THEY’RE ON A WHITE-KNUCKLE
FLIGHT TO TERROR…
THE PILOT: From cropdusting, barnstorming teenager to Vietnam fighter ace to top jetliner captain, Nez Perce Indian Emil Pate was once the best. Now he’s a renegade pilot bent on vengeance…
THE WIFE: Katherine Pate couldn’t save her marriage when Emil withdrew, his career destroyed by a man named Farraday. Can she save his life now?
THE MAGNATE: First Jack Farraday busted his pilots’ union. Then he broke his competitors. He’s a ruthless corporate raider ready to do anything for a profit. Including sacrificing a plane and its passengers.
THE MAN IN THE MIDDLE: Former West Pointer Brian L’Hommedieu is a brilliant but untested hostage negotiator. He knows how to counter a hijacker’s demands.How to work on his weaknesses. But how do you talk down a man who makes no demands, shows no fear, and wants to die?
“Pulse-pounding fiction.… with absolute faithfulness to the technical details of airline flying, SKYHAMMER’s plot is relentlessly driven by the nightmarish worry: Is it possible to push even an airline pilot too far?”
—John Nance, author of Final Approach and Phoenix Rising
Copyright
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1995 by Richard Hilton
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56677-3
Contents
THEY’RE ON A WHITE-KNUCKLE FLIGHT TO TERROR…
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
For Hilt and Vernay
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For their technical assistance, the author wishes
to acknowledge Bob Frank of the Federal Aviation
Authority and]. R. “Ditto” Ladd, former jet fighter
pilot The author also wants to thank
Mauro DiPreta, Robert Houston, Ken Kuhlken,
and Karen Bellamy for their editorial support.
And a special thanks to Leslie W. Jones
for his thorough, sensitive edits.
PROLOGUE
Albuquerque, New Mexico
One month earlier
A jetliner was coming in, still high, but the faint, down-pitching whine of the engines made Emil Pate look up. The sun was behind the plane, and he couldn’t make out the insignia. But the plane was on its approach, and he figured it was the afternoon New World flight stopping over on its way back from the coast—the route he would have next month. For a moment he pictured the cockpit, the pilots running through their checklist, everything routine. As if this were any other day.
He tossed his flight bag onto the front seat and turned back toward the house. Katherine had come out onto the step and stood with her arms folded up tight against the early fall chill.
“Find your sunglasses?” she asked tonelessly as he came back up the walk.
He nodded.
“Got everything else?” She was treating it as a normal goodbye. Pate wondered how long she could pretend. But then again, his own self-control amazed him.
“Katherine,” he said, looking at her now, wanting for the hundredth time to explain. But he couldn’t.
“You’ll be all right,” she said. “Things are going to work out for you.”
He nodded, looked back at the car, and then at her again. Her eyes were dry.
“Got your keys?” She unfolded her arms and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. They both waited, looking at each other. Her blond hair was tinged red, and the light made her squint.
Pate looked her over, the way he’d always done before going on a trip. She was the best woman he’d ever known. He managed to smile. “We had some good times, though, didn’t we, pardner?”
At that, her mouth went small and quivered, but she kept her eyes on him, and he was sure, suddenly, that she was thinking she wouldn’t see him ever again. Or maybe that was only what he was thinking.
“All right,” he said. “I guess that’s it. Send me the papers to sign.” He picked up his other bag and turned.
“Emil?” She’d stepped down to the sidewalk. “You’re okay, aren’t you?”
He forced a look of surprise.
She stared at him, trying to read him. She was always trying to read him.
“You care?” he said, then felt mean for saying it. She blinked at him, wounded. Somehow his anger was always striking her. It had to stop; she knew that too. Now her hands came out of the jacket pockets, doubled up into fists.
“It is your fault we’re doing this. You know that.”
He nodded. “I don’t want to hurt you, Katherine. I’m sick of it.”
“Then let it go,” she urged.
Pate grimaced and looked down at his shoes, before turning to look up at the sky. The plane was gone. There was only the thin white trail of another one, military maybe, far up in the blue New Mexico sky. “If it wasn’t for Jack Farraday—”
“Don’t,” she said. “Not again.” Then, sighing, she said, “It doesn’t make any difference, does it?” She took another step toward him. “If you could only accept what is.”
He smiled again. “I’d do anything for you, Kate. But not that.”
“Damn you, Emil.” Her face went red. Pate never loved her more than when the freckles across her nose dissolved in an angry flush. “You goddamn stubborn rock-headed pissant Indian,” she whispered in a rush. “That’s what you are. All that stupid pride. You just can’t quit, can you?”
“You know me too well,” he answered, weary now of covering his own anger.
She started to answer, but then her fists fell open, and she shook her head. “Yes, I guess I do.”
“We’d better get this goodbye over with then.” He stepped toward her.
“No,” she protested, backing away. “Just go on. And good riddance to you.” Staring at him desperately, as if she were afraid she would change her mind in another second, she took another step back. Then she turned quickly and went up the steps. The door swung closed sharply behind her, and she was gone.
