“Here’s her number in Salt Lake. Agent Katherine Bronsky. I already dialed her beeper and gave your number. We’re setting up a command post of sorts at the airport, with the help of the airport police, and she needs to be out there yesterday.”
“How much experience does Agent Bronsky have?”
The other agent looked at Roberts with a guarded smile and waited a few seconds before answering. “Seems she’s in her second year as a basic agent, but they let her take the hostage negotiator school at Quantico earlier than normal about a month ago because of her previous experience.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Hey, maybe she’ll bring a fresh perspective. And after all, we don’t even know if the hijacker is male or female.”
“It would be politically incorrect of me to object on the basis that a marginally qualified female has no business dealing with a hijacker of any gender, so I won’t.”
“Good. I didn’t hear you not say that.”
Clark Roberts shook his head. “How long before the aircraft can get to Salt Lake?”
“At least a half hour.”
“And how long before we’re set up there?” Roberts added.
“At least a half hour.”
“Did I ever tell you you’re a joy to work with?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t hold your damn breath.”
Aboard AirBridge Flight 90. 11:05 A.M.
“Folks, this is your captain again. Put down whatever you’re reading and look out of either side of the aircraft. You’re about to get a spectacular view of the historic buttes which make up Monument Valley. You’ve seen them in a thousand Western movies, now we’re going to see them up close.”
Annette looked once more into the frightened eyes of her two coworkers as they stood in the rear galley where she’d briefed them on the hijacking. “I’ve got to get back up there before he looks through the peephole.”
Bev nodded as Kevin pointed to the side of the aircraft. “I don’t know what the hell this excursion has to do with anything, but I want to see it.”
Annette hurried back up the aisle, almost missing the voice of the young woman in seat 18E.
“Miss, please! Could I talk to you?”
Annette turned, startled to find herself facing the wife of the young pilot who had entered the cockpit back in Durango. She felt her stomach tightening as she wondered again whether he could be the hijacker, and whether she, too, might be involved.
“Yes?”
“I’m Nancy Beck. My husband went up front when the captain asked if anyone wanted to see the cockpit back in Durango. I haven’t seen him since then, and I just … you know, want to make sure he’s riding on the jumpseat up there.”
Annette forced herself to smile. “That’s exactly where he is, Mrs. Beck.”
She smiled and sat back, looking relieved. “Thanks a lot.”
Annette nodded, hesitated, and shifted her weight as she tried to decide how to phrase the question she’d been turning over in her mind.
“Mrs. Beck, your husband, is he, ah …”
“I’m sorry?” she said, leaning toward Annette, looking puzzled.
“I’m sorry. I forgot what I was going to ask.”
Nancy Beck nodded as Annette turned and moved back to first class and into an empty row of seats to peer out the window. The 737 had been rocking and bucking gently in the turbulence from thermals, rising columns of hot air from the rapidly heating desert below, but she was unprepared to see the landscape shooting by in such a crazy blur.
She moved closer and slid into a window seat, astounded to see how low they were, a cold knot of fear compressing her stomach.
There was a blur to the left, to the front of the aircraft. Annette looked forward, instantly overwhelmed by the great looming presence of the West Mitten as the huge butte rushed past the window less than a thousand feet to the side, its summit towering considerably higher than Flight 90 was flying.
Her hand fluttered involuntarily to her mouth as the aircraft flew by in a partial left bank, bouncing in the pronounced rough air.
Annette jerked her head to the right in time to see the other great butte filling the windows, seemingly close enough to touch, the texture of the rocks on the near vertical walls visible in great detail and relief, the speed and proximity leaving her little doubt they were about to crash.
She snapped her head back to the left again, spotting the visitor center on the ridge line, mentally bracing for an impact she knew instinctively they couldn’t survive. It wasn’t an internal scream of fright, merely a split-second acknowledgment that they were about to smash into the terrain at several hundred miles per hour.
