Crashers

by Dana Haynes

  “They’re in a motel room. I’m in the front office.”

  “And they’re both armed?”

  In the manager’s apartment, Daria said, “Yes. I’m . . .”

  And a certain, uncanny dread crept through Daria’s skin, the chill almost counteracting the sting of the soft burns on her arms and stomach.

  Both. Lucas had known there were only two Irishmen left.

  The door to the office squeaked. She caught a glimpse of fair hair. She raised the Glock and flicked off the safety in one motion, fired once. The head ducked back out the door.

  She slammed down the phone.

  In room 3 of the Land’s End Motel, Lucas Bell hurled the cell phone onto the bed. “Goddammit!”

  O’Meara and Kelly entered. O’Meara’s eyes were narrow and cold. “You were right, O’Shea’s dead.”

  Kelly nodded. “Aye, and she’s got his gun.”

  “You fucking incompetents!” Lucas hissed.

  O’Meara ground his teeth, the muscles along his jawline twitching.

  Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose, willed himself to calm down. He looked at the two Irishmen. They looked back.

  Lucas sighed. “Would you for God’s sake cut the damn phone lines? Please?”

  . . .

  Daria lifted the receiver, heard a dial tone. She hit 911.

  She kept the stolen gun aimed at the door, but was aware that she had windows to her left and right to worry about. Damn old-fashioned phone, she felt hobbled by the wire leading to the wall socket.

  “Nine One One. Police, fire, or—”

  The line went dead in her hands. She tossed the useless thing aside.

  Took them long enough, she groused to herself. Amateurs.

  51

  THE SWAP-OUT VERMEER CRUISED along at 550 miles per hour, making splendid time. All four people on board wished the wide-body could go twice as fast.

  Tommy and Ray had joined the other two on the flight deck. It was crowded, but they’d quickly grown bored, sitting in first class and waiting.

  Kiki had been given a crash course on how to fly the jet, and then had asked Isaiah not to use the word crash for the rest of the flight. She didn’t understand a tenth of the avionics equipment in front of her, but the global-positioning-system monitor was kith and kin to the locator system installed on her last nuclear sub. She quickly typed in their position and speed, and the screen glowed with a map of the western United States, a dotted line marking the route before them, a solid line the route behind.

  After ten or fifteen minutes of listening to the engines rumble, Ray said, to no one in particular, “We’re in good shape here. Right?”

  Tommy shrugged. “I guess.”

  Ray stuck a stick of gum into his mouth, waved the pack at Tommy, who took a slice.

  They rode for another minute.

  Ray hefted his right pant leg and exposed a small leather holster. He withdrew his backup weapon, a thin, matte-black Kahr K9. He checked to see that it had a full load and returned it, saying, “So how come I feel like we’re still in it up to our ears?”

  “I’ve got that feeling, too,” Kiki said. “Like we’re forget— Hold it. Got ’em.” She pointed one unvarnished fingernail at the GPS monitor. “Albion Air Flight Three Twenty-six. There are the delegates.”

  Isaiah let his eyes flicker away from the mass of dials and sensors before him. “Holy crap.”

  The others looked at him.

  “Look at the transponder numbers. That’s an Airbus A Three Eighty.”

  “I’ve read about them,” Kiki said. “Supposed to be gargantuan. Holds five hundred people or more.”

  “More,” Isaiah said. “The first generation is geared for all-economy flight. Shoehorn as many people aboard as possible and pay off the debt that it took to build these beasts.”

  “Okay.” Tommy thought about it for a moment. “So how many folks on board?”

  Isaiah said, “Full flight? Figure eight hundred plus.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “Nope.” The pilot shook his head in awe. “I’ve lived in towns with smaller populations than that bird. They’re lining up with the Rapids. We’ll get to L.A. almost a half hour ahead of them.”

  They rode along a little longer. Tommy rubbed at a kink in his neck. “You’re right,” he said to Ray. “I got the feeling, too. What have we forgotten?”

