Certainly Phil Masters could not take the heat. Before each utterance now, he coughed, cleared his throat. His water glass was empty; he patted his face with a folded hanky. The room was cool, but Frye realized he was sweating a little too. It was appalling. The pilots had lost all respect for Masters and weren’t hiding it anymore. They were taking turns, it seemed, knocking him down with hard jokes and questions they hurled like bottles. But still Jack Farraday looked as dry and unperturbed as ever. Now he uncrossed his legs. And coughed quietly. It must have been a signal, for almost in mid-sentence, Masters broke off to introduce him. Now, Frye thought, he would critique his new boss—see how badly he handled this mob—then impress Farraday later with a few pointers.
Farraday had good posture; he was a tidy figure with the look of money about him—old money he didn’t flaunt with a flashy tie or jewelry. Didn’t even wear a wristwatch. He had fine-boned features, a chin that was sharp, hollow cheeks and temples. A face too keen in the flesh, but the TV camera liked it. His smile, though, was strained, and Frye didn’t like it much. Nor did he care for Farraday’s speech. It was flat and weak, and he did nothing to gain rapport with his audience—could have been talking to an empty room it seemed. Farraday was not fawning, however, the way Masters had been, and so he accomplished a tense cease-fire. Now the pilots were frowning into their empty coffee cups, sulking like chastised children, as Farraday went on, calmly feeding them numbers, projections, analyses. Stuff they couldn’t understand. It was all impossible to follow, of course, and Frye figured the pilots would realize soon enough they were getting a snowjob.
It didn’t take long. A minute later, a white-haired man stood in the back—a senior captain, Frye guessed.
“What about these attrition levels? he asked. “I hear we’re losing ten to fifteen pilots a month. I’d like to know what you’re planning to do, besides pushing the rest of us to fly more hours.”
This was a sore point. Frye had heard that training new pilots was costing the company. Worse, the resignations were hurting morale.
But Farraday actually seemed relieved someone had asked the question, and he forced his wooden smile again. “We want the current level of attrition. We want it because it’s the right kind of attrition.”
That had sounded far too vague. Frye hoped it wouldn’t be taken as a blatant threat, but a low murmur grew voluble. He found himself pressed back into his chair by the rising din.
“What do you mean, ‘right kind’?” the man in the audience asked, his face red. “They’re not unqualified, they’re all going to other carriers. Hell, I’m only here because I’ve got too much seniority. After the paycuts we’ve swallowed, I can’t afford to start over.”
Farraday nodded again in his vague and puzzled way. “Yes, we’re concerned about the financial burden placed on all of us. But we have determined just how far we can go with the attrition levels, and we now have a task force studying our options ... should those levels become unacceptable.” He scanned the rest of the room. Hands were shooting up now, more pilots standing. Maybe he’d said too much, Frye thought. But Farraday added, “I believe you’d all be up to retraining in some new aircraft.”
“What new aircraft?” someone shouted. The murmur grew more menacing. Still Farraday didn’t seem flustered in the least, only more baffled that these men would be acting this way. Frye wondered, too, why they hated Farraday so. It worried him. Were they simply too caught up in their own selfish resentment? Blinded by it? Couldn’t they see that he was being straight with them, or that it was in their best interests that New World be fiscally sound? Jack Farraday just didn’t know how to talk to them. He needed to project more warmth and sensitivity.
As the meeting wore on, as Farraday artlessly deflected question after question, as the pilots started running out of patience, Frye silently began rehearsing new lines for his own presentation. He would start today to show these men the real Jack Farraday beneath the distant, chilly surface. He checked his watch. His turn would come soon.
But now someone had come through the door immediately behind him and stepped up beside Farraday. It was the security chief, head of Farraday’s personal staff of bodyguards. He leaned to whisper something. Farraday’s face went completely blank. Then he nodded once and moved closer to the podium microphone again.
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid I must cut this meeting short. We’ll provide you another forum for your questions in the near future. Thank you for attending.”
