Skyhammer

by Richard Hilton

  The kid stood still, eyes bugged. No clue.

  “Turn the goddamn thing down, or I’ll do it for you!”

  He caught on finally, stumbled backward to the stereo, his eyes never leaving the gun. The music subsided to a whisper.

  “Pull the cord,” Pate said quietly in the silence.

  The kid obeyed, then stood cowering, cord in hand.

  And abruptly the bottom dropped out of Pate’s anger. What was he doing there? The girl was crying now, the kid close to tears. They thought he would kill them over this? Without another word he turned and left.

  Back in his own apartment, he felt the silence coat him at first. Then he heard it again, the same throbbing pulse, but this time it wasn’t coming through the wall. It was inside his head. Heavy and relentless. Blood pounding. Something had happened to him. Call Katherine, he thought. Then he laid the gun on the dinette and sank down into one of the chairs. Call her or pour a drink, he thought.

  Except he knew he wasn’t going to trouble her anymore or booze himself unconscious. He knew all that was about to end. One more time he thought through everything that had happened. He had only wanted back his captain status which he had spent his whole life earning. He had only wanted what was rightfully his—the left-hand seat. But they had given it to Boyd. And they had punished him for going back, cheated him, after all their promises. Jack Farraday had done all these terrible things, ruined so many lives, and didn’t even see that it was bad. There had to be an end to it. What other choice was there? To forget the whole mess? Or like some others had done, put a little hole in his own head and let it all leak out?

  That thought made him sick to his stomach, sour bile coming up into his throat. So damn stupid, he thought, rage lifting him suddenly. To be scared like this. So scared it caused pain in his gut. But what was he scared of? The terrible thing—that he’d gone back? It would never stop hounding him. Scaring the kid next door wouldn’t stop it. Only one thing would. Silencing the goddamn throbbing! The heavy, constant thumping in his head. Now he knew what it was. It was the Monster’s heart. The huge black heart of Gi’mi’ta. Pate remembered it all now—Coyote tying himself to a mountaintop, shouting, “Let’s breathe each other in!” Tricking Monster. Hiding flint knives in his belt. Wanting Monster to swallow him.

  The dense, throbbing silence was all around. Pate pushed himself up from the chair. His heart raced. A charge of excitement tightened his muscles. I’m inside, he thought. Swallowed up alive in the belly of Gi’mi’ta. And something was beginning, not ending. A new direction had been taken. It seemed wrong, but it wasn’t. It was necessary. The innocent ones? They weren’t innocent—they all stood by and did nothing, didn’t care. But they understood violence—the threat of it. They would care, if you showed them they weren’t safe.

  A final crucial question came to him. He knew he had to answer it the right way, or all he thought now wouldn’t wash. Everything depended on it. The rest of it, even the hardest part, he could do. He would have no choice in fact. If he could only pull the trigger.

  THREE

  Hopkins International Airport

  Cleveland, Ohio

  15:22 GMT/10:22 EST

  Saturday Morning

  A raw wind was blowing in off the lake. The morning had begun as cold and gray as the rest of the week, and it didn’t look to improve. The runways were clear, though. The rush at Hopkins International had started two hours ago.

  Kevin Boyd’s flight was scheduled to depart at 11:20. The sequence plan was identical to that of the week before: A four-hour leg to Phoenix and then on to Los Angeles for a layover, then back through Phoenix to Albuquerque the second day, then Albuquerque-Phoenix-Albuquerque, and back home to Cleveland. Boyd foresaw the trip as a kind of purgatory: The primary torture would be Emil Pate’s sneering hatred, churning just below the surface, threatening to explode again; secondary would be the boredom. He dreaded that almost as much. Just one more such trip, though, he had been telling himself for four days. He still needed to arrange the trip-trades.

  He was actually fairly happy as he rode the employee shuttle to the terminal, even though he had caught a shift change and the bus was packed in with mechanics and cabin service personnel. Thank God the thing went straight across the field to New World’s operations on the ramp level—he wouldn’t have to drag his bags through security with the passengers up on the concourse. Boyd checked his watch again. It seemed a small miracle he was only five minutes late.

  He’d spent the night with a librarian he’d met a month ago, a copper-haired, green-eyed girl with a bit more brain power than most of the girls he had been dating recently. They had actually talked books. At least she had, while Boyd had interested himself in her sweater, her bra strap, her breasts, and then the rest of her. It had been fun. He thought he might even call her again.

