by Walter Wager
The bulletproof vest chafed as he pushed through the storm. It was 16 degrees Fahrenheit, and the slashing wind was getting meaner by the minute. Staub felt warm and good. With his priestly garb and practiced American speech, he had penetrated the enemy positions and studied the defenders. He had observed their numbers and weapons. More important, he had seen the tension and uncertainty deep in their eyes.
They had no plan.
They had no idea of how to resist his.
He'd recognized one of them. Staub had seen his photo in a newspaper. The tall, sandy-haired man commanded the city's antiterrorist police. His boyish face was typically Irish, good-looking in a crude way but basically unsophisticated.
Malone?
Yes, Captain Frank Malone.
Staub had been surprised when Ito first reported that Malone was in the Kennedy Tower. Now it was time to call the Japanese again for the latest news on what the enemy was doing in The Cab. It probably wasn't anything to worry him.
They had no plan.
He was still in control.
19
THE TELEPRINTER was clattering as Wilber led Ma-lone and Hamilton into The Cab. Annie Green stood beside the stuttering machine, reading the incoming message and taking notes on a clipboard pad.
The controllers watched her silently. Three were seated. Two others were on their feet, sipping coffee. The young one with the longish hair puffed on a 100-millimeter cigarette. They all looked grim.
The teletype halted for a few seconds. Then it began to cough out another message. She nodded, scrawled something on her pad and nodded again a moment after the machine stopped. Her eyes swept down and up and down the column of numbers again. Then she turned and saw Malone.
Their eyes locked for a few seconds before she broke free.
It would be easier to talk to Pete Wilber. He wasn't dangerous. He couldn't hurt her.
"The printer's been going like crazy, Pete," she said with more energy than she felt "Washington, the TRACON and eighteen . . . no, nineteen . . . airlines. I've been adding up the score."
"What does that mean?" Malone demanded impatiently.
"Washington's trying to peel off every plane it can reach," she announced, looking at Wilber. "They've succeeded in diverting eleven of them."
"How many are still up there?" the FAA executive asked.
"For the three airports? It's forty-six, if my addition's right."
"Is TWA twenty-two one of them?" Malone asked.
She scanned the pad.
"Yes," she answered coolly. "Is there something special about it?"
"Captain Malone's daughter is on board," Wilber explained.
Annie Green flinched.
"Oh, my God!" she gasped.
Now she looked directly at Malone. She had to.
"I didn't know, Frank. I really didn't know," she said in a choked voice.
"How could you?" he responded evenly. "How much time have those planes got?"
This was his child. How could he be so damn calm and rational?
"Fuel figures are still coming in," she reported, "and the estimates on what those loads translate to in flying time could be off a bit. But so far the lowest seems to be some Arab prince's Concorde—sixty-seven minutes. The next three are an Aerovias seven forty-seven with sixty-nine, British Airways one twenty-six Heavy with seventy-three and a Japanese freighter with seventy-six."
Annie Green glanced at her pad again.
"No word yet on TWA twenty-two," she said.
Something gleamed in Malone's wide blue eyes. It wasn't fear.
"We better start gassing up that long-range jet Number One asked for," the detective decided.
"We did," she told him and looked at her wristwatch. "A DC-ten will be ready for takeoff in about thirty-five minutes."
Suddenly the teletype began to clatter again, and she hurried to the machine to monitor the new message. She studied it for several seconds. Then she turned to Malone and shook her head. The report coming in concerned some other plane. There was still no word on TWA 22's remaining fuel.
Now one of the hot-line phones on the wall rang.
It was the yellow one, the direct link to Police Headquarters.
The detective grabbed it.
"Is Captain Malone there?"
"Speaking."
"Please hold for Commissioner Shaw."
Frank Malone didn't like Bruce Allan Shaw. The dapper man who ran the New York Police Department was too clever, glib and ambitious for Malone's taste. The previous PC had been much less of a wheeler-dealer.
"Captain Malone?"
"Yes, Commissioner."
"Exactly what's going on out there?"
"The radar's gone, the radio's jammed, the Instrument Landing System's been wrecked and there are forty-six planes up there that we can't get down."
"I see."
"They don't. They're flying blind and they're running out of fuel. Are those three prisoners on the way here?"
"I've discussed this with the mayor. We're gravely concerned about this situation," Shaw said pompously.
"Gravely is the right word," Malone told him bluntly. "We'll have three or four thousand corpses to bury pretty soon.
The first plane will drop in sixty-seven . . . no, sixty-six . . . minutes."
The teleprinter stopped. Everyone else in The Cab was watching and listening to Malone.
"Is that exact enough, Commissioner?" he asked bitterly.
"I . . . I'd better get out there," Shaw announced.
"What about those three prisoners?"
"It's a matter of principle," Bruce Allan Shaw said piously. "The mayor and I feel it would be immoral to cave in to these thugs."
In an election year, Malone thought.
"Captain, it would only encourage other terrorists to—"
"The president just called," Malone interrupted ruthlessly. "He's ordered immediate delivery of the four in federal custody to Kennedy. They're on their way."