Emil Pate stood for another minute, looking at the shabby, crackerbox house, at the paint peeling off the eaves, at the broken shingles under the windows.It was so different from the place they’d moved out of just a year ago. Their dream home. He dropped his bag and went up to the door. Shutting his eyes very tight, he leaned his forehead against the wood. He didn’t want to leave, but it was better that he did.
“Tell the girls goodbye for me?” He listened but heard nothing. So he turned and picked up his bag and went down the walk to the car. Without looking back to see if she had come out again, he drove off.
Two blocks away, though, rage overtook him, forcing him to stop. He slammed his fist into the ceiling of the car, once, again, then abruptly buried his face in his hands and moaned. If he quit flying now he’d give up twenty-three years’ seniority. And then what? fly puddle-jumpers in Alaska? Or worse? No, he’d already paid his dues, and he
couldn’t bear to spend the rest of his life on the ground. Finally it had come down to this, he thought. Flying was all he had left. Or maybe that was all he’d ever had. Maybe he had only borrowed Katherine Winslow and her daughters for seven years, borrowed a decent life, like another man’s clothes. Now that it was gone, he felt as if he would lose his mind.
CHAPTER ONE
“I’m not paying those bastards for what they do when things are routine. I’m paying them for when things aren’t routine.”
—John H. Farraday
Flight Deck, New World 554
25:46 GMT/120:46 EST
Tuesday Evening
The dials and gauges jittered, swam, multiplied. The panel seemed to press forward, thrusting the yoke at Captain Boyd, as if the plane meant to crush him. It was incredible. Even so high above the ground—surrounded by all that empty space—claustrophobia had set in. All afternoon Boyd had felt the MD-80’s small cockpit becoming even smaller, shrinking in around him, squeezing his endurance to the breaking point.
Boyd blinked hard and shook his head to force the instruments back into focus. Everything was still normal, the MD-80 running perfectly, its autopilot tracking Jet Route 518 into Cleveland, altitude steady at 33,000 feet, all the engine needles aligned. Thank God, this was the final leg. They were still a hundred and fifty miles out, but at seven miles a minute they had less than a half hour to go. Unless they were jacked around in the pattern, Boyd thought miserably, or put into a hold. The first big winter storm of the season, a real “Canadian express” had rolled down from the north, socking in all the airports in the upper Ohio River valley, Hopkins International included. Already ATIS was reporting one mile of visibility and blowing snow. Such weather could quickly back up the flow into the terminal and easily add an extra twenty minutes to the flight—when all Boyd wanted was to be out of the cockpit as soon as possible. As far away from his first officer as he could get. The man was a nightmare, not only ex-Westar but a former Westar captain. Worse still, he was Emil Pate.
Before Boyd had even seen the name typed in after his own on the flight roster, he had heard about Pate. Other new captains like Boyd, fellow replacement pilots who had flown with Pate, had told horror stories. It went without saying that all the ex-Westar pilots were sore about the New World takeover, the strike, the demotions. Especially the older ones, the ex-captains. They hated jerking gear for younger pilots. Still, most were trying to make the best of it. They knew their necks were on the line, that their new boss Jack Farraday wanted them gone altogether. But Pate didn’t seem to care. He was putting the royal screws to anyone who had helped break the New World strike. Anyone he chose to blame for his demotion. Not by calling names, not with outright insubordination or in any way you could easily nail him for—no, instead he drove you nuts by sitting absolutely still for hours at a time, speaking only to make a required call, grinding you down with stone-cold silence.
The stories had turned out all too true. On the first day, coming into the cockpit, Boyd had tried a few friendly openers, but Pate had instantly put an end to that. “Let’s cut the soft talk,” he’d said flatly. “Just do your job. I’ll do mine.” Since then, he had said nothing except what he had to.
Boyd had decided this was fine. Pate was a write-off anyway, an old dog, a used-up leftover from another era. A retread. And he was scruffy as hell, an ethnic of some kind. Mexican maybe—he didn’t look clean. The lank black hair on the back of his neck spilled over the collar of an unpressed shirt. He had a drinker’s bruised eyes squinting through his creased, leather-brown face. He was an embarrassment to his uniform.
But a decent pilot—Boyd had to give him that. For three days Pate had demonstrated flawless judgment, and his aircraft control was incredibly smooth. Former military, Boyd had decided at some point. Which only made matters worse. He hated flying with the ex-military types. Almost all of them projected an air of superiority, as if a few years of yanking and banking a fighter around the sky had somehow made them better pilots.
So the trip had been sheer torture, sitting there strapped in a narrow seat, elbow to elbow with a bitter has-been who somehow had it in his head Boyd had cheated him out of his job, that Boyd didn’t deserve to be captain just because he was fifteen years younger. No matter how it had happened, He was the captain of this flight, not Pate.
