58 Minutes

by Walter Wager

  When Malone got off the escalator, he recognized another one of them twenty yards away. The barrel-chested man in his forties scanning the throng below was Thomas Jefferson Gill, head of the New York City office of the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration. The four plainclothes operatives whom Malone had spotted downstairs worked for Gill, and T. J. Gill didn't come out to Queens in snowstorms for minor "busts."

  It had to be something big—a major dope ring.

  Gill was speaking with a neatly dressed brunette in her early thirties who had to be another agent. They looked like a typical middle-class couple from the suburbs, not federal police. The glossy Bloomingdale's shopping bag that she carried was a nice touch. It probably concealed a walkie-talkie and a stubby Ithaca Model 37 "Stakeout" shotgun, Malone calculated as he approached them.

  He stopped a yard away. He didn't face them directly.

  "How's it going, T.J.?" he asked softly.

  Gill warily turned his head three inches, recognized Malone out of the corner of his eye and looked away again.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" he challenged in an irate whisper.

  "Just passing through. Something going down?"

  "Something federal. Good-bye, Malone."

  Then a surge of sound from below made them glance down at the ground floor. Flanked by the Hassidim and four other men holding up large pictures of an old woman, U.S. Senator Joseph Bono stood talking with a tall man and a woman in an ankle-length fur coat. A pair of teenagers and a boy of nine or ten fidgeted beside them, and a platoon of newspaper and wire service reporters and photographers leaned forward to listen.

  Half a dozen radio correspondents were thrusting their microphones toward the senator. Two television news crews were setting up their equipment, and a third was pushing closer through the crowd. Now another TV news team hurried in through the front door.

  Startled, Gill shook his head in silent anger.

  Malone recognized the photo that the Hassidim held, but decided there would be no point in telling the DEA executive that the senator and media mob were here to witness the poignant reunion of the Kiev Grandma and her U.S. relatives. Gill wouldn't care. Whatever their reasons, their presence was an added complication Gill didn't need.

  They might "spook" the "mule" or those who came to meet the dope courier.

  They might inadvertently obstruct the surveillance or arrest of the key drug dealers.

  They might even be taken as hostages or—caught in the line of fire—shot.

  In any of a dozen ways, they could wreck a delicate and important DEA operation that involved thousands of man and woman hours and great personal risk.

  "Jesus . . . Jesus . . . Jesus," Gill sighed urgently.

  It was difficult to tell whether it was an appeal or an imprecation. Frank Malone didn't have the time to ask.

  "See you," he said and walked away quickly to the right.

  He turned past a cluster of bored people watching small coin-operated television sets bolted to their plastic chairs. They were "killing" time. Malone wondered why they didn't appreciate how precious it was . . . how little they had. Then he realized that he was thinking about death again. He often did when it snowed.

  Now he reached the glass door to the open bridge that linked the million square feet of the sprawling three-story International Arrivals Building to the forty-five-by-sixty-foot control tower that was the highest structure at the airport. Capped by a radar dome, it was nearly four times as high as the adjacent terminal. When Malone strode from the warmth out onto the stormswept span, his pace accelerated immediately. It didn't slow until he reached the well-heated lobby of the tower.

  "Help you?" the uniformed security guard in the booth asked alertly.

  "I'm supposed to meet Lieutenant Hamilton of the Port Authority Police in Mr. Wilber's office. My name's Malone."

  The guard glanced at a clipboard on his desk.

  "Can I see some ID?" he asked.

  Malone produced his gold badge and NYPD card.

  "Sixth floor, Captain. Elevator's back there."

  There was a list of the tower's "tenants" on the wall beside the elevator door. Every floor was occupied by some unit of the Federal Aviation Administration, but there was no indication of where the air traffic controllers worked. That was almost surely a security precaution, Malone reasoned. The fewer people who know the precise location the better.