Abruptly he turned and came down the stage. This sudden end to the meeting had caught everyone by surprise. Was it a clever way to dismiss the pilots early? Frye couldn’t help but think so. He was surprised he hadn’t been forewarned, sorry, too, that now he’d have to wait to deliver his own spiel. Just then, Jack Farraday reached the end of the stage, where Frye was seated. And he did something that Frye found far more surprising than anything else Farraday had done that morning. Gripping Frye’s shoulder so tightly it hurt, Farraday leaned close to him and whispered, “Get your ass out of that chair and come with me.”
Startled, Frye looked up. Farraday’s smile was sudden and alive, a wild grin, as if he’d just told a wicked one-liner. Then blank again. Now his hand started patting Frye’s shoulder. But there was no mistaking the look in the eyes behind the suddenly recomposed face: Jack Farraday was in a rage.
TEN
Tucson Old Town Hilton Hotel
Albuquerque, New Mexico
17:46 GMT/10:46 MST
For a small man, Jack Farraday could move fast. Sometimes only Bobby Liddel, his security chief, could keep up with him. He reached the elevator three strides ahead of the bodyguard, a dozen ahead of Phil Masters, and even farther ahead of the new public relations man, Walter Frye. The basset-faced ex-hotshot flack man for big oil was Phil Master’s hire. Farraday had his doubts about him, although before the meeting he had given him the old welcome aboard as if he were some kind of prized recruit. Well, Frye would get a chance to prove himself today. But first he would have to learn to move faster.
Farraday punched the elevator button again and scowled at Bobby, then at Masters, whose face was flushed. Frye caught up. The elevator doors opened at the same moment.
“What’s wrong, Jack?” Masters panted.
Farraday shook his head. “You won’t believe it.” He told them as they rode the elevator up to the penthouse.
“Has to be a hoax,” Masters said.
“A minor incident at the worst,” Frye added. “We can handle it.”
Farraday stared at him. Frye, smiling back, blinked fast. It was easy enough to see Frye was a toady. But then again that’s what he was paid to be. “It fucking doesn’t matter what it is,” Farraday said, turning his back on both of them. “What it is is some confused shithead trying to scare me, make a news story. That, in and of itself, is not the problem. Not our problem anyway. Our problem is the media and how the fucking hell they’ll play it.”
He turned to them again, to witness their uneasiness. Masters was pretty used to this, but Frye wore the look of a man slapped. So tough talk bothered him?
“You,” Farraday said to him. “I want three different press releases. Make that four. One covering a hoax, one covering a talkdown—no fatalities, one for hijacker-bites-it—no-one-else, and one for hijacker-and-additional-fatals. Get this guy’s name, record—dig up everything. Make a motive that’s completely unrelated to New World. I don’t give a shit what. Just make sure he’s no drunk, no longtime loser, no grudge monger—or why the hell would he be working for us.”
“How about this?” Masters said. “The guy’s had some personal trauma. His wife screwing around. Another pilot. How about same guy he’s crewed with? So they have a fight in the cockpit. Crime of passion, that’s what this is really all about.”
Farraday liked it for a moment. But no, it would still make for bad publicity. “What do you want, Phil, people to think we’re a fucking soap opera? Give me something better.” He looked at Walter Frye again. The
man was desperate for an idea, his eyes blinking furiously.
“Give me a workable scenario in five minutes,” Farraday ordered as the elevator doors slid open.
“Wait,” Frye cried suddenly. “Why can’t the opposite be true? Maybe this fella’s completely cold-blooded. Maybe he might be pretending it’s a grudge motive but in reality he’s in it for the money. He wants a ransom, an escape route, the usual things.” Frye’s face was bright but goofy and guileless.
“Let me think about it.” Farraday went ahead of them, not wanting to give Frye any positive reaction. The idea was good, though. A cold-blooded motive would leave New World blameless, and they could easily plug this version into the press ahead of time. “Get it roughed out some more and we’ll see how it flies,” he said, leading them into the penthouse living room and up a short flight of steps to the study alcove where Edgar Boyce, chief of New World’s legal staff, was just hanging up the phone.
