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Skyhammer

Page 17

by Richard Hilton


  “Damn it, don’t tell me!” L’Hommedieu interrupted. “Sorry, I’m not watching it, Jim. We—”

  “You’re not watching it?” Kelly’s jaw dropped. “Horam, they’re just about to—”

  “I’ve got Elizabeth taping it for me!” L’Hommedieu lowered his voice. “Listen, Jim, we’ve got a hijacking in progress, that’s why I called. I need to know if you can help me.”

  “Hijacking?” Kelly set his beer down on the pass-through and turned away from the TV. What did a hijacking have to do with him?

  “It was Westar you were with, right?”

  “Six years, not counting the goddamn furloughs. Someone’s hijacked a Westar flight?”

  “Did you know a pilot named Emil Pate?”

  “Redman Pate? Hell yes, I knew him. Everybody knew Emil Pate. Is he the pilot?”

  “He’s an Indian then?”

  “Part. Half, I think. Everyone called him Redman.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “Pretty well. Flew with him a few times. Good stick. The best. What is it, Homm? Is Pate the pilot?”

  “Yes,” L’Hommedieu said. “And the hijacker.”

  As L’Hommedieu went on quickly, explaining the situation, Kelly stared at the TV again, too stunned to follow the next play. He saw that the Army players were dancing, hugging each other. Josh had rolled over onto his back and covered his eyes with both hands. Something had happened.

  “Why?” he blurted suddenly. “Why’s he doing this? Is he crazy?”

  “In a way,” Brian L’Hommedieu said. “He has a very clear motive, though. He wants to get even with Jack Farraday.”

  At the name, Kelly felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He hated Jack Farraday. “No shit,” he said softly.

  “No shit.” L’Hommedieu answered. “I’ve got a hunch a sympathetic voice—someone he knows is on his side—might help talk him out of it. Would you be willing to talk to him? There’s no one else, Jim. No one we can find in time. He’ll be crossing into Albuquerque center airspace in about twenty minutes.”

  Yes, Army had scored, Kelly realized. Now they were just three points down. The second half would be the real battle. And a close finish, and he would probably win the bet. He’d hate to miss that. But abruptly he didn’t care. L’Hommedieu was talking again, telling him there were a hundred and thirty-two people on the plane. Twenty-eight of them children. Kelly stared at his son, sprawled on the carpet, thin arms still thrown over his face. Then he turned away from the screen again. “It’ll take me twenty or thirty minutes to get out to the center.”

  “We’ve already sent a car for you,” L’Hommedieu answered. “I figured you’d say yes. Call me when you get there. By then I’ll know how you should approach him.”

  Kelly put on his shoes and a clean shirt and waited, watching Navy move the ball down the field, wondering just what he would say to Emil Pate. That Pate was a hero maybe. A hero for doing what they all wanted to do—get Jack Farraday. But he would tell him he was as wrong as Farraday, too, if he was willing to kill innocent people.

  Navy couldn’t get close enough for a field goal. The halftime show started. Just as the FBI car arrived, the broadcast was interrupted by a special news bulletin reporting the hijacking of a New World Airlines flight en route to Phoenix, Arizona.

  Aviation Command Center

  19:17 GMT/14:17 EST

  Otis Searing replaced his handset and eased his chair back from station 1. He felt the pall of helplessness and frustration lifting. It had taken ten minutes of haggling, first with the duty officer at the White House Situation Room, then with some colonel at the Pentagon, an aide to General Klinesmith, the commander of NMCC, and finally with Klinesmith himself. Then the president had talked with General Klinesmith and then with the Situation Room duty officer, who had then picked up the line to Searing again ...

  But now it was at least partly accomplished. The chase plane would be launched, within a half hour, if all went well.

  The only problem was that only an intercept had been authorized. The president had decided that he did not want to make a final decision “hastily,” the duty officer had told Searing. It went without saying that the president’s caution had become acute the moment he’d learned John Sanford was a passenger on the flight.

