The Last Hostage

by Nance, John J. ;

  Judy felt her mind race through a variety of possibilities. The copilot was right. No other rational explanation existed. If the flight was airborne without a copilot, then it had to have been hijacked, and they had a major problem.

  “What do you want me to do?” Gates was asking.

  “Give me the number where you are, stay right there by that phone, and … ah … don’t talk to anyone about this yet.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t! You want me to put on the passenger who was left?”

  “Tell him I’ll call back. Not now.”

  “Okay, but he’s really, really worried. His wife’s on that aircraft.”

  Judy replaced the phone and glanced over at Verne Garcia, who was talking urgently into his handset. Several off-duty dispatchers had begun to congregate in the area, each of them straining to hear what was happening. She turned and surveyed who was available, and pointed to the nearest one.

  “Jim, get the FBI on the phone and stand by for me to come on the line. Jerry, will you go to my desk and get the emergency procedures manual and start going through the hijacking procedures? Rashid, are you working any flights?”

  “No. What do you need?”

  “Call the chief pilot, the VP of operations, and corporate communications. Fill them in.”

  “On what, Judy? I don’t know what’s happening.”

  “Oh, sorry. Okay, everyone, gather around. Here’s what we’ve got so far.”

  Albuquerque Air Route Traffic Control Center. 10:50 A.M.

  Air traffic controller Avis Bair took another sip of coffee and doublechecked the altitude block on AirBridge 90. As cleared, the pilot had leveled at flight level two-one-zero, twenty-one thousand feet above the four corners area of northwestern New Mexico and northeastern Arizona and checked in with the usual expressionless, deep male voice. It was curious, she thought, that his emergency diversion to Durango had ended so quickly. At least 90 was taken care of now and on his way, leaving her free to deal with a developing conflict between an American jet and a United jet, with one overtaking the other at the same altitude, both bound for Los Angeles. The guy in the lead was being a genuine slug and flying much too slowly.

  Avis had poised her finger over the transmit button when an alarm suddenly sounded in her ear. A small phosphorescent information block next to AirBridge 90’s target began flashing simultaneously, displaying a transponder code she had never seen in actual practice.

  7500!

  Obviously a mistake, she thought, but just in case, there were specific procedures to follow. She felt a sudden rush of adrenaline as she glanced to her left, curious as to whether the beeping alarm had attracted anyone else’s attention.

  It hadn’t. No one else was looking her way.

  Avis leaned forward and studied the data block on the screen again, double-checking that it said what she thought it said.

  Seven-five-zero-zero.

  She pushed the transmit button. “AirBridge Ninety, Albuquerque Center. I show you squawking seventy-five hundred on your transponder, sir. Is that correct?”

  She felt her heart beating loudly as she waited for the answer.

  “Affirmative, Center. I am purposefully squawking seventy-five hundred. I have an uninvited guest in the cockpit.”

  Avis sat back, suddenly filled with adrenaline. The real thing! This was the real thing! Seventy-five hundred meant a hijacking, and this was a commercial airliner.

  She swiveled around and shouted at her supervisor, then turned back to her scope.

  “Roger, AirBridge Ninety, I do copy that the seventy-five hundred squawk is valid. Please maintain flight level two-one-zero and stand by.”

  Aboard AirBridge Flight 90. 10:55 A.M.

  Her hands were shaking slightly, but Annette struggled to hide her apprehension as she did a quick drink service for her first class passengers. She had returned to the galley to think when she heard the engines throttle back and Ken Wolfe’s strained voice on the P.A.

  “Folks, this is the captain. We have a small treat for you today. I know we’re running late getting you to Phoenix, but since air traffic control is slowing us down for traffic flow into the Phoenix airport, and since they’re taking us right over Monument Valley, Utah, we’ve gotten approval to go down for a closer look. We’ll get you into Phoenix just as soon as they let us, but in the meantime, enjoy the view which will be coming up in about five minutes.”

