But he would not think about them. As if turning his head, pate willed his mind forward again.
He was sorry about Boyd, though. He looked at the blue eye again—as lifeless as the eye of a doll. No, it wasn’t Boyd’s fault after all—now that the cockiness was gone out of him, all Boyd’s arrogance, everything Pate had hated about him. But he couldn’t undo it. That was the whole point. Why it was necessary.
For another minute Pate stared straight ahead at the brilliant haze on the horizon. Then he unbuckled his lap belt and pulled out of the well beside his seat the blanket he’d gotten from the first class overhead. He worked quickly to cover the body, tucking the edges in carefully, meticulously.
Then he eased into his seat, refastened his belt. The horizon was indistinct now, the blue fading into the white. He got out the plastic water bottle he’dpacked in his kit and took careful sips from it—there would be no trips to the lav. He started another cigarette and looked out at the horizon again, then down at the rumpled tops of the undercast. The cigarette smoke looped up into the stark sunlight and then was sucked away by the air conditioning. Garfield, Boyd’s good-luck charm, stared idiotically at him from the left corner of the windshield. He tipped the water bottle up to sip from it again. Then he let his head fall back.
But the radio crackled sharply. Indianapolis Center was calling, the calm voice of the controller handing him off to Kansas City on frequency 135.35.
“Roger, Indianapolis,” Pate transmitted back. “Thirty-five, thirty-five.”
The exchange relieved him. Reminded him there was more to it than this. He stared out for another minute at the impossibly vast emptiness on the other side of the windscreen. Then he began to reconnect himself to the airplane, running his mind down its pneumatic and hydraulic lines, its electrical conduits, its sinewy cables. He let himself flow outward to the edges of its furthest surfaces. Thirty-six minutes had elapsed since takeoff. His mind was clear now, focused. He checked the navigation display—still almost forty minutes to Indianapolis. Three hours and thirty-two minutes to destination. He entered the new frequency. Checked the fuel column, noting the cumulative burn figures. The MD-80 was cruising at Mach.78. Five-fifty-five would arrive in Phoenix with a good 9,500 pounds remaining. Enough, but he could conserve a little more fuel by slowing the plane a bit. He stared for a moment at the orange LED displays on the autopilot, wondering if he wanted more time. Then he adjusted the knurled knob below the readout, resetting the airspeed to.74. The twin throttles responded, retarding slightly as the autothrottle system commanded the speed reduction.
He rechecked the clock. 17:21 GMT—Zulu time. Another sweep of the flight instruments. The central LED annunciators indicated that the autopilot was holding a course of 253 degrees into Indianapolis. Altitude was stable at flight level 310. The plane was performing flawlessly. Pate pushed back his seat and brought his left foot up onto the footrest. He heard transmissions between Kansas City and other aircraft, and he knew the crews on those flights would be able to hear him. For a moment, he considered keeping quiet. It would be so much easier to simply say nothing until he started down in Phoenix. But he’d already thought it through, and he knew that the whole country had to be watching by the time he got there.
Using the switch on the console-mounted VHF control head, he keyed his microphone.
“Kansas City,” he transmitted. “New World Five-fiftyfive.”
Kansas City Air Route Traffic Control Center
Olathe, Kansas
17:23 GMT/11:23 CST
The supervisor on duty that Saturday at the Kansas City center was a man named James Slusser. He was at his desk when Bill Nordstrom, his controller for Sector 18, called to him, motioning with his arm.
Slusser pushed himself out of his chair and ambled down the row of Situation Display stations. He was heavy-set, fifty, almost bald.
The station next to 18, used for controlling low-altitude traffic during heavy traffic periods, was unoccupied, so he pulled out the chair and sat. He’d suffered lower back pain off-and-on over the last year, and this was one of the days when sitting felt better than standing.
“What’ve you got, Bill?”
“I’ve got a pilot here,” Nordstrom said, “New World flight Five-fifty-five, says he wants to talk to you.”
“Me? Personally?”
“Says he wants the supervisor. He wouldn’t explain.”
Slusser stared at the Sector 18 display screen. It wasn’t a regular request by any means.
“Okay, let me have the headset.” He fitted it on. He was an experienced controller, with twenty-three years in the business. He liked the job. The ever-increasing traffic loads didn’t even bother him much, except in principle—more work, same pay. In fact, the job was actually better when things got a little busy. Boredom was the real enemy. Routine. This wasn’t routine, and so it interested him.
He keyed the mike. “Five-five-five, this is Jim Slusser, K.C. supervisor. Go ahead, sir.”
For several seconds there was no answer. Then Slusser heard a voice say, “Yeah, K.C. Be advised ... Five-fifty-five’s got a problem.”
Frowning at the small, green blip that marked 555’s location on the display, Slusser waited for elaboration. When none came, he keyed the mike again.
“Roger, Five-five-five,” he transmitted. “State the nature of your problem, please.”