"The president?"
"He said he didn't want to be responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent civilians."
That would dump the guilt for the loss of all those lives on the mayor of New York—and his police commissioner.
"Humanitarian considerations come first, of course," Shaw said smoothly. "That's always been my basic policy. Yes, I'll come out to the airport with them."
And talk righteously to the press later, the detective thought.
Public relations usually prevailed over principle— around the world. Hell, shrewd public relations was a principle these days.
"As soon as possible, Commissioner," Malone urged.
"You can count on me, Captain. I never let my people down."
The teletype began to stutter as Malone hung up.
"He's going to bring them out himself," the detective announced.
"You sure?" Hamilton asked.
"Absolutely. He's already writing his speech," Malone replied.
Wilber looked uneasy.
"When did the president call?" he wondered aloud.
"About five minutes from now."
"Captain, I think that I underestimated you," the husky Port Authority lieutenant admitted. "You just bare-ass lied to the PC—and the mayor. He's gonna tell that fable to the mayor, you know."
"Screw the PC and the mayor," Malone said.
"I think you just did," Hamilton told him.
Then they heard a noise.
It was faint, but growing louder.
It sounded mechanical and insistent—demanding attention.
It was coming from down below, not from the runways but from the network of feeder roads that brought cars, station wagons and taxis to the terminals. After a few seconds, Malone and Hamilton recognized what it was.
Sirens.
They walked to a window on the side of The Cab from which the noise was coming and peered down through the curtain of snow. Through the quivering white curtain they saw an armada of New York City police cars. T
he turret lights on top were flashing as they drew up to the International Arrivals Building, and their sirens ripped the night.
"Ten, eleven, twelve," Hamilton counted. "There goes the neighborhood."
Malone didn't smile at the black lieutenant's jest. Somebody should have told the local precinct to order a silent approach. The somebody was Frank Malone. This was his own damn fault. The rest of the blue-and-whites carrying cops to JFK's other terminals would arrive with screaming sirens, too.
Patrolmen would pour into the buildings.
That would start it.
Everyone in those terminals, including the journalists whom Hamilton had deceived, would quickly realize that some terrible crisis was at hand.
Confusion, rumors and fear would sweep through the buildings like a vicious virus. The truth could not be concealed any longer. The people in the terminals would have to be told that the three airports were under electronic attack, and that thousands of passengers on inbound flights were in mortal danger.
Then it would happen—wild and ugly.
Nothing and no one could prevent it now.
"Panic time," Frank Malone said grimly.
"Panic time," Hamilton agreed.
Not just here, Malone thought. The reporters would be on the telephones in seconds. Within minutes, news of the ingenious terrorist assault would spew from thousands of wire service teleprinters and radio stations to shock the nation. Maybe that would jolt the federal government into rushing the other four on Number One's list to Kennedy.
There was something wrong with that list.
Something about that list didn't fit, Malone thought as he watched the uniformed police piling out of their cars.
And there was a reason that it didn't fit. The tricky son of a bitch who had planned this complex operation didn't do anything without a reason. Malone considered the seven names again.
Thomas Makumbo.
Simba Brown.
Julio Sanchez and Carlos Arroza of the Fuerzas Armadas Para La Liberación Nacional.
Sandra Geller.
Arnold Lloyd.
Ibrahim Farzi.
What the hell was it?
Was it what was on the list or what wasn't?
At that moment, the machine behind him stopped and Annie Green spoke.
"Frank, can I talk to you for a minute?"
Was it news about TWA 22?
His heart beat faster as he turned and walked toward her.
20
SHE SAW the caring in his eyes as he approached, and shook her head.
"No, there's no word on your daughter's plane yet. It's something else."
"What?"
"I had an idea about the jamming."
"How to stop it?" he asked.
"Well, how to find where it's coming from."
Once they knew where the transmitter was, they could destroy it. They might even take prisoners in the attack— terrorists who could provide crucial information.
But the enemy must not learn that they were hunting down the transmitter. Who was the enemy? Was the enemy here in The Cab now?
Malone took her shoulder and gently turned her so she faced away from the controllers. For a moment she was startled. He hadn't touched her for so long. Then she understood and sighed.
It wasn't affection at all.
It was Captain Frank Malone on official police business.
"What's the idea, Annie?"
"There's almost no traffic out of here at night, but a lot of planes come in and park to be cleaned and refueled for early morning departures. Sometimes one of the men cleaning the cockpit accidentally brushes against a switch, and inadvertently knocks on the radio. It happens during daytime cleaning, too."
"I'm listening."
"You'd find that hard to do if you were a pilot approaching JFK and some transmitter in an empty plane on the ground was messing up the frequency. That happens a couple of times a year. This is a huge airport, Frank. We may have eighty or ninety planes—sometimes more—parked in different places."
"And the problem is to find out which plane parked where is jamming the frequency," he reasoned.
"Exactly, Frank. We have a great deal of traffic and this airport has certain assigned frequencies. The pilots monitor them, and we really can't afford to have one of the standard frequencies out of action, as we see tonight."