“Give me some details now.” Farraday went to the fridge under the bar to get a bottle of the orange juice stocked there for him.
Boyce filled them all in. It sounded even more far-fetched. A very bad joke, and if so, some pilots would lose their heads. Farraday twisted the plastic collar from a bottle and drank from it. “If this turns out to be a false alarm,” he told Masters, “I want a full investigation when it’s over. Find out if this Emil Pate is behind it or just a patsy. Is he ex-Westar?”
“Yes,” Boyce said.
“God-fucking-damn-it.” Farraday couldn’t contain himself. The old Westar pilots were a never-ending torment. He threw the bottle as hard as he could. It was plastic, but it split against the plate glass doors to the balcony. Juice spattered the carpet.
Boyce, placid as ever, said, “I think we’d better operate as though the threat’s real. According to Rydell, the FAA is assuming it’s real. Jack, he’s just spoken with them again. They think the hijacker may demand to talk to you. If he does, they want you to do it.”
Sometimes Farraday absolutely loathed Boyce, with his pink, girlish hands, his foxy little eyes, his unflappable demeanor. The more heated things got, the more coldly rational Boyce became. Of course it was why he was good, but it made Farraday want to spit on his alligator shoes, kick his shin, something to get a rise out of him.
“So what’s your advice, Edgar,” he said. “Quit being so goddamn subtle for once.”
Boyce shrugged his head, as if dodging the insult. “A little stonewalling wouldn’t hurt right now. We have a plausible excuse—you’re out of town. As a matter of fact, I took the liberty of delaying informing you while I tried to reach Corbett Rodgers.”
Rodgers was the assistant FAA administrator in Washington. Farraday had known him at Yale. Not well, but the Rodgers family had borrowed money from his father’s bank. Now might be a good time to call in the favor, gain some insider intelligence. “What did he say?”
“Couldn’t reach him yet. He is of course not in the office on Saturdays. But we’ll track him down. I’m assuming we can count on him to help us put the right spin on this when the time comes?”
Farraday eyed Walter Frye, who had lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa. Frye still seemed overwhelmed, almost in a state of shock. Farraday went back to the fridge and got another bottle of orange juice. Then he crossed the room again and sat down beside Frye. He stretched his arm along the back of the sofa, behind Frye, gratified by the obvious fact that this made the man even more uncomfortable. At least Frye would do whatever he wanted. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to talk to this guy,” he said. “Do you?”
Frye, though he wouldn’t bring his head up, was quick to shake it. “Not if he’s a mercenary, Mr. Farraday. No, of course not. It would go against good policy to negotiate with his kind.”
“Good,” Farraday said. Frye was already using his own version as the premise. They should forget any notion that the guy had revenge on his mind. Better to see the hijacker as just another D. B. Cooper. It was strictly business. And the worst they could do was give in to him.
“Let’s go with your story,” he told Frye. “Work it up, get some sources. Use Corbett Rodgers. Put some words in his mouth for him.” He turned to Boyce. “Stonewall the FAA. Tell Rydell to slow-dance with them as long as possible. But once the guy’s in custody I want our people involved. Make sure the press doesn’t get to him before we do.” He patted Frye’s shoulder. “Now let’s sit tight and see what happens.”
Aviation Command Center
18:46 GMT/13:46 EST
The communication net was out. Active links had been established with Sky Harbor and New World headquarters in Phoenix. The Pentagon and the White House were on mute alert. The Kansas City and Albuquerque centers had designated their own response teams. Now there was little more to do but wait—for Pate to respond, for the channels to bring them more information about the hijacker. And for Jack Farraday to call them. And Pate’s chief pilot; and Katherine Winslow—if they could find her.
The net might also locate friends of Pate’s in time, fellow pilots, former Westar people. Recovering these bits and pieces of the subject’s past—influences that could pry him from his intent—was a facet of the established strategy which applied directly in domestic hijackings. They would try to find even distant relatives if there were any.
But they could not count on this part of the plan, not in the few hours they had. In fact they could not expect any of it, and Otis Searing began to feel the day slipping away, like a rock sent rolling down hill, velocity increasing, momentum building—the chance of halting the onward rush of Emil Pate diminishing with each passing minute.
