“Both pilots?”
“Yes!” she said emphatically.
“Man, that’s strange.” I didn’t like what I was hearing, and of course, no one would. Rachel Rabin’s murder aside, an Israeli military flight with both pilots down … “What the hell is going on here?”
“That’s all I know,” Saunders said. “You’ll know it when I know it.” She pushed on an emergency door handle that led out to the tarmac. An ICE vehicle waited for us at the curb. We piled in, Saunders in the front passenger seat and the rest of us in the back. The car pulled away immediately.
We were in the back of the terminal, the operations side of the airport not meant for civilian access. All the requisite vehicles one normally sees from aboard a commercial passenger flight or looking through the terminal windows were there: fuel trucks, baggage carts, and handlers. All was as it was supposed to be except that it appeared as if time was standing still. Nothing was moving except for us. There was no movement on the tarmac whatsoever. Everyone else was on hold. I cracked the window. All was silent except for the running noise of our own vehicle and the wail of sirens. The sound of jet engines buffeting against the wind was completely absent. I looked to the sky through the open window. I didn’t see any jets in the air and intuited that all of the other flights were either circling or had been diverted to nearby airports in order to avoid a potential collision with the IAF emergency flight. What in God’s name is going on?
Chapter 12
Elias chugged a mouthful of Coke, set the can down in the cup holder, and immediately put his hand back on the yoke. He turned his head and watched Tasker unbuckle the pilot’s safety harness.
Tasker was built very differently than Elias. He was tall with broad shoulders and a thick trunk. He slid the pilot’s arms out of the harness, lifted him out of the seat, and dragged the unconscious man out of the cockpit.
Elias heard Tasker barking instructions at the purser. He returned a moment later and buckled himself into the pilot’s chair.
“Do you think he’ll make it?” Elias asked.
Tasker shrugged. “He’s in God’s hands now.” He fit the pilot’s headset in place. “Call out anything you want me to do.”
Elias pointed to a laminated booklet nestled between others in a small compartment beneath the console. “Quick Reference Checklist. Go through it and find the landing protocol.”
JFK: “IAF four-fifty. I have a pilot in the tower to assist you with the landing. He’s got actual miles in the Gulfstream V. Putting him on with you now.”
“IAF four fifty, this is Bruce Winder. Who am I chatting with?”
Elias: “Ben Elias. Thanks for your help, sir.”
Winder: “I call my father sir. My friends call me Tex. Now, Ben,” he said in a controlled voice. “I want you to disengage the auto throttle and slow the airplane down to two hundred knots, copy?”
Elias: “Auto throttle off. Easing back now.”
Winder: “Cool beans. I understand you’re IAF trained, Ben, so this landing should be a walk in the park for you.”
Elias: “I’m counting on it, Tex.”
Winder: “You’re fifteen miles out on initial approach, cleared for landing on runway 31-R. Your runway is ten thousand feet long, and the Gulfstream only needs twenty-eight hundred feet of stopping room, so you’ll have plenty of wiggle room after touchdown, and VASI should help you to bring the airplane down on a dime. How are you feeling, Ben?”
Elias: “Oddly confident.”
Winder: “Perfect. Feels good to have the yoke back in your hands again, doesn’t it?”
Elias: “Very much so.”
Winder: “Now the Gulfstream is far more intuitive than the older planes you’ve flown, and she’ll do a lot of the legwork for you, but it’s blustery as hell out there, so you’ll have to watch your pitch and yaw carefully. Wind is three-twenty at twenty, with gusts to forty. Still feel comfortable with a visual landing?”
Elias: “Better than sitting here with my life in the hands of a computer.”
Winder: “Yee haw! Ride ’em cowboy. That’s all I wanted to hear. Let’s get the airplane configured for landing, and then we’ll get the gear down and locked. Now what’s your airspeed?”
Elias: “Steady at two hundred.”
Winder: “Perfect. Let’s make the airspeed one-eighty and hold her there until you hit the marker.”
Elias: “Making airspeed one-eighty. Beginning checklist.”