  VICTORVILLE AIRPORT

  When Dennis Silverman stepped down from the Gulfstream III, his first impression was the heat. It seeped into his lungs and made his eyes water.

  “Oh, man,” he whined.

  He dashed to the rented Jeep awaiting him, his shirt beginning to stain around the armpits before he stepped down to the bottom of the ladder.

  GAMELAN INDUSTRIES, BEAVERTON

  Gamelan co-owner Alexi Jacobian reached into a desk drawer for an industrial-size bottle of Tums. He tossed five into his palm and popped them into his mouth, chewing.

  “I do not believe this,” Jacobian moaned, eyeing the Employee of the Month wooden plaque just outside his office. “Are you positive?”

  Susan Tanaka said, “Yes. Absolutely.”

  He cradled his head in his hands. “Maybe you missed something. Maybe—”

  Peter Kim said, “Do you own a corporate jet?”

  “Yes. A Gulfstream.”

  “Does it have a Gamelan FDR?”

  “Of course.”

  Peter said, “Then I can crash it. Want to see?” His tone was brusque, unfriendly. That’s why Susan had brought him along. In the land of the Geek Gods, engineer-speak was the lingua franca.

  Jacobian groaned and threw three more Tums into his mouth. “The irony is, Dennis has the jet. He flew to California this afternoon.”

  Susan cursed herself silently. She should have suggested looking for a private jet, after the police had failed to find Silverman at any of the regional airports.

  “This is insane. Do you know what this will do to my company?”

  Susan’s eyes narrowed. Her first instinct was to blow up at him for being so unfeeling. Instead, she said, “Of course, your assistance with this investigation will be duly noted. I’ll make sure the media is aware of your help.”

  He brightened a little at that. “Anything. Name it.”

  “We need to find Mr. Silverman. Do you know where he went?”

  Jacobian said, “Sure. California.”

  Peter’s voice dropped half an octave. “Could you be a little less specific? We’d like this to be a challenge.”

  Jacobian reddened. “I don’t know where his conference was. I didn’t ask. But I know where the Gulfstream is.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. I told you, it has a Gamelan recorder on board.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Of course. They can track the Gamelans. I should have realized that.”

  Jacobian rose. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  OVER CALIFORNIA

  Ray Calabrese checked his watch. It was going on 6 P.M. He knelt and yanked a box from under the flip-down seat. It contained a variety of survival equipment, including a flare gun, heavy field glasses, a portable compass, and military-style food rations. He sorted through the inventory, hoping not to need any of it.

  Tommy’s satellite-comm link chirped. “Tomzak.”

  “Tommy, Susan. We tracked down Dennis Silverman. He landed in Victorville.”

  Tommy pointed to Kiki’s ear. She adjusted the controls on her belt and tapped in to their frequency. “Susan? It’s Kiki. Say that again.”

  She did, and Kiki punched data into the GPS monitor to her left. The airfield outside Victorville, not far from George Air Force Base, glowed.

  “Why there?” Tommy asked. “Why not L.A.? We thought that’s where the ambush was planned.”

  Susan said, “I don’t know. Maybe they know something we don’t.”

  “Like that’d be a fucking change of pace.”

  He rang off and told Isaiah Grey the news. “Shou
ld I head there?”

  Ray said, “Seems as good a place as any.”

  As Isaiah began calculating for the course correction, a thought tickled Tommy’s brain. “Hey. What’d you mean earlier, when you said the delegates were lining up for the Rapids?”

  “A little pilot humor. There’s a corridor of airspace in the middle of California, over the Bristol Mountains. Everyone flying from the Midwest or the East Coast flies the same route. Commercial pilots used to call it the Rapids. The traffic can get a little busy around there.”

  Ray perked up. “Can you show us?”

  Isaiah turned to his alleged copilot. “Bring up a display of the whole state, will you?”

  She tapped keys. California came up on the GPS screen.

  “See that little blob of yellow, east of San Bernardino?” Isaiah pointed. “That’s a combat training center for the marine corps. And that blob of yellow up and to the right? That’s Fort Erwin and—”

  “China Lake,” Kiki cut in. “It’s the Naval Air Warfare Center. Part and parcel with White Sands and Point Mugu. I did six months at China Lake. We were testing a new sonar array.”

