McGill replied, "No, but stay suited up. This is still a three-three."
"It looks like a three-nothing."
"Yeah, but we can't talk to the pilot, so stand by."
McGill focused his binoculars on the FAA Control Tower in the far distance. Even with the reflection on the glass, he could tell that a number of people were lined up at the big window. Obviously the Control Tower people had gotten themselves worked up about this.
McGill opened the right side door and slid in beside Sorentino, who sat in the center of the big cab behind the steering wheel. "What do you think?"
Sorentino replied, "I think I'm not paid to think."
"But what if you had to think?"
"I want to think there's no problem, except for the radios. I don't want to fight an aircraft fire today, or have a shoot-out with hijackers."
McGill didn't reply.
They sat in silence a few seconds. It was hot in their fire suits, and McGill clicked up the cab's ventilating fan.
Sorentino studied the lights and gauges on his display panel. The RIV held nine hundred pounds of purple K powder, used to put out electrical fires, seven hundred fifty gallons of water, and one hundred gallons of lite water. Sorentino said to McGill, "All systems are go."
McGill reflected that this was the sixth run he'd made this week and only one had been necessary—a brake fire on a Delta 737. In fact, it had been five years since he'd fought a real fire on an aircraft—an Airbus 300 with an engine ablaze that almost got out of control. McGill himself had never had a hijack situation, and there was only one man still working Guns and Hoses who had, and he wasn't on duty today.
McGill said to Sorentino, "After the subject aircraft clears the runway, we'll follow him to the gate."
"Right. You want anyone to tag with us?"
"Yeah . . . we'll take two of the patrol cars . . . just in case they have a situation on board."
"Right."
McGill knew that he had a good team. Everyone on the Guns and Hoses unit loved the duty, and they'd all come up the hard way, from crap places like the Port Authority bus terminal, bridge and tunnel duty, or airport patrol duty. They'd put in their time busting prostitutes, pimps, drug dealers, and drug users, rousting bums from various places in the far-flung Port Authority empire, chasing toll beaters and drunks on the bridges and tunnels, taking runaway kids from the Midwest into custody at the bus station, and so forth.
Being a Port Authority cop was a strange mix of this and that, but Guns and Hoses was the plum assignment. Everyone in the unit was a highly trained volunteer, and theoretically they were ready to fight a blazing jet fuel fire, trade lead with crazed terrorists, or administer CPR to a heart attack victim. They were all potential heroes, but the last decade or so had been pretty quiet, and McGill wondered if the guys hadn't gotten a little soft.
Sorentino was studying a floor plan of the 747-700 on his lap. He said, "This is one big mother."
"Yup." McGill hoped that if it was a mechanical problem, the pilot was bright enough to have jettisoned the remaining fuel. It was McGill's belief that jetliners were little more than flying bombs—sloshing fuel, superheated engines, and electrical wires, and who-knew-what in the cargo holds, sailing through space with the potential to take out a few city blocks. Andy McGill never mentioned to anyone the fact that he was afraid of flying and in fact never flew and never would. Meeting the beast on the ground was one thing—being up there in its belly was another.
Andy McGill and Tony Sorentino stared out the windshield into the beautiful April sky. The 747 had grown larger and now had depth and color. Every few seconds it seemed to get twice as big.
Sorentino said, "Looks okay."
"Yeah." McGill picked up his field glasses and focused on the approaching aircraft. The big bird had sprouted four separate bogies—gangs of wheels—two from beneath its wings and two from mid-fuselage, plus the nose gear. Twenty-four tires in all. He said, "The tires seem intact."
"Good."
McGill continued to stare at the aircraft that now seemed to hover a few hundred feet above and beyond the far end of Kennedy's two-mile-long northeast runway. McGill, despite his fear of flying, was mesmerized by these magnificent monsters. It seemed to him that the act of taking off and landing was something near to magic. He had, a few times in his career, come up to one of these mystical beasts when their magic had disappeared in smoke and fire. At those times, the aircraft had become just another conflagration, no different than a truck or building that was intent on consuming itself. Then, it was McGill's job to prevent that from happening. But until then, it seemed that these flying behemoths had arrived from another dimension, making unearthly noises and defying all the laws of earth's gravity.