Winder: “Let’s put that Gulfstream on the ground.”
~~~
Mormile looked up from his radar screen and gazed through the plate-glass window. “Eight miles out, boss.”
McGrath raised his high-powered binoculars and focused on the horizon beyond runway 31-R. “Nothing yet.”
Mormile: “Seven.”
McGrath: “Not yet.”
Mormile: “Six … now five.”
McGrath took a step closer to the plate glass as if the insignificantly shortened distance would make the difference in his being able to see the Israeli jet. He continued to scan the horizon. “There she is.” He tapped Winder on the shoulder and pointed at the aircraft growing large on the horizon.
Mormile: “Four miles. Landing gear down?”
McGrath: “Uh-huh.” He picked up a radiophone and called Ground Control.
~~~
Winder: “All right, Ben, I’ve got you in sight. You should see the VASI lights now. Are they in view?”
Elias: “Yes, two red and two white.”
Winder: “Terrific. You’re perfectly set on the glide slope. Let’s put the flaps down, and then we’ll ease up on the airspeed.” A few moments passed. Winder became restless. “How are we doing with those flaps, Ben?”
Elias: “Flaps down.”
Winder: “Good. What’s your airspeed?”
Elias: “One six five.”
Winder: “You’re at two miles. What’s your altitude?”
Elias: “Eight hundred fifty feet.”
Winder: “A little high. What kind of colors are you getting from VASI?”
Elias: “Two red, two white.”
Winder: “Nice, but let’s start bringing her down. She should be at five zero zero at one mile.”
Elias nudged the yoke forward. He was just seconds from touchdown. He placed his left hand on the throttle controls. “Seven hundred feet … six hundred … five …”
Winder: “You’re sitting pretty, Ben. Airspeed?”
Elias: “Shit!”
Winder: “What? What’s wrong?”
Elias: “Four red lights.”
Winder: “Easy now. Just bump the throttle a little. Check your pitch.”
Elias: “Better, two and two again.”
Winder: “Airspeed?”
Elias: “One-twenty.”
Winder: “Perfect.”
The altimeter verbal warning sounded, “Four hundred … three hundred … two hundred.”
Elias smiled at Tasker who was slouching comfortably in the pilot’s chair, his expression cool and calm, when the auto-warning system flashed on the console and the Predictive Windshear System blared, “Windshear. Go around. Windshear. Go around.”
“Shit!” Elias’ entire body tensed as he clenched the yoke. He broke into a cold sweat while his mind searched for a solution to avoid imminent disaster. Only a few seconds had elapsed when he felt the airplane being sucked down. He slammed the throttles to their forward-most position. “Winder,” he shouted. “We hit a microburst. We’re going down.”
Winder screamed, “ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!”
Elias heard the engines screaming as they fought to overcome the sudden and dramatic downdraft. “Full throttles … Damn it! We’re still going down. The downdraft is too strong. I’m losing speed and lift.”
Winder repeated, “ABORT! ABORT!”
~~~
McGrath was a foot away from Winder, listening to Elias’ voice bleed out of Winder’s headphones. He stared at Winder with a stricken expressio
n on his face.
Winder shook his head violently and covered his mic. “Get on the horn,” he blurted. “They’re over the bay. Emergency water landing—call NYS Emergency Services and the Coast Guard.” In the next instant he was back on with Elias. “Ben. You’re going down in the water. Don’t panic.” He rubbed his forehead and brought forth a huge sigh. “You’ll be all right.”
~~~
“Everyone brace!” Elias boomed. His hand was still on the throttles, pushing them forward, hoping the engines would respond.
The altitude warning blared.
“We’re going down,” Elias said. “The runway is dead ahead.”
“Too late to fight it, Winder bellowed. You’re at one hundred feet altitude, and you’re not going to make the runway. Bring her down soft so that you hit the water well ahead of the seawall.”
Elias was about to pull back on the throttles when the aircraft stall protection system kicked in. The control yoke began to vibrate noisily, and a verbal warning announced, “Stall warning. Stall warning.” He felt Tasker’s hand on his arm.