  That was simply common sense, he reflected as he got into the elevator car. There really wasn't much chance that anyone would attempt to storm the controllers' facility. There had to be more "security" systems or guards upstairs, and there must be alarms to summon the well-equipped Port Authority Police, who maintained a strong force on the airport itself. While the FAA handled air traffic and safety, the joint Port Authority created by the states of New York and New Jersey took care of "security" as the overall operator of the three major local airports.

  The guard had phoned up from the lobby. When Malone emerged from the elevator at the sixth floor, two men were walking down a short corridor toward him. They appeared to be in their forties. One was about five feet ten inches tall, fifteen to twenty pounds overweight and smiling. His features suggested one or more Irish ancestors.

  The other man was bigger—and harder. Wide-shouldered and muscular, he stood six feet four and there wasn't an ounce of fat on him. He was black, sharp-eyed and handsome. There wasn't anything resembling a smile on his face. His expression was cool and impersonal.

  "My name's Malone. Is Lieutenant Hamilton here?"

  "I'm Hamilton," the powerfully built deputy commander of JFK's Port Authority Police replied. "This is Pete Wilber."

  "Welcome to the Kennedy Tower," the smaller man said.

  "He runs it," Hamilton announced.

  Wilber took a leatherette case from his shirt pocket, extracted a business card and gave it to Malone.

  Peter O. Wilber was the air traffic manager for the Federal Aviation Administration here. His address was Kennedy Control Tower, JFK International Airport, Jamaica, New York 11430. There was a phone number that Frank Malone guessed was unlisted. He was right.

  "Thanks," Malone told him. "Sorry I'm late."

  Hamilton ignored the apology.

  "Let's get to it. As you know, primary responsibility for security at Kennedy belongs to the Port Authority," he reminded in a casual-blunt assertion of territory, "but other government agencies are involved. We always cooperate fully, and, of course, we expect them to do the same."

  Malone managed not to smile at the barely disguised warning.

  "Of course," he agreed and puffed on the cigar.

  Then his eyes wandered to a nearby desk.

  "There's an ashtray in my office," Wilber said. When they were seated in the FAA executive's large room at the end of the corridor, Frank Malone tapped the ash from his corona and Hamilton resumed the briefing.

  "We think our security procedures are good. We know they're probably not perfect. At the very least, there's always the question of human error. Will somebody get bored or careless? Will someone panic?"

  Malone nodded in approval. Hamilton's style was a bit abrasive, but he was a realistic professional.

  "So you run tests," Malone reasoned.

  "That's what we want to talk to you about," Hamilton answered as Wilber took a cigar from his desk drawer. The Port Authority lieutenant glared when Wilber lit it.

  "This is my turf, Ben," Wilber reminded cheerfully. "Tell him about the test."

  Hamilton opened a window several inches before he continued.

  "After each security test we do a critique. We've been through a number of them, and maybe a fresh set of eyes and a new mind might notice something we don't. We'd like you to come to the next critique session."

  "Sure, when is it?"

  "I don't know," Hamilton said. "We never get advance warning about when or what the test will be."

  "The folks in Washington call the plays," Wilber explained. "Some bright peo
ple in the FBI and FAA figure out a clever stunt and spring it on us. Could be a simulated hijacking, a multiple hostage situation, sabotage of the fuel trucks or ten other things."

  "I think there might be one coming soon," Hamilton said.

  "It's about time," the FAA tower chief agreed. "Every major U.S. airport catches one or two a year. We haven't had any for seven months, so they could drop a test on us any minute."

  "Tonight?" Malone asked.

  "I doubt they'd spring one in this weather," Wilber replied. "We've got the people and equipment to handle a storm with no great sweat, but Washington knows we wouldn't want any extra problems on a messy night like this."

  Frank Malone's eyes narrowed in concern.

  "Something bothering you, Captain?" Hamilton questioned.

  "My daughter's flying in from L.A. in that storm right now."

  "Nothing to worry about," Wilber assured. "A whole army of highly skilled people has been working on her flight from before it even took off. They're first-class, and so's the hardware. Our navigational and air traffic control gear is the most sophisticated in the world. It's an all-weather system, Captain, and a damn good one."