  Annette pulled the interphone handset from its cradle and punched the cockpit call button. Ken answered rapidly.

  “Ken, I need to talk to you.”

  “So talk, Annette.”

  “In person.”

  “Why?”

  “As your lead flight attendant, I want to come into the cockpit and talk with you right now. Ken, what’s going on?”

  “Annette, coming up right now could prove a bit difficult. What, exactly, are you concerned about?”

  She leaned against the forward door with the phone pressed to her ear, wondering if she was having some sort of paranoid delusion. Maybe it was ridiculous to be worried, but the fact remained that refusing her entrance to the cockpit meant that he had something to hide, and she could feel herself panicking. She knew Ken Wolfe to be changeable and distant, but he wasn’t the type to shut out his flight attendants. There could be several reasons for the refusal, none of them good.

  What if he’s got that other pilot flying in the right seat illegally, and he doesn’t want me to know? We’d be at risk. I’d have to do something.

  “Captain, please let me speak to David.”

  There was a chilling pause. If David was on the jumpseat instead of his copilot’s seat, he might lie about it to protect the captain and himself. It was illegal for any pilot from another company to occupy the captain’s or copilot’s seat in a commercial jet.

  “He’s busy, Annette. He’ll talk to you later.”

  “Now, please. I want to talk to him now. Or isn’t he in the right seat? Ken, dammit, level with me!”

  Another long pause, then the click of the push-to-talk button. Ken Wolfe’s voice was suddenly different, carrying a more authoritative tone.

  “Okay, Annette. You’re right. Listen carefully, because I’m under some tight constraints here. David isn’t here.”

  “Wh … what?”

  “Someone else is up here, and he’s insisting on telling us where to go.”

  Annette closed her eyes, trying to find a better explanation than the one now looming in her mind.

  But nothing else fit. She had to ask, though the words threatened to choke her. “Ken?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are we … are we hijacked?”

  Another chilling pause that seemed to last forever.

  “That’s affirmative, Annette. Back there in Durango. He suddenly barged in and slammed the door and put a gun to my head. Well you did, damn you!” Annette heard the volume of his voice diminish as he addressed the occupant of the right seat.

  “Oh God, Ken. One person?”

  “Yep, and he’s waving a gun at me right now to end this conversation. He says that you must not tell the passengers. He says he’s not going to hurt anyone, but he demands to go where he demands to go.”

  “Where? Cuba?”

  “I don’t know, Annette, other than Monument Valley. First he wants to see Monument Valley up close. Then he’ll let me know, and I’ll let you know. In the meantime, keep quiet about this.”

  “How about Bev and Kevin? They need to know what’s happening.”

  “No. I’ll be listening to this channel, and so will he. You can’t tell them. He says you can’t tell them anything.”

  “Is it the guy in Eighteen-D, Ken? The guy you asked to come up? His name is Beck.”

  There was no response.

  “Ken? Are you still there?”

  There was a click, indicating the interphone had been disconnected. She looked at the handset like it was a ticking bomb, then replaced it slowly in its cradle, trying to imagi
ne the man in 18D as the hijacker.

  The image didn’t fit. Not with such a young face and a pretty young wife back there in 18E.

  Annette entered the galley feeling dizzy. She pulled the curtain behind her, vaguely aware that the 737 was decending, her mind whirling.

  She could see the desert floor getting closer outside the small window in the galley door as a feeling of helpless confusion paralyzed her, the same question running over and over in her mind:

  What on earth do I do now?

  FIVE

  Albuquerque Air Route Traffic Control Center. 10:58 A.M.

  “AirBridge Ninety, please state your intentions.”

  Avis Bair released the transmit button and glanced up at her shift supervisor, who was staring intently at the large, circular computer display screen. The portly senior controller pointed a pudgy finger at the target marked AB90 and shook his head.