Sorentino said, "Almost down . . ."
McGill barely heard him and continued to stare through his field glasses. The landing gear hung down with a defiant gesture that seemed to be ordering the runway to come up to them. The aircraft held its nose up high, with the two nose-mounted tires centered above the level of the main landing gear. The flaps were down, the speed, altitude, and angle were all fine. Shimmering heat waves trailed behind the four giant engines. The aircraft seemed alive and well, McGill thought, possessing both intent and intensity.
Sorentino asked, "See anything wrong?"
"No."
The 747 crossed the threshold of the runway and dropped toward its customary touchdown point of several hundred yards beyond the threshold. The nose pitched up slightly just before the first of the main tires touched and leveled themselves from their angled-down initial position. A puff of silver-gray smoke popped up from behind each group of tires as they hit the concrete and went from zero to two hundred miles an hour in one second. From the touch of the first main tires until the pair of tires on the nose strut dropped to make contact with the runway had taken four or five seconds, but the grace of the act made it seem longer, like a perfectly executed football pass into the end zone. Touchdown.
A voice came over the emergency vehicle's speaker and announced, "Rescue Four is moving."
Another voice said, "Rescue Three, I'm at your left."
All fourteen vehicles were moving and transmitting now. One by one, they drove onto the runway as the huge airliner passed them.
The 747 was now abreast of McGill's vehicle, and he had the impression that the rollout speed was too fast.
Sorentino hit the gas pedal, and the RIV V8 diesel roared as the vehicle sped onto the runway in pursuit of the decelerating jet.
Sorentino said, "Hey, Andy—no reverse thrust."
"What . . . ?"
As the RIV gained on the aircraft, McGill could now see that the cascading scoops behind each of the four engines were still streamlined in their cruise position. These hinged metal panels—the size of barn doors—were not deployed in the position to divert the jet blast to a more forward angle during rollout, which was why the aircraft was going too fast.
Sorentino checked his speedometer and announced, "One hundred ten."
"Too fast. He's going too fast." McGill knew that the Boeing 747 was designed and certified to stop with just its wheel brakes and this runway was long enough, so it wasn't a huge problem, but it was his first visual indication that something was wrong.
The 747 continued its rollout, decelerating more slowly than usual, but definitely slowing. McGill was in the lead pursuit vehicle, followed by the five other trucks, who were followed by the six patrol cars, who were followed by the two ambulances.
McGill picked up his microphone and gave each of the vehicles an order. They closed on the big, lumbering aircraft and took up their positions, one RIV to the rear, two T2900 trucks on each side, the patrol cars and ambulances fanned out to the rear. Sorentino and McGill passed under the mammoth wing of the aircraft and held a position near the nose as the jet continued to slow. McGill stared at the huge airliner out the side window. He called out to Sorentino over the roar of the jet engines, "I don't see any problem."
>
Sorentino concentrated on his speed and spacing, but said, "Why doesn't he use his reverse thrust?"
"I don't know. Ask him."
The Boeing 747 slowed and finally came to a stop, a quarter mile short of the end of the runway, its nose bobbing up and down twice from the last of its momentum.
Each of the four T2900 vehicles had positioned themselves forty yards from the aircraft, two on each side, with the RIVs at front and rear. The ambulances stopped behind the aircraft, while the six patrol cars paired up with an Emergency Service vehicle, though each patrol car was further from the aircraft than the fire trucks. The six men in the patrol cars got out of their vehicles, as per standard operating procedures, and were taking precautionary cover on the sides of their cars away from the aircraft. Each man was armed with a shotgun or an AR-15 automatic rifle.
The men in the trucks stayed in their vehicles. McGill picked up his microphone and broadcast to the other five trucks, "Anyone see anything?"
No one responded, which was good, since procedurally the other rescue vehicles would maintain radio silence unless they had something pertinent to say.