"What do you do?"
"We call in outside help: the Coast Guard. At their base on Long Island, they've got a couple of search-and-rescue helicopters equipped with directional finding radio gear to locate ships in distress. They've got excellent equipment and very good crews."
"Good enough to fly over this immense airport and pinpoint precisely which parked plane is screwing up the frequency," he thought aloud.
"Absolutely. They just home in on the signal. We've never asked them to do it in a major storm before," she said. "I don't even know if they'll fly in this weather."
"Let's find out."
"I'll call them right away."
"The hell you will. I think it might be safer if you and I were the only ones who knew we were trying this," he announced softly.
"How do I reach them—telepathy?" she asked irately.
He pointed at the printer.
"You've gotten paranoid, Frank, but you're still smart," she admitted.
As she began to type on the printer's keyboard, Malone watched the controllers' faces cautiously. They were looking at her but their expressions showed no emotion. The detective's eyes swept around the room several times before he noticed that Pete Wilber wasn't there.
Now an answer was stuttering in on the machine.
She read it and turned.
"They'll try, Frank," she reported.
"Fine. By the way, where's Wilber?"
She scanned The Cab swiftly.
"He was here a minute ago," she said. "Probably went down to use the john."
Maybe.
Was it only coincidence that Wilber—a senior official— was working unusually late on this extraordinary night?
Why hadn't the FAA veteran, who had many more years of experience than Annie Green, thought about the control tower tape or the Coast Guard helicopter?
How long had it been since Peter Wilber went through a security check? Had he ever had one?
Where was he right now?
What was he doing?
Was he talking to Number One?
21
LESS THAN a hundred yards away, Willi Staub was annoyed. He had planned to call Ito five minutes earlier, but all the phone booths on the first floor of the International Arrivals Building had been occupied. Irritated that he was behind schedule, he dialed the number of the warehouse, hung up after four rings and dialed it again.
The cautious Japanese engineer picked up the telephone but didn't say anything. He wasn't taking any chances, wasn't exposing anything—not even his voice. He waited for Staub to speak first.
"Extension six," Staub said—as the agreed password.
"I'll try it for you," Ito responded in countersign.
"What do you hear from The Cab?"
"The city will deliver the three packages," Ito reported, "but there's no word on the other four. Your friend, Frank, has asked for them—urgently."
Staub didn't give a damn about the trio in city hands.
It was the four in federal custody who mattered.
He wasn't going to tell that to Ito or anyone else. To do so might expose the basis of the entire operation and compromise the rich and powerful man who had ordered it. That would endanger Staub's $5 million fee—and perhaps Willi Staub himself.
"How about the birds?" Staub asked.
"They're getting tired and thirsty. They might start dropping in about sixty-three minutes. It sounds as if Frank's worried about that. His daughter is involved with the birds."
"Wonderful. Do you think that will make him cooperative?"
"It should, but I wouldn't count on it. Would you?"
"I don
't count on anything I can't touch," Staub said candidly. "Is Frank trying to reach me?"
"Yes, but he doesn't know how to spell your name so he can't find your number."
"Too bad," Staub mocked. "Maybe I'll call him."
In twelve minutes, according to the plan.
Takeshi Ito didn't say that aloud. You couldn't know who might be listening on a wiretap.
"By the way," the electronic warfare specialist said, "your friend in the trucking business phoned five minutes ago. We only spoke briefly. He's working tonight."
Staub smiled. That truck and driver were important.
"Excellent," he told Ito. "How are things with you?"
The man in the warehouse studied the monitors linked to the television cameras sweeping the streets outside. Until the temperature dropped so drastically last week, a skinny prostitute had been working almost every night in a doorway barely twenty yards from the terrorist's covert base. It had been depressing to watch her sell her services again and again. Neither the whore nor anyone else loitered within range of the security cameras tonight, not in this storm.
"It is all quiet," the Japanese said soberly. "There is nothing but snow in the streets."
"It's much more crowded here. A lot of Frank's friends just arrived."
"Is it uncomfortable?" Ito tested.
"No way," Staub answered confidently, enjoying his mastery of the American usage. It was one of many phrases and idioms that he had acquired from years of listening to U.S. Armed Forces Radio in several countries.
"I'll catch you later," he concluded and hung up.
In forty-nine minutes, Takeshi Ito thought. Then he studied each of the monitors again and looked around the warehouse. He eyed the bed, lamp, armchair and table . . . the weapons, ammunition and big rack crammed with sophisticated electronics equipment. . . the generator and drums of fuel that fed it . . . and the two large fire extinguishers. Ito wasn't the sort of person who took chances. He wouldn't risk an accidental blaze interfering with his work.
It seemed wasteful to destroy all this, but the plan required total demolition of the building and its contents. He had to stick to the plan, of course. Even before he'd entered high school, he'd learned how incorrect it was to deviate. That was not the Japanese way. He was a terrorist out to smash Japan's economic and social system, but a Japanese terrorist.