  “They’re all restricted airspace,” Isaiah said. “No-fly zones. So every commercial job bopping in from the east climbs to thirty thousand feet and flies the Rapids, right between those two bases. After you get out, TRACON—the regional air-traffic control—lines you up for LAX or John Wayne or wherever you . . .”

  The words died on his lips.

  “That’s it,” Tommy said. He reached over Kiki’s shoulder and prodded the map monitor. “That’s where the ambush is. Right in the middle of the Mojave Desert.”

  Tommy ran his finger from the bright dot that was Albion Air Flight 326, just leaving Nevada airspace, between the two military bases with their no-fly zones, on to L.A. On the way, his finger slid directly over the cross that represented the tiny Victorville Airport.

  And five miles to the west, the tiny hamlet of Boca Serpiente.

  BOCA SERPIENTE, CALIFORNIA

  Lucas Bell said, “Would someone tell me why the hell that bitch is still alive?”

  O’Meara glowered at him. “Mind telling us how she kicked your ass in L.A.?”

  Lucas turned his reflecting sunglasses toward the Irishman, no emotions on his face. He didn’t even look all that hot. “I entered the apartment building to warn you that the FBI was onto you, but she clocked me. Also, as I’ve told you, she killed Riley.”

  O’Meara nodded.

  “I tried to get that damn message machine in Atlanta back online, so I could tell you about her. But I’d hoped you’d taken the initiative and killed her long before now, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Shut up, you.” O’Meara’s fist squeezed the butt of his .357. “The situation’s devolved and I fucking well know it, don’t I. But the geek is on his way with his flipping box of wonders. The delegates are on their way. Everything’s going by the book, except this lot.”

  He waved the revolver toward the motel’s office. “Believe me, Bell. Everything’s under control.”

  They heard the low rumble of a car engine, heard gravel crunch under tires. Lucas turned and pushed aside the faded, filthy curtain.

  A California Highway Patrol unit rounded the building, pulled into the parking lot.

  Lucas Bell said, “Everything’s under control? Well, that’s a relief.”

  OVER CALIFORNIA

  “Albion Air Three Two Six. Three Two Six. This is November Tango Sierra Bravo One. Come in, Three Two Six. Over.”

  Isaiah waited for his hails to be acknowledged. Tommy said, “What are you gonna tell them?”

  “To divert to Las Vegas. Once they get between those two bases, there isn’t enough room to turn these big wide-bodies around.”

  OVER NEVADA

  Teddy McCoy activated the communications array and reached forward to tap the copilot, Eloise Pool, on her left epaulette.

  “November Tango, this is Albion Three Two Six.” You wouldn’t know she was from Cardiff because she almost never spoke, but when she did, her elongated vowels gave her away. “We know about your situation. You are ordered to leave this airspace. Over.”

  After a crackle of interference, the Vermeer responded. “Say again, Three Two Six. Over.”

  “November Tango, we have been alerted to your status,” Eloise said. “You are in a stolen airliner, and you’re on some sort of renegade mission. LAX has informed us to ignore your hails. As one pilot to another, sir, I advise you to land that aircraft as soon as possible and turn yourselves in to the authorities. Three Two Six out.”

  In the left-hand seat, David Singh made the throat-cutting gesture and Teddy disconnected the call.

  “Cheeky bastards!” the captain marveled. “Stealing an airliner!”

  OVER CALIFORNIA

  Silence held court in the cockpit. Ray reached for his cell phone. “Taking this bird was a risk, but someone’s overreacting. I’ll take care of it.”

  52

  ANOTHER CAR ENTERED THE parking lot but Daria couldn’t get close enough to a window to see who it was. She looked around the apartment, counted one doorway and three windows, one each in the living room, bedroom, and kitchen. Each was a potential threat.