McGill considered his next move. The pilot hadn't used reverse thrust, so he'd had to apply a lot of wheel brakes. McGill said to Sorentino, "Move toward the tires."
Sorentino edged their vehicle closer to the main tires on the aircraft's starboard side. Putting out brake fires was the meat and potatoes of what they did for a living. It wasn't hero stuff, but if you didn't get some water on super-heated brakes pretty soon, it wasn't unusual to see the entire landing gear suddenly erupt into flames. Not only was this not good for the tires, but with the fuel tanks right above the brakes, it also wasn't good for anyone or anything within a hundred-yard radius of the aircraft.
Sorentino stopped the vehicle forty feet from the tires.
McGill raised his field glasses and stared hard at the exposed brake disks. If they were glowing red, it was time to start spraying, but they looked dull black like they were supposed to.
He picked up the microphone and ordered the T2900 vehicles to check the remaining three gangs of wheels.
The other vehicles reported negative on the hot brakes.
McGill transmitted, "Okay . . . move back."
The four T2900 vehicles moved away from the 747. McGill knew that the flight had come in NO-RAD, which was why they were all there, but he thought he should try to call the pilot. He transmitted on the ground frequency, "Trans-Continental One-Seven-Five, this is Rescue One. Do you read me? Over."
No reply.
McGill waited, then transmitted again. He looked at Sorentino, who shrugged.
The emergency vehicles, the police cars, the ambulances, and the 747 all sat motionless. The Boeing's four engines continued to run, but the aircraft remained still. McGill said to Sorentino, "Drive around where the pilot can see us."
Sorentino put the RIV in gear and drove around to the front right side of the towering aircraft. McGill got out and waved up at the windshield, then, using ground controller hand and arm signals, he motioned for the pilot to continue toward the taxiway.
The 747 didn't move.
McGill tried to see into the cockpit, but there was too much glare on the windshield, and the cockpit was high off the ground. Two things occurred to him almost simultaneously. The first thing was that he didn't know what to do next. The next thing was that something was wrong. Not obviously wrong, but quietly wrong. This was the worst kind of wrong.
CHAPTER 7
So we waited there at the International Arrivals gate—me, Kate Mayfield, George Foster, Ted Nash, and Debra Del Vecchio, the Trans-Continental gate agent. Being a man of action, I don't like waiting, but cops learn to wait. I once spent three days on a stakeout posing as a hot dog vendor, and I ate so many hot dogs that I needed a pound of Metamucil to get me regular again.
Anyway, I said to Ms. Del Vecchio, "Is there a problem?"
She looked at her little walkie-talkie, which also has this readout screen, and she held it up to me again. It still read
ON THE GROUND.
Kate said to her, "Please call someone."
She shrugged and spoke into the hand radio. "This is Debbie, Gate Twenty-three. Status of Flight One-Seven-Five, please."
She listened, signed off, and said to us, "They're checking."
"Why don't they know?" I asked.
She replied patiently, "The aircraft is under Tower Control—the FAA—the Feds—not Trans-Continental. The company is called only if there's a problem. No call, no problem."
"The aircraft is late getting to the gate," I pointed out.
"That's not a problem," she informed me. "It's on time. We have a very good on-time record."
"What if it sat on the runway for a week? Is it still on time?"
"Yes."
I glanced at Ted Nash, who was still standing against the wall, looking inscrutable. As with most CIA types, he liked to give the impression that he knew more than he was saying. In most cases, what appeared to be quiet assurance and wisdom was actually clueless stupidity. Why do I hate this man?
But to give the devil his due, Nash whipped out his cell phone and punched in a bunch of numbers, announcing to us, "I have the direct dial to the Control Tower."
It occurred to me that Mr. Nash actually did know more than he was saying, and that he knew, long before the flight landed, that there might be a problem.
Supervisor Ed Stavros in the FAA Control Tower continued to watch the scene being played out on Runway Four-Right through his binoculars. He said to the controllers around him, "They're not foaming. They're moving away from the aircraft . . . one of the Emergency Service guys is hand-signalling to the pilot . . ."