  Now Hamilton rose to his feet and waved away a spiral of offending cigar smoke.

  "Then it's set. I'll phone you when we schedule the next critique," he said. "Is there anything else to discuss before I go?"

  Wilber shook his head.

  "I've got a question. No, two," Malone said. "Am I right that there's never been a major attack on an American airport by a team of professional terrorists?"

  "Not yet," Hamilton answered evenly. "What's the other question?"

  "What kind of weapons do you have here to deal with such a raid?"

  "Handguns, shotguns and submachine guns. There's an armored car, too."

  "Tear gas? Masks? Bulletproof vests?"

  Hamilton nodded.

  "Is there any special reason you're asking, Captain?" he questioned slowly. "I wasn't reflecting on your planning," Malone told him. "I was thinking about a warning that came in from the FBI today. They've heard a rumor that some foreign terrorist group may hit the U.S. mainland with a major operation."

  "Soon?" the big Port Authority lieutenant asked.

  "Very soon. It's just a rumor, but they've killed a lot of people at airports abroad. I don't suppose that an attack on a U.S. airport would be entirely out of the question, would it?"

  "Not entirely," Hamilton answered in a voice edged with irony. "You're a very tactful man, Captain."

  "Thanks, Lieutenant. I'll be waiting for your call."

  Hamilton didn't answer. He departed without saying a word, and Malone turned to the FAA executive behind the desk.

  "He's a very good cop," Wilber said in answer to the unspoken question.

  Then Malone looked at his wristwatch. It was ten minutes to eight.

  "My daughter's plane lands in fourteen minutes—if it's on time."

  "We can check on that upstairs," Wilber suggested. "It'll only take a couple of minutes, and you'll get an overall view of the airport."

  "Okay," Malone agreed. "It's TWA Flight twenty-two from Los Angeles."

  Walking to the elevator, Wilber began to talk about how the U.S.

  air traffic control system worked.

  "It's a very careful hand-off operation, high-tech and high-skill. When your daughter's plane got near the edge of the area our Los Angeles Center has under radar control, it was handed off to the Denver or Albuquerque center—depending on which route it took. Then more hand-offs from center to center as it flew east. There's also a network of navigational radio stations to help the pilot keep to the flight plan he filed in L.A. before being cleared to take off."

  "Sounds good," Malone said as Wilber pushed the elevator button.

  "Good won't cut it. It has to be just about perfect—all the way. When her plane was about a hundred miles from here, it was handed off to New York Center. That's out on Long Island near Islip. It controls the metropolitan area's three biggest airports: JFK, La Guardia, Newark."

  The elevator arrived. They entered and Wilber poked the button marked "8."

  "New York Center's job is to bring the plane in to about fifty miles from here," Wilber continued. "At that point Flight twenty-two will be handed off to the TRACON at Westbury."

  "The what?"

  "Sorry, Captain. TRACON's our acronym for terminal radar approach control. You asked about attacks on airports. Well, you can rest easy about the TRACON. Armed guards, wire fences, alarms—nobody's going to try anything there."

  The elevator door opened.

  "Going back to your daughter," Wilber said as they stepped out, "the TRACON team will direct her plane—direction . . . altitude . . . speed—to within six miles or so of Kennedy. Then our controllers in this tower guide it down to the right runway, direct it to the appropriate taxiway off the runway and shepherd it to full stop on the apron at the TWA terminal."

  The FAA veteran pointed to the nearby stairway.

  "Come on," he invited. "You can see for yourself."

  Malone followed him up two flights of steps to a metal door.

  "Security," Wilber said curtly.

  He inserted a plastic card containing coded circuits into the electronic lock, and the heavy portal opened. They then ascended ten more steps to the command post for the five-thousand-acre airport's air traffic control.

  "We call this The Cab," Wilber told him.

  The large room had eight sides, each with two big windows made of quarter-inch-think, double-wall, tinted antiglare glass. Though the falling snow reduced visibility somewhat, Malone could scan the wraparound panorama of runways, taxiways, parked aircraft and hangars, terminals and other buildings.

