your equipment.
you'll run the intel-board, mikes, microwave scanners and video probes. things run to plan, you're just along for the ride. he gives grant the mag-key, matter of factly.
hang on to this. access key for a scrambled transmission i'm expecting. little arrangement with cousin reggie in england. you'll need this to patch me through. code name is 'executive decision.' grant nods, putting the code-key deep inside his shirt pocket. travis looks at him, studying him. he grins.
by the way, good call on the sleep agent. you're the expert on ali. tell me, aside from freeing jaffa and killing a lot of innocent americans, what does he hope to gain from all this?
leaked?
that the u.s. would be forced to retaliate.
and restoring jaffa as a leading power in the region as well. very clever.
sounds familiar, doesn't it? they look at each other, a new level of respect for their situation passing between them.
hope for the best, plan for the worst, cahill.
as soon as the hatch to the 747 is open, an alarm will activate in the cockpit. we have to lock off that switch within seconds or run the risk of being discovered. just explain the procedure to baker.
okay, cahill. you make your inspection and open the hatches. but baker is going to be right there behind you. as soon as the 747 is open, you haul ass inside so baker can lock off that switch.
then, when we're on board, you can climb back down and close the hatch. cahill is obviously not pleased with the idea of going on board the 747, even for a few minutes, but travis has the final word.
add it to the list.
stick it.
as soon as that final hatch is open, get the hell out of the way.
close the hatch!
we're losing it! close the god-damned hatch.  with the scream of the failing seal increasing by the second, travis scrambles down the tunnel.
close the hatch!!! hesitant but obeying, grant reaches down, closing the hatch to the 747.  but as travis pulls the lower hatched closed, the delivery plane pulls free from the 747. the escaping pressure turns into a scream of air, followed by a thunderous explosion that rips through the plane. as the tower tears loose, the implosion sucks travis through the tower as if a leaf in a gale.