Controller Roberto Hernandez was talking on a telephone and said to Stavros, "Boss, the radar room wants to know how long before they can use Four-Left and when we can have Four-Right available to them again." Hernandez added, "They have some inbounds that don't have much holding fuel."
Stavros felt his stomach knotting. He took a deep breath and replied, "I don't know. Tell radar . . . I'll get back to them."
Hernandez didn't reply, nor did he pass on his supervisor's non-answer.
Stavros finally grabbed the phone from Hernandez and said, "This is Stavros. We have . . . a NO-RAD—yeah, I know you know that, but that's all I know—look, if it was a fire, you'd have to divert anyway and you wouldn't be bugging me—" He listened, then replied tersely, "So tell them the President's getting a haircut on Four-Right and they have to divert to Philly." He hung up and was immediately sorry he'd said that, though he was aware that the guys around him were laughing approvingly. He felt better for half a second, then his stomach knotted again. He said to Hernandez, "Give the flight another call. Use the Tower and Ground Control frequencies. If they don't answer, we can assume they haven't had any luck with their radio problems."
Hernandez picked up a console microphone and tried to raise the aircraft on both frequencies.
Stavros focused the binoculars and scanned the scene again. Nothing had changed. The giant Boeing sat stoically, and he could see the exhaust heat and fumes behind each of the power plants. The various Emergency Service vehicles and the police cars held their positions. In the far distance, a similarly composed team sat well away from the runway, burning fuel and doing what everyone else was doing—nothing. Whoever it was that had been trying to get the pilot's attention—probably McGill—had given up and was standing there with his hands on his hips looking very stupid, Stavros thought, as though he were pissed off at the 747.
What didn't make sense to Stavros was the pilot's inaction. No matter what the problem was, a pilot's first inclination would be to clear an active runway at the earliest opportunity. Yet, the Boeing 747 just sat there.
Hernandez gave up on the radio and said to Stavros, "Should I call someone?"
"There's no one left to call, Roberto. Who are we supposed to call? The people who are supposed to get the fucking aircraft out o
f there are standing around with their fingers up their nose. Who should I call next? My mother? She wanted me to be a lawyer—" Stavros realized he was losing it and calmed himself down. He took another long breath and said to Hernandez, "Call those clowns down there." He pointed toward the situation at the end of Four-Right. "Call Guns and Hoses. McGill."
"Yes, sir."
Hernandez got on the radiophone and called Unit One, the lead Emergency Service vehicle. Sorentino answered and Hernandez asked, "Situation report." He hit the speaker phone button, and Sorentino's voice came up into the silent room. Sorentino said, "I don't know what's happening."
Stavros grabbed the radiophone and, trying to control his anxiety and annoyance, said, "If you don't know, how am I supposed to know? You're there. I'm here. What is going on? Talk to me."
There was a few seconds of silence, then Sorentino said, "There's no sign of a mechanical problem . . . except—"
"Except what?"
"The pilot came in without reverse thrust. You understand?"
"Yes, I fucking well understand what reverse thrust is."
"Yeah, so . . . McGill is trying to get the flight crew's attention—"
"The flight crew has everyone else's attention. Why can't we get their attention?"
"I don't know." Sorentino asked, "Should we board the aircraft?"
Stavros considered this question and wondered if he was the person to answer it. Normally, Emergency Service made that determination, but in the absence of a visible problem, the hotshots down there didn't know if they should board. Stavros knew that boarding an aircraft on the runway with its engines running was potentially dangerous to the aircraft and to the Emergency Service people, especially if no one knew the intentions of the pilot. What if the aircraft suddenly moved? On the other hand, there could be a problem on board. Stavros had no intention of answering the question and said to Sorentino, "That's your call."
Sorentino replied, "Okay, thanks for the tip."
Stavros didn't care for this guy's sarcasm and said, "Look, it's not my job to—Hold on." Stavros was aware of Hernandez holding a telephone out to him. "Who is it?"
Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2] Page 5