  Searing stood now and went into Operations to refill his cup. Then he returned to his station and sat down to study the U.S. map on the wall beyond the horseshoe. L’Hommedieu had finished talking to his old school mate in Albuquerque and had left for the head again. Searing sipped his coffee and then, with his eye, drew an imaginary circle around the area east of Phoenix. They would need to calculate a point on the eastern edge of the circle, a point beyond which 555 could not be allowed to fly. They would need to know what centers of population would be threatened, what lay within the cone of land over which the debris from the plane would scatter—but the “debris,” Searing thought suddenly, would be more than shredded metal and plastic, it would be human beings. Fifty-seven women, forty-four men. Twenty-eight children. Children like his own. And none of them had a clue to their fate. It made his blood boil again, to think that Farraday wasn’t yet involved.

  Impulsively, he snatched up his handset and opened the line to New World’s Flight Ops VP, Mark Rydell. To his dismay and abrupt rage, the line had been put on hold. Searing swore, disconnected the line and immediately dialed it in again. It connected. He dabbed at his nose with a tissue. A moment later the same woman he’d first talked to answered, her voice placidly beginning to recite the same litany of introduction he’d already heard.

  “This is Searing again,” he interrupted. “What happened to Rydell? I told him to stand by.”

  The woman seemed slightly offended. “He’s just stepped out, sir.”

  “But he made contact with Mr. Farraday?”

  “Yes, Mr. Farraday should be returning your call at any moment.”

  “Better yet,” Searing answered, “you give me the number where he is and I’ll call him.”

  The woman stammered, and then put him on hold before he could object. Searing swore again and moved his hand to redial. But he changed his mind. Reporters were no doubt trying to get through. He’d been lucky to reconnect once. Give it a few minutes, he told himself, and got out of his chair and sat on the edge of the desk with the phone to his ear. He loosened his tie. Then he stood and glared through the windows at the surveillance monitors above the duty officer’s desk. He swore quietly to himself this time. As if in response, one of the surveillance monitors blinked, showing a new view of some hallway. The phone clicked in his ear.

  “I haven’t been authorized to give you that number,” the woman said. “But Mr. Farraday is calling you right now, Mr. Searing.”

  “Right,” Searing said. “And the check is in the mail. You get word to him—no more stonewalling, and this line stays open, understand? You don’t put me on hold, I put you on hold. And tell Rydell to nail his butt to a chair. Failure to comply will result in his arrest. And yours.”

  He punched his hold button before she could answer and sat down on the edge of the desk again, shaking his head at the sheer incompetence. It was all too clear that things had gotten wretchedly lax. Communication chains were not being maintained. New World’s personnel hadn’t been properly trained. He dabbed at his nose and considered for a moment the report he would have to write when this was over. L’Hommedieu stepped back into the room. When Searing told him what had just happened, without a word, as if some new thought had occurred to him, the agent sat down at station 8 to make a note.

  A minute later Bob Stouffer stuck his head through the door to Operations. “It’s on the news,” he said.

  They stood at the doorway as the bulletin played. The New World logo filled the screen behind the newscaster. “From unconfirmed sources,” the woman was saying, “we’ve learned that the hijacker is one of the crewmembers. His demands are as yet unknown ...”

  “They’ll be bangin
g on the door downstairs any minute,” Searing said. “Whatever you do, don’t leave any phone line closed.”

  At that moment Lofton called to him from the command center. “Line three: It’s Jack Farraday.”

  Relief pushing aside his anger, Searing went back to his station and snatched up the handset again and connected it.

  “Searing, ACC.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then a voice said, “This is John Farraday.”

  It was a hard, flat voice. Cold. A northern, city voice, the kind Searing instinctively recoiled from. He glanced at L’Hommedieu, nodded at him to pick up the line.

  “Where are you, Mr. Farraday?” he asked.

  Again there was no immediate response. Then Farraday said, “Is this conversation being recorded?”

  “Monitored, not recorded. Not at this end. Where are you?”

  “And exactly who am I speaking to?”

  “Otis Searing. Supervisor, NAMFAC Control, acting principal, Aviation Command Center. I’ll ask again: Where are you calling from, sir?”