  “Eight thousand and still descending.” He turned to Avis. “And you didn’t clear him down?”

  “He never asked. He just started down on his own. I’ve got him on a discrete frequency, and shipped three other flights to the next sector.”

  “This is really weird. What the hell is he up to?”

  “I haven’t a clue. He’s not talking.”

  “What’s ahead of him out there, Avis?”

  “Wide open terrain for the most part. Base altitude of the surrounding desert is about five thousand feet, but some of those buttes—the Mittens, for instance, in Monument Valley—stand over a thousand feet high.”

  “Weather’s still clear?”

  “Severe clear. Visibility unlimited. He should be able to see the obstacles ahead, and it looks like a controlled descent.”

  “Try him again, Avis.”

  “AirBridge Ninety, Albuquerque Center, radio check.”

  There was silence for several seconds before the sound of a radio transmitter being keyed filled their headsets and an overhead speaker, the sound of occasional static interlacing the words.

  “Okay, Albuquerque, AirBridge Ninety here. You’re probably wondering what we’re doing?”

  Avis glanced up at the supervisor with raised eyebrows as she keyed the transmitter.

  “That’s affirmative, Ninety. We see your descent. Could you state your intentions?”

  “My guest up here wants to do some sightseeing, then go to Salt Lake City. He’ll let me know what else he wants on the way. Then I’ll let you know.”

  “Is your … guest … on the frequency?”

  There was a long pause before the speaker crackled to life again.

  “Affirmative, Albuquerque. He’s armed, and he’s listening to every word and telling me what to say.”

  “And there’s nothing we can do for you at the moment?”

  “Ah … since you asked … he’s telling me that he wants you to have the Attorney General of the United States standing by ready to talk to him, and he wants—demands, that is—the Stamford, Connecticut, D.A. and the head of the Colorado State Patrol to be standing by, along with both a Colorado state judge and a federal district judge.”

  Three other controllers had gathered behind Avis and her supervisor. All of them exchanged long, incredulous glances as Avis scribbled down the demands.

  “Understood, Ninety. We’ll do our best. You’re cleared now to any safe altitude above seven thousand feet. Maneuver at your discretion. Please advise when you’re ready to head for Salt Lake.”

  “Roger, Albuquerque. I’ll do what I can.”

  Avis looked up at the supervisor. “Is the FBI on line yet?”

  He nodded. “They’re setting up communications now through Washington.”

  AirBridge Airlines Dispatch Center, Colorado Springs International Airport. 10:58 A.M.

  The Spartan office that housed the dispatch and control functions for AirBridge Airlines was becoming more crowded by the minute. The chief pilot and the vice president of operations were huddled in a corner urgently briefing the airline’s president while a dozen other employees ranged back and forth grabbing every phone not already in use. In the background, four dispatchers were trying to keep the airline running while keeping an ear cocked for the latest word on Flight 90. None of the other flights had been told anything.

  “Judy, David Gates wants to talk to you again from Durango.”

  Judy turned away from the cadre of business suits and glanced at Verne Garcia, who was gesturing to one of the blinking lines. She hesitated, then moved to her small desk and grabbed the receiver.

  “DFC here.”

  “Ms. Smith?”

  “It’s pretty busy here, David. I need you to stand by. I expect the FBI will be calling you in a few minutes.”

  “I know, but there’s something else I think you need to know.”

  “What?”

  “The passenger whose wife is still on the plane? I didn’t know this, but Ken asked him to get off. He was looking for pilots.”

  Judy rubbed her eyes and tried to make sense of the copilot’s statement.

  “What do you mean, David? Who was looking for pilots?”

  “Let … let me put him on. You really need to hear this.”

  She heard the phone being handed over, and a new voice filled the line.

  “This is Johnny Beck.”

  Judy introduced herself. “Mr. Beck, I’m very sorry we left you behind. Can you tell me how it happened?”

  As he talked, Judy began making her trademark doodles on a legal pad, a steady flow of circles and triangles.