  She lived up in Mayfield, however, miles from Boyd’s midtown apartment, where he’d left his kit and uniform. And they’d overslept. With the traffic on the freeway slowed by the weather, he’d expected to be running a half hour behind. Instead, he would make the check-in with time to spare.

  The shuttle lurched to a stop. Boyd clipped his company ID to his overcoat and stepped down to the curb, where he joined two other New World pilots, another captain and a first officer. They walked to the building together, the other men griping about the weather. Boyd told them he was going to Phoenix and then on out to Los Angeles. “Lucky dog,” said the first officer as he punched the coded sequence into the lock above the security door’s handle.

  “Interested in trading the trip?” Boyd asked the captain.

  “Wish I could.” The man shook his head. “I commute out of Baltimore, though, and my wife’d kill me.”

  As usual for midmorning, the operations room was bustling with activity. Most of the computer terminals in the center section were in use. Thirty or more pilots milled about, reviewing flight plans and weather, revising manuals, chatting. Boyd spotted Emil Pate on the far side, heading into the mailroom. Either Pate had not seen him or was pretending he hadn’t. Boyd’s good mood faltered immediately. He realized he had convinced himself over the last four days that Pate, given time to think it over, would realize how futile sulking was. Now, seeing Pate’s stiff stride, the way he averted his eyes from everyone’s glance, Boyd had to admit that he hadn’t really expected any change.

  Well, at least it would be good to get out of the cold, he thought as he found an open terminal at the far counter and signed in for his trip. The weather report that morning had predicted sunny skies all over Arizona and southern California, eighty degrees in Phoenix.

  Another captain, one Boyd had flown with just before his own upgrade, stepped to the terminal beside him. Boyd couldn’t remember his name.

  “Interested in trading a line with me? Out to L.A. and back? A three-day for the rest of the month?”

  “Maybe.” Concentrating on his terminal keyboard, the other man raised an eyebrow. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch.” Boyd laughed. “Yeah, there might be. The first officer wants a divorce.”

  The other captain finished using his terminal. “Why?”

  “He’s ex-Westar,” Boyd admitted with a shrug.

  The man nodded. “Name?”

  “Emil Pate,” Boyd said reluctantly. “Know him?”

  The man nodded again. “Yeah—’Redman,’ they call him. The other ex-Westar guys. No thanks, Kevin. I heard he’s a hard case.”

  Boyd stood there for a minute, searching for someone else he could ask to trade with. Apparently, it wasn’t going to be easy, but he’d find someone who hadn’t heard of Pate, or was desperate enough—but later, he decided as he saw Pate cross the room to the operations counter. He didn’t want Pate to get too far ahead of him on the check-in.

  Pate saw him coming. To Boyd’s surprise, he seemed startled. He turned away again quickly. “Say, pardner,” he called to the agent behind the counter. “You got the papers for Five-fifty-five?”r />
  “Five-fifty-five?” The agent looked up as Boyd stepped to the counter beside Pate.

  “Yeah,” Pate said. “Triple Nickel.”

  The agent rose from his chair, carrying a half-inch stack of papers. He slapped it down on the counter in front of Pate. “Just now put ’em together.”

  “Morning,” Boyd said.

  “Morning.” Pate began to leaf through the pages. He glanced at Boyd, not with the look of disgust Boyd expected, but with uncertainty. Had Pate decided to be good after all?

  “Pretty chilly out there this morning,” Boyd tried.

  Pate nodded. “Looks good out West, though.” He pushed the first half of the flight papers over to Boyd. “We better get to it.”

  Boyd set quietly to the task of checking the route, weather, and fuel load, wondering what had brought this change about. Was Pate sorry? More likely he only worried now that Boyd might report his tirade. That had to be it, Boyd decided. The bastard was sucking up, hoping to change his mind. It wouldn’t work, of course. He’d turn Pate in as soon as it was practical to do so. After all, it was his duty. But for the time being, he’d play along, let Pate think he had a chance. If he kept up the good behavior.

  “You might think about putting on a little more gas,” Pate said. “Liable to be weather over the mountains with that frontal system.”

  Boyd nodded. Significant weather over the mountains in winter was unlikely, but he’d throw Pate a bone, do as he suggested.