“We’re in God’s hands now,” Tasker said. “He alone—”
Elias was looking forward as the water rushed toward them. He closed his eyes and braced for impact.
Winder’s final instructions boomed in his ears. “NOSE UP! NOSE UP! NOSE UP!”
Chapter 13
“This is surreal.” I watched attentively as the small jet appeared in the sky aimed straight and true at the runway. Lights on the side of the runway were illuminated in pairs of red and white. They suddenly went solid red, which caused me to check on the jet’s position. I heard the engines grow louder, and then the lights once again reverted to pairs of red and white.
Lower and lower it descended. In a second I realized that the jet was about even with the top of the control tower. “Here it comes.”
“This is going to be all right,” Wallace said. “Elias has got this thing.”
“Are you sure?” Cabrera asked. “You know what they say, ‘The last two feet are a killer.’”
I shook my head in dismay. “Vaudeville called, Dom. They want their routine back. If you hurry, you still have time to pick up your cane and a straw hat.”
“Ouch!” he said with a hurt expression. “I was just trying to lighten up the mood.”
I got so tense that I grabbed the door handle and squeezed it tightly. All we could do was watch and wait for Elias and the tower to do their jobs. I could hear the wind howl as it abruptly gusted and saw the jet twist in the sky. The breath caught in my lungs.
“He’s good,” Wallace assured me. “It’s just the wind.”
As we watched, the plane righted itself, and then the whirl of the engines died to a whisper as the jet floated softly downward. I was starting to relax when the jet dropped sharply. It looked as if it was being sucked into the sea. I dug my fingernails into my arm. “Oh my God … what the hell?”
“Windshear,” Wallace bemoaned. “They must’ve hit a microburst.”
I could hear the engines screaming, and then the sound became muffled. I watched attentively and prayed for a miracle. Emergency vehicles were already racing toward the runway when the jet plunged into the bay.
Chapter 14
“Dear Christ, I can’t believe it.” I watched in horror as the tail hit the water and dragged along the surface until the front end of the aircraft touched down. The jet’s forward motion slowed abruptly, and then it just came to a complete stop, floating in the water.
Wallace began to clap and had a huge grin on his face. “Way to go! Nice landing!” he boomed. “That was un-fucking-believable.”
“I still don’t believe it.” Turning to Saunders, I said, “What’s the drill here?”
“I’m waiting for an update, Mather,” she said, breathing heavily with an emergency radio to her ear.
As I watched, it looked as if the jet’s tail section was sinking slowly into the water. “How long can it stay afloat?”
Wallace shrugged. “I’m not sure. Thank God the fuselage is still intact. It’ll buy them more time.”
From the corner of my eye I saw a Coast Guard ship cutting through the water. I put my hand on Wallace’s shoulder. “Look!”
“Back in the truck,” Saunders shouted. “We’ve been cleared to approach the runway.”
“I’ll bet none of you expected excitement like this when you poured milk over your cornflakes this morning.” Cabrera grinned at me in his wiseass way and followed us to the truck.
I looked at him and frowned. “Jesus, man, you’re just two tons of fun, aren’t you?”
Cabrera didn’t answer, but that wiseass grin was still plastered across his face.
We were moving cautiously toward the runway when I noticed two additional boats in the water. As we got closer, I could see divers readying their scuba equipment on the deck of one of the boats.
I turned toward the crippled jet. The tail was now half-submerged in the water. I had a great view of the side of the aircraft when the front hatch opened.
“That’s it,” Wallace said as if he was transmitting instructions to the flight crew.
I saw a man standing in the hatchway, wearing a life vest. “The water must be freezing.”
“Cold as hell,” Wallace said. “Bone chilling. Hey, Saunders, how many souls?”
“The flight crew totals three, the pilot, copilot and purser. The only passengers aboard are Elias and Brigadier General Shaul Tasker.”
“They’ll make it off,” Wallace said confidently. “Only five to take off the plane? Piece of cake.”