  Just as suddenly, she stopped.

  “Wait a minute. The captain asked you to do what?”

  “I was talking to him in the cockpit, and he told me he’d forgotten to pick up his new flight plan, and would I run in and get it for him.”

  “And that’s when you left the plane?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But no one in this office knew what he was talking about, and when I headed back outside, the door was closed and the engines were starting.”

  “Was there someone else in the cockpit, or standing in the doorway, when you were there, Mr. Beck?”

  “No. No one was around but the captain and me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about on the ramp, say, at the bottom of the stairs?”

  “No, ma’am. I was the only one near the aircraft when I got off.”

  Judy closed her eyes and tried to envision the scene. He had gone inside, made some inquiries, then returned. He had gone inside looking for a flight plan that Ken Wolfe should have known wouldn’t be there. Dispatch wouldn’t be sending a new flight plan to an aircraft that maintenance had yet to examine.

  “How long were you inside, Mr. Beck?”

  “Not more than three minutes, four tops. Ma’am, Nancy … my wife … is on the airplane. She’s pregnant and probably worried silly about me, since I didn’t come back aboard.” His voice broke slightly, the stress and worry clearly audible. “Where are they now? Are you sure they’re okay?”

  Judy calculated the time it would take for the ground crew to move the stairs and the flight attendant to close the door, let alone the time it would take to start the engines. Three minutes would barely be enough.

  “Mr. Beck, are you sure he had an engine running when you returned?”

  “Yes. Yes, absolutely. But where are they now?”

  Judy realized she had been only half-listening to his question.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Beck. The aircraft’s headed for Phoenix right now, and we’ll get this figured out and get you two back together as soon as we can.” The lie rolled too easily out of her mouth, she thought, but what should she say? Your lovely wife is a hostage of some unknown maniac who’s commandeered one of our jets?

  No, a lie would do for now.

  Judy thanked him and replaced the receiver with her eyes riveted on the group of senior executives in the corner.

  Judy felt a cold buzz erupt somewhere in her body. It spread rapidly ou
tward, making her legs feel weak, and she held the corner of her desk as she sat down. Verne Garcia’s words were all too fresh suddenly in her memory: Wolfe looked a bit strange to me, Verne had said. It was like he was somewhere else, you know? He had a kind of distant, disengaged look.

  There were two pilots aboard, and the captain had managed to get both of them off the airplane.

  Why?

  She rubbed her eyes and shook her head slightly to expunge the small wave of apprehension.

  FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C. 11:00 A.M. MDT, 1:00 P.M. EDT.

  Agent Clark Roberts took the hijacking alert from the FAA Command Center in Virginia and began carefully following the established procedures, notifying the appropriate superiors and the field office in Denver and the resident agency office in Colorado Springs. He’d already started the search for the FBI’s nearest hostage negotiator when another agent leaned in the door.

  “We’ve got a demand from the subject. You on a first name basis with the Attorney General of the United States?”

  Roberts frowned and narrowed his eyes.

  “What?”

  “He’s demanding a line to the Attorney General, the Stamford D.A., and the head of the Colorado State Patrol, along with a state judge and federal judge.”

  “Who is?”

  “The hijacker.”

  “You kidding?” Clark Roberts watched the other agent shake his head. “You’re not kidding! Lord. A demand like that means it’s political.”

  “Also, he’s headed to Salt Lake City. I checked a second ago. We’ve got an agent there who’s trained.”

  “Good!”

  “But … it’s a she.”

  Roberts looked at the other man carefully. “A woman?”

  He nodded. “You want to call?”

  “When did we train a female negotiator?” Roberts asked.

  “We’ve got several of them, but that’s not her primary job, Clark. However, she has a degree in psychology and she worked as a psychologist for three years before she became an agent at the Bureau. Our esteemed deputy director said to tell you we go with her.”

  “This lady have a name?”