  Once more it was several seconds before Farraday said, “I’m calling from the Hilton Hotel in Albuquerque.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” Searing answered. “We need you to get out to the Albuquerque control center as fast as you can. I suppose you know what this is all about, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m aware of the facts, Mr. Searing,” Farraday said. “I would like to know what steps you’ve taken so far, and why I need to be directly involved.”

  Searing had already gone over in his mind what he’d say to Farraday, and how he’d say it.

  “Mr. Farraday, the hijacker has demanded to speak with you, and we believe it’s a good idea.”

  There was a long, muffled silence this time. Farraday had covered the phone to talk to someone else. Then he was back on. “I don’t think that would be wise,” he said.

  “I’m afraid it’s not really up for discussion,” Searing answered. “It’s a directive. At this point we have no other demand from the subject, and he won’t talk to anyone else. If you don’t talk to him, Mr. Farraday, he’ll just take the plane on down to Phoenix and do exactly what he says he’s going to do. You know what his threat is, don’t you?”

  “My information,” Farraday said, “is that he’s not made the threat definite and that there’s a very good chance this is simply an extortion to get money.”

  L’Hommedieu covered his handset. “Where did he get that information?”

  Searing shook his head. To Farraday he said, “We don’t think the chance is very good at all that the subject is bluffing. You know his stated motive?”

  “He may be disgruntled,” Farraday responded, “but we don’t hire unstable pilots. We believe his real motive is money. He wants—”

  “He’s seeking vengeance on you,” Searing interrupted, his temper rising.

  “As I said,” Farraday went on calmly, “his ulterior motive isn’t my concern. We don’t negotiate with cold-blooded terrorists.”

  Searing fought to control his temper now. “Mr. Farraday, this isn’t an ulterior motive we’re talking about. It’s not cold-blooded either, not even close. This guy hates your guts and wants to get even, pure and simple.”

  “I’m fully aware of the magnitude of the supposed threat, Mr. Searing,” Farraday said, a harder edge to his voice now. “My point is that a response from me might actually encourage him.”

  L’Hommedieu covered his handset again. “You want me to talk to him?”

  Searing covered his. “We’re not negotiating, we’re ordering.”

  The agent nodded.

  “Mr. Farraday?” Searing paced to the edge of the platform and turned. “We believe the opposite is true. We believe a refusal from you will make him even more—”

  “Will you hold, please?” Farraday covered the phone.

  L’Hommedieu covered his. “Play up to him just a little. He’s just going through the ritual. Guy’s got an ego.”

  “I know that,” Searing snapped. L’Hommedieu looked rebuffed.

  Then Farraday was on again. “This man hasn’t made his ransom demand yet?”

  “Yet?” Searing sat down on the edge of his station, feeling abruptly tired. Where in the hell had Farraday gotten this idea that Pate was in it for money? “There won’t be any ransom demand,” he said patiently. “You’re all he wants. He’s going to crash the plane to get even with you.”

  There was silence on the other end. L’Hommedieu sat on the edge of the horseshoe, and they looked at each other, listening. There was muffled conversation now.

  “Mr. Searing,” Farraday said, coming back on. “I’m not a negotiator—just a minute, please.” Again he covered the phone. Then he was back. “I understand Corbett Rodgers has been called in. When will he be there?”

  Now Searing’s anger returned full force. He fought to control it—delay it anyway. He’d let it out when he discovered who was feeding Farraday information. “Rodgers won’t be here in time,” he said through his teeth. “He’s down in Annapolis. So you’ll just have to deal with me. Anyway, this isn’t a request, It’s an order, sir.”

  “I see,” Farraday answered. “Your order? And you are the acting principal?”

  “Tell you what,” Searing said. “Let me talk to someone else. You got a lawyer handy?”

  Once more the phone was covered. Searing waited, pacing back and forth as far as the cord would let him.

  “Use your authority,” L’Hommedieu said. “Don’t use your anger.”

  Searing nodded, understanding what he meant. But it wasn’t easy. Another minute passed. Then a new voice was on the line.

  “Mr. Searing? I’m Edgar Boyce, Mr. Farraday’s chief legal counsel, and I must first tell you that, having looked at the hijacker’s record, we’re fully convinced he is rational, that this act is rational.”