The first boat cut its engines and glided up toward the jet. A diver jumped into the water and swam toward the hatch. He had just reached it when the plane began to list. Another three divers jumped into the water and raced toward the jet. It was going down fast.
Chapter 15
Anthony "Dead Eyes" Silvestri sat squarely in the center of his green and gold embroidered sofa, with his legs crossed and one arm slung casually over the back. A Havana cigar clenched firmly between his teeth billowed clouds of smoke toward the ceiling. The living room of his home had recently been redecorated, yet the overall look had not substantially changed in thirty years. Every item in the room was a replacement for the piece it had succeeded, which too had been a replacement for the preceding piece. An ornate crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and despite the thousand facets that dust might cling to, none was present, and it sparkled brilliantly. Like the first sofa he had ever owned, the sofa upon which Silvestri now sat was covered with thick plastic that separated his fat, sweaty ass from the precious fabric below. Dead Eyes did not like change.
He sipped his espresso and then placed his cup on the coffee table between the coffee service and a bottle of anisette. He looked up at his guest, his deadly black eyes peering into the man’s soul.
Carlo Maltisse felt ill at ease. It was virtually impossible to feel comfortable around a man like Silvestri. His closely set eyes were dark and ominous, and his bulldog jowls hung around his chin like a pair of punching bags. He snapped when he spoke to you, constantly putting you on the defensive. Maltisse recalled the description of Silvestri he had heard from his boss many years ago, faccia de morte the face of death.
Silvestri commented briefly and drew a lazy circle with his cigar. He furrowed his brow and scratched the back of his fat, rubbery neck, which was creased like a stack of bald automobile tires.
Maltisse wore tan slacks and a dark shirt. His head was bald except for the gray hair on his temples, which he had grown long and pulled through a rubber band in a curlicue like a pig’s corkscrew tail. He spoke slowly and clearly, having heard of at least one arrogant man who had lost his life for talking down his nose at Silvestri. Maltisse looked up frequently to make sure that Silvestri was following. “So you see, it's all very simple. I've been running this operation for years now without any hitches or problems … until last month. I’m not sure what the feds are looking for, but al
l of Florida … Madonna, every damn air terminal from Corpus Cristi to Miami is swarming with feds.” He looked up to check Silvestri’s expression. Jesus, I hope he doesn’t ask why I’m sweating like a goddamn pig.
Silvestri wrinkled his forehead and scratched his nose.
Maltisse waited a moment, not knowing how to interpret the gesture.
“So?” Silvestri asked impatiently.
“I'd like to move a few shipments through the air terminals you control in New York and New Jersey,” Maltisse said. “I can arrange a truckload a month.”
“And what if it turns out to be your goods the feds are looking for, what then?”
“Forgive me. I didn’t think … I mean, a man like you is not afraid of a little heat.” Maltisse eyed Silvestri nervously, not knowing how the man would react. He was lying, of course—he knew exactly why the authorities had tightened security at all of Florida’s commercial air terminals. His shirt became wet with perspiration while he studied the face of death.
Silvestri leaned forward, exposing a mouthful of caps. He shoved his finger in Maltisse’s face. “So, Carlo, where are these guns going, anyway?”
Maltisse swallowed with difficulty. “The Middle East.”
Silvestri didn’t comment.
Maltisse interpreted his silence as a sign to continue. “I get paid in advance, so you do too.”
“Naturally,” Silvestri said, in a most matter of fact way.
“I'd be happy to cut you in for—”
“Forty percent.”
Maltisse agreed quickly. “Thank you. That’s very generous.” He was happy that Silvestri hadn’t cut him out of the equation completely. Sixty percent on stolen goods was still a lot of money, and his customer had an endless appetite for US munitions.
Silvestri put out his Havana and stood up. “You don’t forget to compensate my paesan Gaetano.” He picked up the anisette and added a splash to his espresso before taking a sip. “You do wrong to him, and I’ll do double-wrong to you, capish?”
Maltisse had to force the saliva down his throat. Double wrong? He had never heard a death threat spoken in such benign terms. “I understand completely, Don Silvestri. Don’t worry.”
The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 5
