[Sam Archer 08.0] Last Breath

by Tom Barber

  Hallenbeck walked up some steps leading into the main training warehouse. Some people may have found the antics of these marshals comically inept, but Hallenbeck knew the families of a hundred and seventy eight souls who’d ended up in the Atlantic on Friday wouldn’t be laughing.

  Not if it was confirmed the Delta flight had been brought down deliberately and the bereaved discovered an air marshal was on board who’d failed to stop whoever was responsible.

  Hallenbeck entered the Training Center warehouse through a door at the top of the stairs and walked into an observation vantage point, closing the door quietly behind him. Looking through some large windows directly in front of him, he could see the interior of the huge space which contained the main training cabin, a replica of a Boeing 747 supported on hydraulics, with the updated ventilation tanks outside that allowed them to adjust the pressure and imitate the effects of rapid depressurisation or oxygen deprivation.

  Elsewhere around the warehouse there were grappling mats, heavy punching bags and a workout section with pull up bars and dip rings in place for fitness assessments. Hallenbeck’s focus however was on a man standing in front of the observation windows. Dressed in a fleece sweater and jeans, he was watching a training scenario in the 747 cabin, his arms folded with a VISITOR tag around his neck and an NYPD badge on his hip.

  The man turned when Hallenbeck arrived alongside him and they nodded to each other. ‘They gone?’ he asked.

  ‘On their way. Shugart’s giving them their marching orders as we speak.’

  ‘Good riddance, right?’

  ‘Don’t get me started.’

  NYPD Counter-Terrorism Bureau Sergeant Matt Shepherd smiled briefly then turned back to look down into the training cabin. He was thirty seven and stood at six feet two, with light brown hair showing no sign of grey yet. The two men had only met forty eight hours ago, but Hallenbeck had taken an instant liking to him. Shepherd possessed a reassuring aura of dependability and a steadiness that Hallenbeck could relate to. Shepherd had four detectives under his command, Sam Archer being one of them, and judging by their files, the team were pros, unlike the idiot posse Hallenbeck had just sent packing.

  But Shepherd was also NYPD, which made his presence here unusual, this case being well beyond the usual scope of a city police team.

  ‘Any update from Lisbon?’ Shepherd asked.

  ‘I got a report from the Portuguese Coastguard,’ Hallenbeck replied, watching Archer being taken to one side as a training scenario was set up next door. ‘I know your boss was adamant you come down here to get your guy deputised, but the NYPD won’t be given lead on this case. Much as your Department may want to help, a couple of crashed planes in the Atlantic is a long way from your jurisdiction, Sergeant.’

  ‘Tell me about it anyway,’ Shepherd said. ‘What did the Coastguard say?’

  ‘A Dutch dive company called Seidon with specialist ships were tasked with finding the wreckage, in co-operation with the Portuguese Coastguard. They found a section pretty fast because of the signals from the transponder, and pulled one half of the cabin up a few hours ago. They’re working on the other as we speak.’

  ‘Bodies?’

  ‘Being retrieved.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘One hundred and seventy eight people on board. Two pilots, fourteen cabin crew, a hundred and sixty two passengers. Apparently most of them have been found; hopefully they’ll find the rest.’

  ‘Did the FAMS have anyone on the plane?’

  Hallenbeck paused. ‘Yeah, we did. An air marshal called John Layne Barlee, out of Newark. Used to be one of ours in New York. Former American Airlines employee at La Guardia. Applied for the FAMS, worked at the NY Office for four years until he transferred out to New Jersey last fall. An investigation for reportedly getting drunk on a flight to Seattle earlier in the year was dropped last month for lack of evidence.’

  ‘No partner on board?’

  Hallenbeck shook his head. ‘Lots of mission flights at the moment. Newark is stretched thin, so he was the only marshal on the plane.’

  ‘Investigated for drinking on the job, huh? What was the rest of his record like?’

  ‘Not good. Indiscretions, accusations of sexual harassment, poor shooting scores. He flew that Lisbon-Newark route regularly, but I personally wouldn’t have trusted him to watch my cat for a weekend, let alone a 757.’

  ‘What’s his Field Office saying?’

  ‘Not a lot. People are pretty shaken up. He’s the first air marshal to die on a mission flight in the Service’s history.’

  ‘And no press yet?’ Shepherd said.

  ‘Until we find out more, they’re keeping Barlee’s presence on the plane from the media. That’ll create a whole new shit-storm when it comes out. Federal employee trained to protect people on a plane actually ends up on a flight where a suspected incident occurs? And the plane crashes, leading to a hundred and seventy eight deaths? Not exactly a good reflection on the FAMS. Especially not right now, with Congress standing over us.’

  ‘Do you have his file? I’d like to read up on this man.’

  Hallenbeck nodded. ‘I requested up-to-date recent flight bid info and medical records since he joined Newark, but they haven’t come through yet. Apparently the SAC from their office is too busy playing bunker shots in Scotland.’

  He saw the surprise on Shepherd’s face.