  He noticed three multijet transports—their wing and tail lights blinking insistently in the black winter night—lined up on a taxiway awaiting takeoff clearance. Another was swooping in to land. On a different runway off to the left, a fifth airliner was touching down.

  Now Frank Malone's eyes swung around the chamber in which he was standing. The decor was Federal Functional. The black fiberboard cealing was punctuated with air ducts to suck out tobacco smoke. Cocoa-colored plastic wastebaskets dotted the well-worn brown-orange carpet that spread wall-to-wall. A cluster of telephones hung on wall-brackets beside a watercooler.

  On the far side of the comfortably heated room were two teleprinters, silent for the moment. At the high desk near them, a dark-haired woman, facing away from Malone, was busy on another phone. She stood straight in well-tailored slacks, her posture radiating strength and energy. Men noticed that figure and presence, Frank Malone thought.

  There were eight more people—seven male and one female—working in The Cab. Several of them were facing the four radar sets. Most of the controllers sat on brown plastic swivel chairs, but others in The Cab preferred to stand. Their attire was informal and comfortable—not a jacket in sight. Jeans and corduroy pants, sport shirts and turtlenecks, running shoes and loafers seemed to prevail. In a white shirt, suit and tie, Wilber was clearly an outsider as he spoke into a phone on the other side of the room.

  Those studying the green radar screens wore ultralight headsets with miniature microphones built into the ends of thin white plastic tubes no thicker than soda fountain straws—the whole rig attached to expandable accordionlike wires connected to consoles before them. The controllers' ages appeared to range between twenty-six and forty. Some looked like solid suburbanites. One lean young controller with longer hair and a floral printed shirt didn't. He had the cool taut air of a savvy rock guitarist rather than that of a civil service technician.

  There was no tension or worry in these faces, just total concentration. They were working swiftly and deftly, and they knew exactly what they were doing. The storm might be adding pressure to their work, but it certainly wasn't intimidating them. Malone felt better watching them in action.

  Listening was something else. The controllers at the radar screens were
all talking—very fast. They squirted out gusts of words and puzzling phrases in startling singsong eruptions. Watching Wilber speak on the phone across the room, Frank Malone tried to understand what the balding controller a yard away from him was saying.

  It wasn't easy.

  "Eastern eighteen Heavy. Turn Right. Taxi via Zulu and Hotel. Hold short of two-two right and remain on this frequency."

  Malone had no time to decode this. The controller seated a yard away was pouring out more instructions at a startling pace.

  "American thirty-five cleared to land. Runway two-two left. Empire ninety-two, would appreciate first available turnoff after landing, please. United fifty-two. Wind two-zero-zero-one-four. Gust one-nine. Cleared for takeoff. Clipper five-six-three Heavy. Caution. Wake turbulence departing, heavy jet runway two-two right."

  Now Wilber hung up the phone and started toward Malone. The controller whom the detective had been listening to was still machine-gunning instructions into his microphone. His colleagues at the other radar sets were also speaking very quickly and constantly, providing a seamless curtain of background sound.

  "All right, gentlemen," the controller beside Malone said briskly into his microphone as Wilber approached. "Everyone waiting for departure clearance on twenty-three-ninety can monitor one-one-nine-point-one."

  "He's telling them to shift radio frequencies," Wilber said. "No problem with your daughter's flight. Trans World twenty-two Heavy shouldn't be more than a few minutes late."

  Malone sighed in relief before he asked the question. "Heavy?"

  "A jumbo. Seven forty-seven or DC-ten or L-ten eleven, like the one your daughter's on. What do you think of The Cab, Captain?"

  "I've never heard anyone talk so fast."

  "There's no choice," Wilber told him. "All the major airports handle a tremendous volume of traffic—and it's growing. We're responsible for those planes in the air and on the ground. We've got nine miles of runways and twenty-two miles of taxiways to supervise in addition to what's flying. It takes a ton of directions to cope with all that, so both controllers and pilots have to speak quickly to avoid frequency saturation."