  Searing sat down in his chair and took a deep breath. “We’ve seen his record too,” he said quietly. “But we’ve also talked to him, and he doesn’t want money. Now you can help me by making it clear to your boss that we are not asking him to go out to the Albuquerque control center, we are ordering it. I am authorized by the Director of the U.S. Department of Transportation, under Article 1872, section N-7250 of the Federal Aviation Administration Code governing air piracy situation strategy. As a lawyer you know what it will mean if you resist my authority. If Farraday doesn’t comply, he’ll have hell to pay. Impress him with that.”

  Boyce covered the phone now, and there was silence. L’Hommedieu said, “I think I know what’s going on here. They’re trying to build an alternative story.”

  “Covering their goddamn asses is what they’re up to,” Searing said. “Even I’m starting to get on Pate’s side of this.” He halfway meant that, he realized. Farraday reminded him of the falsely liberal, white shopowners he’d known in the South—cool-talking to your face but mean-spirited, self-serving little racist bastards behind your back.

  Boyce came on the line again. “Mr. Searing, of course Mr. Farraday is very concerned and wants to do what’s right. He merely wants to make sure—”

  “Listen,” Searing said. “You tell him the next time we hear from him he’d better be sitting in front of a situation display at Albuquerque center.”

  “All right, Mr. Searing,” Boyce said quietly. “But you must understand that whatever transpires from this will be the liability of the FAA, not New World Airlines.”

  “Fine. Say whatever you need to say. Just do it.” Searing reached for another tissue. “And keep this line open, please, and let us know as soon as Farraday’s on his way.”

  “Certainly,” Boyce said.

  After he’d switched the line to mute, Searing used the tissue to wipe the sweat from his face. “Jesus, what a slippery bastard,” he said to L’Hommedieu.

  The agent agreed. “He’s going to be a problem.”

  “Sorry about barking at you a minute ago.”

  L’Hommedieu smiled
at him. “How did you manage to remember the specific FAA article?”

  Searing shook his head, smiled back, and shrugged. “One number’s as good as another.”

  Luke Air Force Base

  Glendale, Arizona

  19:24 GMT/12:13 MST

  The 461st Fighter Squadron’s dayroom was the kind of environment often found in the military. The once-sterile and official decor had, over time, become dilapidated and personalized. On the wall behind the steel-legged, government-issue tables and chrome-and-tan vinyl recliners and sofas was a picture of a Canadian lake, and suspended from the low acoustic-panel ceiling, an array of plastic airplane models—from World War Two vintage to the present.

  There was a television set, too, an old console that had probably anchored someone’s family room for a decade before being donated to the squadron. Today, a half dozen flight-suited pilots were watching it in rapt silence, which was unusual, especially on a fall football Saturday. But the football game had been interrupted by a news bulletin.

  “It has just been confirmed,” the news reporter was saying, “that Arizona Senator John Sanford is among the passengers on Flight Five-five-five. Senator Sanford is the chairman of the Armed Forces Committee and has been one of the president’s chief opponents on the B-2 Stealth program. When we come back, we’ll take you to our correspondent at FAA headquarters in Washington.”

  On the screen appeared a picture of a New World MD-80 with the headline: MUTINY IN THE AIR: THE FLIGHT OF NEW WORLD 555. There was a rising murmur of conversation. Captain Larry O’Brien was just turning to comment to his weapons systems officer, 1st Lt. John Nesbitt, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned further and looked up into the eyes of the 461st’s Commander, Lt. Col. Everett Baxter. Baxter’s other hand was on Nesbitt’s shoulder. His eyes were puffy and swollen, O’Brien noticed. He wasn’t smiling.

  “You two, come with me.”

  The two men followed him down the east hall. Baxter pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his flight suit, honked into it, and turned into his office. The room was furnished in typical military modern: a gray metal desk, U.S. and Air Force flags behind it, the Air Education and Training Command emblem on the wall flanked by photos of McDonnell-Douglas F-4 and F-15 fighter aircraft. Baxter went around behind the desk and took a seat, dabbing at his nose.

 

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