  ‘Welcome to the Federal Air Marshal Service, Sergeant. If there’s a problem, let someone else handle it.’

  Shepherd remained silent. ‘What about the other crash? I heard it was a private plane.’

  Hallenbeck nodded. ‘Shot down over the middle of the Atlantic a few hours before the Delta incident. No transponder on board but UN teams out there are searching. It happened way further north and east than Delta 473.’

  ‘Shot down?’ Shepherd said. ‘It wasn’t plane failure?’

  ‘A fishing crew said they saw something streak through the sky on the horizon. It looks like someone fired a missile at the plane from the water. Kind of like that Malaysian airlines crash a few years ago.’

  ‘Jesus. Why would they do that?’

  ‘God only knows.’

  ‘A lot of flights travel over the Atlantic every day. And someone’s firing anti-aircraft missiles from the water? That’s more than concerning.’

  ‘The UN have armed patrols scouring the waters. So far they haven’t found anything. Or anyone.’

  ‘Who was on board?’

  ‘Some playboy millionaire and his girlfriend. Body count was them, two cabin crew and a pilot. Not sure if it’s related to the Delta incident.’

  Hallenbeck turned and looked through the glass, focusing on the detective Shepherd had brought with him on Saturday from New York.

  Sam Archer couldn’t have been more of a contrast to Wes Weems and the other air marshals Hallenbeck had just pink-slipped from the team. He was blond, very good looking and clearly kept himself in excellent shape. However, as he studied him, Hallenbeck noticed Archer looked a little out of it. The NYPD detective was standing at the base of a deployed slide, talking with an instructor as he reloaded his training weapon. Hallenbeck saw him put a hand to his head. ‘Is he alright?’

  ‘Think he’s adjusting to the pressurisation and depressurisation exercises,’ Shepherd said, watching his detective closely.

  ‘It’s a big deal, authorising someone to carry a pistol on board a commercial jet. Our training is normally four months. You and your detective have been here for two and a half days.’

  ‘This isn’t his first rodeo, Cody. He’s had extensive training both here in the States and in the UK.’

  ‘It’s not as easy forty thousand feet up as you might think.’

  Shepherd didn’t reply as outside, a new scenario began. Archer sprinted up a deployed slide from the side of the plane. The slippery inflatable was designed to ship people down, not let them back up, but he used a coach technique he’d just been taught, going up fast.

&nb
sp; Reaching the top, he drew his pistol and entered the cabin slowly, staying low, using the seats as cover. Outside, Hallenbeck and Shepherd walked round the observation point, the glass allowing them to look into the cabin from viewing points at the front.

  There were fifteen or so passengers on board, hostages, all sitting with their hands on their heads.

  Entering the cabin quietly, Archer scanned every seat as he passed.

  Suddenly one of the people on his right snapped up as soon as Archer had passed; the NYPD detective didn’t notice until it was almost too late. He pushed the man back to give himself space to shoot, but the seat behind the hijacker blocked the shove.

  Before Archer could draw, another guy laid a ceramic knife to his throat.

  ‘Out of role,’ the instructor said, Hallenbeck and Shepherd watching it through the glass. ‘Exercise is over. You’re done.’

  Shepherd watched Archer curse to himself, a thunderous look on his face.

  ‘The rules are different up there,’ Hallenbeck repeated quietly.

  Thousands of miles away inside the Marriott Champs Elysees hotel in Paris, France, an air marshal from the New York Field Office was going through a mental checklist. The man was six foot and at least two hundred and forty pounds, with long brown hair pulled back into a greasy pony tail that hadn’t seen shampoo in a while.

  Joss Huston had been a Federal Air Marshal for three years, based in New York, his home city. He checked the time on his watch, seeing it was just past 5pm and drained the rest of a beer from a four pack he’d bought earlier. There was a rule against drinking at least eight hours before a flight, but there were already a couple of empty bottles of Stella Artois in the trash can; he’d needed them today.

  ‘Charger,’ he muttered, checking his bag, his mouth dry with nerves. ‘Pistol and mags.’

  He patted the holster hidden under his sweater, his bulky stomach helping to push the fabric out and disguise it.

  ‘Both phones. Baton.’

  He double-checked his pockets, satisfied, then looped a chain around his neck, his tactical badge, tucking it under his sweater. The TV was on, which was talking about the Delta plane crash from last week, but he had it muted.

  The screen went black as Huston used the remote to switch it off; then he heard a message ping through on his QTEK phone.

  Agent Huston, your return flight is American Airlines 18:45 direct to JFK.

  Please confirm.

  Confirmed, he tapped in, hitting Send. He put the phone away, slid on a jacket then pulled up the retractable handle for his case and headed for the door, his heart beating faster than normal.

  His hands were shaking as he let the door close behind him.

  Just a normal mission flight, Huston told himself.

  Nothing to worry about.

  As he reached the elevators, he couldn’t shake off the images from that CNN report, the photos of passengers who’d been on the plane and the recovery of the wreckage at sea.

  Just a normal flight.

  ****