Instead, there was a sudden acceleration of the engines and a sharp pull up, and in a split second the rim of the valley flashed beneath them at tree top level.
No impact.
The 737 whistled over a dirt road, then a highway, finally beginning a sharp right climbing turn as the desert floor dropped away.
Suddenly there was intense commotion throughout the cabin, as if everyone had exhaled at the same moment. Annette could see members of the high school band gripping their armrests in confusion, unsure whether to be scared or exhilarated. But the fear-of-flying group was faring poorly, and watching her with wide-eyed intensity—a dozen sets of eyes flaring like a squadron of startled owls, each trying to decide whether the chief flight attendant was amused or terrified, so they could follow suit.
The verbal reactions registered in her mind, but it was the unruly Blenheim in 6C leaning inside the first class curtain whose voice assaulted her the moment she stood up and moved back to the aisle.
“Stewardess, what in the hell is that idiot up there doing?”
She shook her head, her voice still a hostage to shock, the same question echoing in her own mind.
Annette moved toward him, her face ashen, her voice barely a squeak.
“Sir, I’ll try to find out what happened. I warned you to stay seated.”
The man’s eyebrows were fluttering angrily, hiding his obvious fright, but he nodded and sank back in his seat as his hands fumbled with the seatbelt.
Annette could hear a low rumble of conversation from the coach cabin as she turned away and moved quickly forward into the entry way to pick up the interphone handset, her finger jabbing repeatedly at the captain call button, not caring whether she irritated Wolfe or the hijacker.
“Yes?” Ken’s voice sounded testy.
“What in heaven’s name was that all about? You’ve scared the hell out of everyone, Ken.”
“No choice, Annette. At least I kept us flying. It’s too complicated to explain.”
“Ken, you’ve got an airplane full of traumatized people. We couldn’t have been five hundred feet off the ground.”
“Two hundred, actually.”
“Good Lord!” She rubbed her temple, her eyes fixated on nothing.
“Annette, he’s telling me to go to Salt Lake City now, so it’ll calm down.”
“I hope so. Do we know what he wants?”
“World peace, a chicken in every pot, and death to criminals. I don’t really know yet.”
“You’re going to need to talk to the passengers, Ken. You need to level with them.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re scared to death. I’m scared to death. Not knowing what’s going on is worse that hearing that we’re hijacked.”
“You sure about that? You know the truth, Annette, but did it keep you calm?”
“I …”
“I’d wager it didn’t.”
“You’ve got to tell them something! Make up a story that it’s okay to buzz a national monument and play chicken with mountains. Something. We’re getting unanswerable questions back here.”
“Deal with it, Annette. I can only do what this man wants.”
“He’s got a gun?”
“Worse than that. He’s got a load of plastic explosives in his checked baggage. He’s als
o got an electronic trigger in his hand called a dead man’s switch.”
For what seemed like an eternity, she couldn’t make her voice work. A gun was bad enough with a single pilot aboard. Explosives too?
“What …” she swallowed, trying to clear her throat of the boulder-size lump. “What should I do back here, Ken?” Annette forced herself to breathe. She could feel the muscles in her diaphragm shaking uncontrollably.
“Stay off the interphone for one thing, Annette. No distractions, no trying to open the door. You might startle him, and if he lets go of that switch for any reason, we’re dead.”
SIX
Salt Lake City. 11:10 A.M.
Kat Bronsky pulled the damp towel from her head and dabbed at the few remaining drops of water on her body as she examined herself in the full-length mirror. Twenty-five minutes in a hot shower had probably been too much of an indulgence, but it felt wonderful, especially after being jolted awake by a grating alarm clock she hadn’t meant to set before 10:30 A.M.
“Not bad, young lady. Not bad,” she said at last as she tried to flatten her slightly overfed belly with her right hand. She arched her back and squared her shoulders. “This is how I’m going to look in two more months, fellows. At thirty-two, a sex goddess at last,” Kat chuckled to herself. “Yeah, right!”