  “Another thousand pounds?”

  “That oughta do it.”

  Finished, Pate assembled the documents into a neat stack and then ran a staple through the stack. “Look, I’ve gotta go mail something,” he told Boyd. “I’ll meet you at the plane.”

  “Okay. What about the walk-around?” The walk-around was, after all, the first officer’s job.

  Pate had started to turn away, but he turned back again and let his eyes meet Boyd’s a second time. They were more hazel than brown, Boyd noticed. And only guarded now, not angry. “I’ll do it.” Pate smiled, a forced, half-smile, not a genuine one, but enough to hint again there might be repentance on his mind. Boyd watched him cross the room, carrying both his bags. Pate even looked better, he realized. His shoes were polished up, and his uniform was clean, as if he had taken time to brush off the lint and press his slacks.

  Boyd turned back to the counter. Outside the window behind the agent’s desk a New World 737 was making a slow taxi across the ramp. Above its blue tail Boyd could see another jetliner climbing into the flat gray sky. He smiled at the agent’s frown.

  “Jeez, you look like an ad for New World this morning,” Frank Sloan said. “How’s it goin’, Redman?”

  Pate had opened the door into the stairway that led up to the concourse. Frank Sloan was on the other side. A Westar captain for fourteen years, Sloan was a copilot again now, too. He looked old, beaten, his jowls sagging. His eyes peered wearily from behind tired lids. Knowing what Sloan was going through, Pate couldn’t bear to look at him. He glanced down for a place to set his flight kit. He could feel Sloan studying him, though, wondering what was not right about him this morning. So Pate, straightening up, extended his hand, accomplished a smile.

  “Hey, Frank. How ’bout yourself?”

  Sloan let out a quiet laugh. “Just tryin’ to make it, Emil. How’s Katherine?”

  “Doing okay.” Pate cleared his throat to cover the tightness in his voice.

  “Well, you’re looking awful good,” Sloan said. “Keeping the weight off, unlike me.”

  “Thanks,” Pate said. He waited then, feeling like a man in an elevator watching for the right floor so he could get off. Sloan’s voice seemed odd, far away. There was no force to it, no enthusiasm, only tired sadness. It shriveled Pate’s gut to see Sloan so run down. He looked up at the top of the stairway, resisting the urge to tell Sloan that things would soon get better.

  “You all right?” Sloan asked.

  Pate made himself look at Sloan again, and smile. “Good as can be expected. Hey, I do gotta git, Frank. Sorry, pardner. Have a good one, okay?”

  “Sure thing.” Sloan frowned at him, but nodded as if he understood. “You too, Redman.”

  In the hallway beyond Operations, Pate set his bags down again and waited for a minute to regain his composure—though he didn’t need to, he realized. Amazingly, his mind had already regained tranquility. Not even in Viet Nam, in those seconds before the wallop of the catapult sent his Phantom hurtling off the deck of the Kitty Hawk—when the trick was to stop all thought—had he felt so calm. It was as if he could shut himself into a vacancy, a kind of bubble that rolled as he moved, muting everything around him. Now, as he climbed the stairs to the steel security door that opened onto the passenger level, the bubble climbed with him.

  The concourse was bustling with travelers. The constant buzzing clatter of their voices echoed down the concourse like the sound of bees inside a pipe. A blurred, unintelligible voice announced an arrival. There was a chaotic insanity to it all, he thought, walking past the concession alcoves. Faces rapt with meaningless purpose. The look of cattle. Intent on nothing. Bystanders. He moved among them like a being from another dimension. He was such a being, he realized.

  He went into the men’s room and peed, watching other men glance at his uniform in the mirror over the lays. Only briefly curious. They were closed inside their bubbles, too.

  At the foot of the stairs, alone, he lit a cigarette and thought: Am I clear on this?

  A question to be avoided, he decided. He would never be clear on it, and so it didn’t matter. He was clear on what mattered. He put out the half-finished cigarette and picked up his bags and went through the outer door to the ramp.

  The gate areas had been bladed and de-iced, but a bitter north wind was gusting across the tarmac, swirling up fine clouds of snow crystals and streaking the pavement with white. He turned left and walked the fifty yards or so to Gate 15. The MD-80 sat waiting, its streamlined form low to the tarmac, the gate’s jetbridge snug against its forward entry door, a dusting of snow whitening the top of its fuselage. He checked the number painted on the ship’s nosegear door: N63109NW. It corresponded with the one on the flight plan.