Holding a tissue under his nose, he paced the floor, trying not to watch the clock. In college he had always hated standing on the sidelines, waiting for the defense to get the ball back, even after Georgia Tech had built a wide margin. This waiting was like that—too passive, too obedient. The hijacker had the ball and they needed to get it back before he had time to think, adjust his strategy.
Searing turned and measured the floor again, between the horseshoe and the principal’s station, from one end of the cluttered room to the other, glaring at the stacks of old files and notebook logs, at one wall and then the opposite, stopping only to get another tissue from the box at the principal’s station. It irritated him now, too, that Brian L’Hommedieu could remain so complaisant. The agent was sitting at station 8, chin in hand, calmly playing and replaying the tape recording he’d made of Pate. Searing forced himself to stand still. With his hands gripped together behind him, he studied the big U.S. map on the wall beyond the horseshoe, and listened. Pate’s voice was deep, full of gravel. As the FBI agent had said, it wasn’t the voice you’d expect.
“We can forget the Established Strategy, can’t we?” the voice was saying.
Searing turned to pace again. The worst of it was that. The Established Strategy was useless now. And realizing this was like finding out in the first quarter that you’d spent all week preparing a defense only to learn the other team had installed a new offense. One you couldn’t read. You could only play a prevent-defense—let the enemy take his yardage, hope he made a mistake, but be ready to stop him at the goal line.
Except they weren’t ready. Searing stopped pacing, unclenched his hands as the thought took hold: They were making a blunder—a huge one. He stood still for another moment, making sure. Was there any other way? He couldn’t think of any. Circling around the end of the horseshoe, he sat down beside L’Hommedieu. He didn’t need the negotiator’s approval, but he was supposed to get his input. And he wanted agreement at least.
From the tape recorder came the familiar high-pitched squeal—Pate deliberately keying his mike at the same time as L’Hommedieu. Then L’Hommedieu’s voice asking a question. Then Pate’s deep voice saying, “Yeah. Don’t talk about the passengers.”
“Turn that off a minute,” Searing told him.
“... Only those on the inside, the ones swallowed up in it, know,” Pate wa
s saying. “But if I do this, everyone will know Farraday’s a slimeball, a monster.”
“We need to talk, damn it.”
L’Hommedieu stopped the tape and ran it back. He flipped a page on his notes and remained absorbed in them. “What is it?”
Searing leaned closer. “We need to initiate armed interdiction.”
Now he had the agent’s attention. “What are you talking about?” L’Hommedieu said, staring at him incredulously. “The subject is at thirty thousand feet, for God’s sake.”
“I’m talking fighter intercept.” Searing straightened up. “He might be bluffing, but what if he isn’t? What if he’s totally sure of his intentions? If he is, we’ve got to have the last-ditch option.”
Tissue wadded in his fist, Searing waited, watching L’Hommedieu’s eyes, but he got only a blank look—the agent was busy computing. “Listen,” Searing went on. “That airplane’s a goddamn flying bomb, and right now only Pate’s in total control of where it comes down. Populated area—we could be talking hundreds more lives. We can’t let him get anywhere near Phoenix. We need an intercept in the air, in position to respond.”
“Do you know what you’re proposing?” L’Hommedieu said quietly.
“Of course I do. But we need it.”
L’Hommedieu thought for a few more seconds, and this time Searing could tell his argument was registering. But the agent shook his head. “I don’t like it. We put a fighter up now, it becomes a threat. Not a good idea at this point.”
“We don’t let him know it’s there,” Searing said, exasperated now. “And we keep on negotiating, keep trying to talk him out of it, trying to talk him down.”
L’Hommedieu stared at his notes again, then looked up at the clock. “How much time would we need to get a plane up?”
Searing tossed his tissue into the can beside station 2. “We’ll need Presidential approval to use military force, and that’ll take some time. Let’s say thirty minutes. Make it forty-five. Count in another thirty minutes to intercept. Add another fifteen minutes for Murphy’s Law.”
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