She was pleased the diet was working, but she wasn’t exercising enough, and she resolved to work out sometime during the next week.
Maybe.
She turned sideways, carefully examining her profile, satisfied with the unruly cascade of chestnut-brown hair brushing her shoulders and the outline of her breasts.
The previous night’s research marathon at the FBI’s Salt Lake City field office had given her a morning off, and she wasn’t due in before noon, but there was plenty of paperwork waiting for the office’s newest agent and she was still enthused enough to look forward to it.
Kat began opening a new package of bikini panties as she glanced at the clock.
Jeez, it’s after eleven!
She pulled on the panties more hurriedly than she’d planned and adjusted the elastic, then examined her reflection again, determined to ignore the fact that she still wasn’t quite ready to wear something so skimpy.
Her new nationwide beeper sat on the counter, paid for by the FBI. Its presence thrilled her—an affirmation of her position as an FBI agent. She grinned as she picked it up and clipped it to the waistband of the bikini bottoms, then turned to the mirror with her arms over her head.
The perfect undercover ensemble! About as subtle as a SWAT team.
A loud alarm pulsed from the beeper at the same moment and Kat jumped slightly in reaction, feeling vaguely embarrassed, as if whoever had sent the message had also been watching her seminude self-appraisal.
The screen showed an urgent message from FBI headquarters in Washington and a number to call, and she moved quickly to the bedside telephone to make the connection, scribbling down the initial details about the hijacking of an AirBridge flight and the plan to set up a command post at Salt Lake City International Airport.
“I’ll be in my car in ten minutes,” she told her counterpart in Washington. “I’ll call you on the way.”
She hung up the phone feeling exhilarated.
Wow! The real thing.
She was now officially on a case as an FBI hostage negotiator. The thought made her smile as she replaced the receiver and began a tug-of-war with the nearest pair of pantyhose while plotting what clothes to grab.
Something businesslike, she concluded. Okay, a pantsuit.
Kat reached in the closet for the chosen ensemble with her mind racing over the seriousness of the situation, the thought sobering her instantly and draining her excitement away. This was dead serious. An airline hijacking could easily demand every bit of skill and training she had as a psychologist, and anything she did would be subjected to the intense scrutiny of both her bosses and the media. The FBI had very few female hostage negotiators in the first place. Worse, just one mistake in dealing with the hijacker and she could lose everyone on board.
Kat took a look at herself in the mirror as she put on her blouse and began fastening the back, her fingers uncharacteristically fumbling with the buttons. She felt a bit shaky, and that fact sent a cold chill up her spine. The only thing that might be standing between disaster and a peaceful surrender would be her voice. Her voice, her steadiness under pressure, and her intellect. She had to be cool.
Okay, I’m scared. I’d better admit it right now. She forced herself to take a deep breath and focus.
I’m scared, but I know what I’m doing.
Kat let several seconds tick by before glancing at her watch. Twelve minutes had already elapsed. A quick dab of lipstick, eyeliner, and blush, and she grabbed her keys and purse and headed for the door, quietly pleased by the dead weight of her Glock 40mm handgun as it bulged against the leather.
Aboard AirBridge Flight 90. 11:14 A.M.
“Sir! Sir, please sit down!” Annette jumped to her feet as a coach passenger came through the dividing curtains into first class at a brisk walk, his face contorted in a frown. She raised her hand as he came to a halt just short of the galley and pulled something from his shirt pocket, holding it up for her to see.
“I’m with the FAA, miss. Dudley Harris. I need to talk to your captain, right now.”
She read the name on the identification card as he continued.
“I’m a maintenance inspector, but I can still file violations, and you’re required to admit me to the cockpit on request.”
Annette studied the man for a second, then gestured toward the forward entry alcove. Harris followed.
Annette molded her back against the forward entry door next to the interphone panel and motioned Harris to within inches of her face as she held her finger to her lips.