  Setting both his bags at the base of the metal stairway that led up to the jetbridge, he pulled his overcoat collar up against the wind. Then he got his flashlight from the inside pocket of his kit. The wind blew icy air around him as he squatted at the nosewheel to examine the strut, but suddenly his head filled with a chaos of sensation, memories of all the times he’d examined the plane he was about to fly, the twenty thousand times he’d hunkered down over a nosewheel, the smell of tarmac, lubricant, rubber, airplane. He had always liked doing the walk-around, he thought. But not now, on this cold, gray day with a mean wind blowing snow across a bleak ramp in a place he hated. What did it even matter? He looked up at the plane above him. It did matter, though. He wasn’t going to quit being what he was, doing what he did.

  No cracks were visible in the strut’s steel tubing, no evidence of hydraulic fluid leaking from the shocks. He probed the wheel well with the beam of his flashlight, even humming to himself part of a tune he could not quite remember. Maybe something his grandmother had hummed. He went down the left side of the jet to the leading edge of the wing. A three-car baggage train was parked there, the handlers busy with the luggage. Pate nodded a greeting and, stooping slightly, stepped in under the wing to examine the main gear and brakes on that side.

  After he had walked the perimeter of the wing, inspecting the high-lift devices on its leading and trailing edges, he walked back along the slender fuselage to the tail to inspect the engines. The APU was running, its exhaust roaring from vents in the upper side of the tailcone, and he held his fingers to his ears.

  He peered into the engine intake at the fan blades, and then he examined the lower surface of the cowling. It was streaked with a windblown film of oil and runway grime, but showed no evidence of fresh leaks. He w
ent around the tail and checked the other engine, then continued up the left side of the airplane, mirroring his previous inspections.

  When he was finished, he walked away from the nose of the plane so that he could take it in as a whole and single object. This he always did, wanting to see the machine he was going to fly. Otherwise, it was easy to forget that all the separate parts worked together, in concert. Today, he could not help also thinking what a graceful, wonderful thing an airplane was. Even the old Waco he’d learned in, with its squared-off wings and the pistons sticking out all over its blunt nose like warts—even that plane had been beautiful to look at.

  But the plane he looked at now was painted up too slick and sophisticated—too much like Farraday—the dark, glossy blue stretching to below the windows, where an arctic white stripe sliced above the corporate gray underbelly. And on the tail, the New World logo—white globe with blue continents—hung like a garish moon. Boyd probably loved it.

  Cold suddenly, Pate walked back to his luggage and stowed his flashlight. He picked up both bags and carried them to the base of the jetbridge and entered the key code into the jet bridge’s outside door. So far everything had gone well. It had been just like Boyd to pull rank, reminding him his job included the walk-around—providing him with the perfect reason to board the plane from the outside. Pate turned and looked back at the terminal once more, at the big windows of the concourse, where silhouettes stood or moved like shadows behind the plate glass. Where all the security devices meant to stop him hadn’t even gotten the chance.

  The flight attendants were in the back as Boyd came into the galleyway. He could hear them banging cupboard doors. Pate was already in his seat, the log book open on his lap. Boyd still hadn’t locked anyone in to taking his line for the rest of the month, but he’d gotten another captain interested, telling him the layover in L.A. was superb. He hadn’t mentioned Pate. His reason for wanting the trade, he’d explained, was a family matter.

  Boyd shoved his suitcase into one of the first-class overheads and then stepped through the cockpit doorway. Pate didn’t look up. Boyd took off his overcoat and cap and put them on the hook behind his seat. Then he hoisted his kit over the left-hand seat and lowered it into the well. He didn’t much care for MD-80’s. The cockpit was so cramped, the passageway partially blocked by the folded jumpseat. And then there was the center pedestal—where the engine throttles were located—which you had to step over to get into either seat. It was like clambering between the front seats of a compact car, so before he sat down, Boyd made sure he hadn’t left his earpiece in his coat pocket. Then he made a check of the rows of circuit breakers on the rear wall and overhead panel, verifying that none were tripped. Pate would’ve already done this, but it was procedure to doublecheck, and Boyd had decided his performance would be flawless this trip.