Boyd’s headset crackled. “New World Five fifty-four, descend and maintain flight level two eight zero.”
Finally the descent. As Boyd acknowledged the Indianapolis controller’s instruction, he saw Pate’s hand reach up to the glareshield to reset the autopilot. Boyd verified the altitude, then shifted against his lapbelt, trying to find a comfortable position. The cockpit was growing dark now. Outside, night was coming on fast, the cobalt dome of sky overhead fading to star-studded black. But ahead of them the horizon was wild-looking, obscured by ragged cloud, and below the plane, the cloud layer had become a solid, rumpled mass, bluish in the twilight. Boyd was suddenly glad it was Pate’s turn to fly and his to talk and run the checklists.
Just for a moment he let his eyes drift shut. He was tired, really tired. He wanted to think about his upcoming vacation, not brood anymore about the situation.
But even now he felt the hatred radiating from Pate. For all his coldness the man was a furnace of hate. For three long days Boyd had suffered from it. And he would have to suffer it the entire month if he didn’t do something. Talking out the problem was no option, that was for certain.
He opened his eyes long enough to scan the panel. They were passing 29,000.
“Twenty-nine for twenty-eight,” he called, more or less to himself. He closed his eyes again. For a few more minutes he could rest. He tried again to think of something pleasant. Another minute went by. He felt the aircraft leveling off, heard the faint whine of the engines spooling up.
In the next instant he was bolt upright, eyes wide, heart punching hard—the quiet of the cockpit shattered by the high-pitched warble of the alarm bell. In the center of the panel, the right engine fire handle glowed bright red. Now the voice synthesizer began to chant, “Fire, right engine ... Fire, right engine . ..”
For the sheerest moment Boyd didn’t believe it. The chanting even made him angry. Then his heart leaped into his throat. This was real. And serious. His mind stumbled. He had trained a dozen times for engine fires but never faced an actual warning. What was the first step?
“Silence the bell!” Pate shouted suddenly over the shriek of the alarm. He had already taken the yoke, disengaged the autopilot.
Boyd shot a hand to the panel and turned off the alarm.
“Bell is silenced,” Pate said. “Engine Fire checklist.”
The checklist was in the pocket above the glareshield. Boyd searched for it, trying to remember the procedure. In the sudden quiet he could hear his blood pounding in his ears. They had to assume there was a fire, or at least an overheat, and that meant shutting down the engine. He found the card. “Memory items,” he read out, although Pate was already completing them. He had disconnected the autothrottles, retarded the right engine throttle to idle.
“Warnings are silenced,” Boyd read. “Throttle—number two engine—retard to idle.”
“In idle,” Pate answered.
“Fuel lever—number two engine—off.” Boyd took hold of the lever just behind the throttle, then remembered. “Confirm number two?”
Pate glanced down at Boyd’s hand. “Confirmed.”
Boyd snapped the lever back, letting go his breath at the same time. Even in training it had always been a relief to get this far. Now the row of amber caution lights and red warning lights above the windscreen began to come on—fuel line,generator, hydraulic systems, all shutting down. So far so good.
“Engine fire handle—pull,” he read. Again he waited for Pate’s confirmation, then pulled the handle out to its stop. The light inside the handle flickered and disappeared.
Boyd settled back into his seat. “Looks like it’s out.”
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“Maybe.” Pate glanced over at him. “Test the loops.”
Boyd sat up again. The fire could have burned through the sensing cables, might still be raging. But no, the test showed the loops still intact. He sat back a second time, his face chilly now as his sweat slowly dried. His heart was still beating fast, but everything would be okay. He had reacted all right to his first real emergency—no panic anyway. Pate had done all right, too. Better than all right, in fact. Even now Pate showed no sign he might be rattled. He was holding the plane dead level, on heading, in spite of the lopsided thrust. But after all, he was a good pilot. He’d handled the plane without a mistake for three straight days. Knew his job. Or was just too old to get wound up? Suddenly Boyd remembered they were facing more than a single engine approach: they’d be landing through an ice storm, onto a slick runway. His gut clenched as adrenalin shot through him. Didn’t Pate understand what they were headed into?
“You heard the weather report, didn’t you?” Boyd looked down at the storm again, then at Pate. “They’ve got freezing rain at Hopkins, vis down to a mile.”
Pate glanced over, scowling. “Finish the list and make the call. Tell ATC we’re comin’ in on one engine.”
Now Boyd’s face went hot. He hadn’t forgotten the checklist—he’d only wanted to consider the situation.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” he answered before running quickly through the rest of the items. When he finished, he keyed his microphone.
“Indianapolis, New World five-fifty-four has lost an engine.”
“Are you declaring an emergency?” The controller’s voice was as flat as ever.
Boyd pressed the key of his mike but released it. He’d better think about this. There would be the paperwork, the reports. With the fire out they wouldn’t need the fire trucks, would they? All their other systems were operating normally. He didn’t want to do anything stupid while he was still in his first months as a captain.
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