“What is it?” he asked in a suspicious tone.
“Mr. Harris, there’s something I have to tell you,” she said very softly.
He pulled back slightly. “I’m sorry, what? I’m having trouble hearing you.” His voice was softer, too, but still loud enough to startle her, and she motioned for quiet again as she leaned forward to speak directly in his ear.
“Mr. Harris, the passengers have not been told, but we’ve been hijacked. There’s a hijacker in the right seat in the cockpit with a gun, claiming he has a bomb in the baggage compartment.”
The FAA inspector jumped back, his eyes wide, mouthing the word, “Hijacker?”
Annette nodded solemnly, and leaned toward him again.
“The captain told me the hijacker is listening on the interphone.”
Harris took a deep breath and looked around toward the closed cockpit door before replying. He turned back to Annette, alarm showing clearly on his face.
“I—I had no idea.”
She shrugged. “He said not to tell anyone.”
The sound of a call chime reverberated through the airplane and Annette checked the ceiling call lights, startled to see it was the cockpit call button that had been pushed. She swallowed hard and motioned to Harris to wait as she picked up the handset.
“Hello.”
“Annette?”
“Yes, Ken.”
“I heard voices outside the door. What’s going on? Is that sorry son of a bitch Rudy Bostich acting up?”
“Bostich? Ah, no, captain. You mean the guy in coach?” She looked at Harris in confusion, her mind whirling around his reference to Bostich as she raised the receiver to her lips again. “There’s an FAA inspector here who didn’t appreciate your tour. He wants to talk to you, but—”
“But you told him we’ve been hijacked, didn’t you?”
“I had to, Ken.”
There was silence for a few heartbeats as Annette held her breath.
“Is he still there?” Ken asked.
She nodded silently, before remembering to speak the words. “Yes. Yes, he is. He’s right here with me.”
“Well, I’m inst
ructed to tell the FAA to go back to his seat. I’ve … I’ve got to hang up now.”
Annette replaced the receiver and relayed the message to Harris, who raised the palms of both hands.
“I’m gone, but I’m in Twenty-two-C if you need me.”
“Thanks, Mr. Harris.”
The inspector moved through the first class cabin and headed back to his seat, leaving Annette with a desperate, hollow feeling that only increased when the sound of the P.A. filled the aircraft once more.
“Okay, folks, this is captain. Here’s the deal. What I couldn’t tell you a while ago was that we’ve had a forced change of plans. I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you. We’ve been hijacked, and the hijacker is sitting right next to me holding a gun.”
There was a low, collective gasp throughout the cabin.
“What’s worse, he claims he has a bag full of explosives in the baggage compartment, and he’s holding an electronic trigger. If he lets go of that trigger, we’ve had it. Therefore, I caution everybody to remain seated, remain calm, and under no circumstances whatsoever should anyone try to intervene. Even if you could successfully overpower him, if his fingers leave that electronic trigger, it’s all over.”
Annette stood in shock watching the equally horrified expressions on the faces of her passengers. There had been a few short cries in the coach cabin, but now there was stunned silence as the captain continued.
“’Scuse me just a second folks. What?”
The captain’s question seemed to be partially off microphone, as if listening to the hijacker’s response. There were the sounds of a voice murmuring in the background as the hijacker spoke, then Ken’s voice returned to the P.A.
“Folks, the man tells me to assure you that he has no intention of hurting anyone on board, but that he’s had to use real explosives just to make sure no one fails to believe him. He says—What? I can’t hear you.”
There was silence as the captain kept the P.A. button depressed, but every few seconds Ken would interject an “okay” or “all right” as the hijacker told him what to say. Annette turned and looked at the cockpit door, which was fairly easy to hear through. Countless times on the forward jumpseat she’d been scared to death by various warning horns going off in the cockpit during landing and wafting clearly through the door. If she could hear warnings, maybe she could hear the hijacker’s voice, too.
The Last Hostage Page 5