  Keeping low, she returned to the kitchen and gulped more water. She’d begun sweating again; a good sign. She’d been perilously close to heatstroke. She returned to the living room, kept low, and hit the light switch, cutting off the room’s only lamp and the country music radio station.

  Now the only question was, would they lay siege to the office, or would they trap her in there and go on about their business? After all, they had the advantages of numbers and weapons. It could go either way.

  She started to worry about how Agent Bell had known that there were only two Irishmen left. It had to mean he was there, and that he was running with the villains. How was he involved? Who else in the FBI could be trusted?

  No. She waved those thoughts away. How didn’t matter. Time enough to worry about that when Ray got there.

  Get here, Ray.

  . . .

  Lucas Bell presented his FBI credentials to the trooper who stepped out of the dusty prowl car and donned his wide-brimmed hat. “Got yourselves a situation here?” the trooper asked.

  “Situation and a half,” Lucas admitted sheepishly. “And I’ve only got these two undercover agents with me. How soon can you get us some backup?”

  The trooper puffed up, excited to be asked. Other than traffic tickets, this had been the dullest of weeks. “Nearest station is in Barstow. That’s thirty-five minutes away. I can scramble half-a-dozen units.”

  “Thirty-five minutes?” Lucas said. “Great. That’s all we need.”

  He shot the trooper in the forehead.

  OVER CALIFORNIA

  Ray drew his cell phone and balanced himself as Isaiah eased the jet into a soft, portside turn. He hit speed dial number two.

  Ding. “Under the auspices of the Patriot Act, this number has been temporarily disconnected.” Click.

  What the hell? The others didn’t notice the confused look on Ray’s face. He hit speed dial again. Got the same message.

  He dug out his wallet and found a laminated card. He called Henry Deits’s direct number.

  Ding. “Under the auspices of the Patriot Act, this number has been temporarily disconnected.” Click.

  He tried Lucas’s direct line.

  Ding. “Under the auspices of the Patriot Act, this number has been temporarily disconnected.” Click.

  “Guys?” he said, and the others turned. “We have a complication.”

  Kiki went online and found the number for the nearest FBI field office, in San Francisco. Ray reached a voice tree and asked the computer for Dale Hiroda. They’d worked together before.

  “Hiroda.”

  “Dale? Ray Calabrese. Hey, there’s a problem in L.A. There’s either been an earthquake or someone’s drawn a firewall. Can you—”

  The
man on the other end hissed, his voice low to avoid anyone else hearing, “Christ almighty, Ray! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Ray said, “I’m on a tight clock here. Something’s wrong in L.A. Lucas—”

  “D.C. has transferred operational authority to San Fran. Now get that damn jet on the ground! This stupid incident will cost you your job, but if you come to earth now, it doesn’t have to land your ass in prison.”

  “There isn’t time for this shit, Hiroda! The ambush isn’t in L.A. It’s out in the Mojave. You’ve got to tell that Albion Air flight to turn around and head to Vegas. Tell them—”

  “Get out of the air now, Calabrese. That’s a direct order.”

  “Get Lucas Bell! He’ll—”

  “Shit,” the agent on the ground cut in. “Bell’s the one who told D.C. you went rogue. We don’t know who in L.A. you’ve dragged into this, but as of now, that field office is in the tall grass. San Francisco is in charge. And we’re not listening to your shit. I don’t know how you hooked up with these terrorists, but you’ve had your last warning. Land. Now.”

  He hung up.

  Ray almost fell into the fold-away chair behind Isaiah.

  BOCA SERPIENTE, CALIFORNIA

  Daria duckwalked to the kitchen, holding her side. She dug around under the sink and in the cupboards and found an old, mustard-yellow blender. She tossed the lid aside and emptied the entire pot of bitter, burned coffee into it. She found glass salt-and-pepper shakers with tin tops, unscrewed them, and emptied them into the blender.

  Lucas Bell climbed into the prowl car and came back out with the trooper’s Remington 870 magnum shotgun, plus a box of shells. Kelly emerged from their motel room with two of the Benelli shotguns. He tossed one to O’Meara.

  Lucas said, “Where the hell’s the geek?”