But there was no response. Slusser punched in the call-up code so he could zoom in on the blip: 555’s numbers appeared—altitude, speed, heading. It all jibed. The plane was on course, on time, still at 33,000.
“Five-fifty-five, state your problem, please,” he transmitted again, a small jolt of adrenalin jabbing his stomach now.
He was about to key his mike again when the same deep, quiet voice said, “K.C., be advised—the captain is incapacitated.”
Incapacitated? Slusser exchanged a glance with Nordstrom. Why was this guy not specifying? He keyed his mike again. The first reaction to any problem was supposed to be to find out what the flight crew wanted to do about it. “Roger, New World Five-five-five,” he transmitted. Your captain is incapacitated. State your intentions, please.”
Whoever it was waited another dozen seconds, then said calmly, “He’s more than incapacitated, K.C” Then he clicked off again for another five. Then he was back on. “The truth is, K.C., the captain is no longer in command.”
Slusser had been expecting a request for an emergency landing. Not getting it was odd as hell. He glanced at Nordstrom, who had been checking the traffic inbound to St. Louis, the runway nearest to 555’s position. Nordstrom shook his head in dismay.
Slusser keyed the mike. “Say again, New World Five-five-five?”
“I say again, K.C.—the captain of Five-fifty-five is out of service. I’m in command. You copy?”
The voice had an edge to it this time. Impatient. Something was definitely wrong. But Slusser still needed to find out what the intentions were.
“Roger, Five-fifty-five,” he said, keeping his voice as calm as he could. “Understand the captain is incapacitated. Say your intentions, please; would you like a vector to St. Louis?”
There was silence again. Then the transmission came: “My intentions?” The voice was calm again, strangely calm. “Well, K.C., my intentions are to take this plane on down to Phoenix, and when I get there ... maybe I’ll just drive her right into New World headquarters.”
Slusser and Nordstrom looked at each other again, in amazement. “Say again, New World Five-fifty-five?” Slusser responded. “Repeat your last transmission, please?”
“I say again,” came the reply, immediate this time, and toneless. “En route from Cleveland to Phoenix. We have one hundred and thirty-six souls on board. First officer’s in control of the flight. When it arrives in Phoenix there will be a major air disaster. Do you copy?”
“Jesus Christ,” Nordstrom said. “A hijacking?”
Slusser nodded. “Five-fifty-five, are you saying the plane has been hija
cked?”
“Negative,” came the response. “Not hijacked. Commandeered.”
“And who am I speaking to?”
“First officer. Emil Lewis Pate.”
Slusser’s mouth fell open in surprise, and he and Nordstrom stared at each other. “Jesus Christ,” Nordstrom whispered.
Slusser wagged his head in return. Certainly it was beyond anything he had ever heard of. But he knew his reaction had to be cool, professional. In his years with the FAA he’d learned not to question the unexpected but to assume it. And what he had to assume, at least for now, was that New World flight 555 had indeed been hijacked by one of its own pilots. And any hijacking, real or not, meant calling up the Washington center.
But first he had to implement the FAA procedure for immediate response. He was to ask a series of questions, record the answers, and listen for covert signals that all flight crew members were trained to sprinkle into their transmissions, code words that would provide clues as to how many hijackers there were, their ages, nationality, weapons, emotional state. But all this assumed he’d be talking to a member of the flight crew, not the hijacker. What if, as this pilot was claiming, they were one and the same?
Perhaps they weren’t. Perhaps the copilot was being forced to lie. It seemed more likely than the alternative, and Slusser figured he could find out quickly enough by talking to the pilot, listening for the code words.
But not on the frequency all the other traffic was using. Already other flights had probably overheard the transmission. “Take him over to twenty-one twenty-five,” he told Nords-trom, handing back the headset. “I’ll pick him up there.”
Slusser rolled his chair up to the adjacent station, plugged in the headset, and fitted it on. The station was normally reserved for the low-altitude portion of the sector, but, due to the weather, it was devoid of traffic this morning, and its frequency would be more discrete. Using the trac ball mounted on the desktop beneath the monitor, he positioned the console’s cursor on 555’s blip. Then he typed a sequence into the computer. In a moment, a series of numbers blinked into view on the screen, adjacent to 555’s basic data display. Two hundred and three minutes to destination, the computer estimated. Three hours and twenty-three minutes.
“Okay,” Nordstrom said, “he’s on twenty-one twenty-five.”
Slusser keyed his mike. “New World Five-five-five, Kansas City. How do you read?”
The response was immediate. “Triple Nickel’s got you five-by, K.C.”
No code word in that. Straight pilot-ese. The voice was almost a baritone, had a little bit of some accent, but Slusser couldn’t tell what. Sounded strangely relaxed now, though. Drugged? No, he didn’t think so—nothing more than a mild tranquilizer maybe.
“Five-five-five, this is Jim Slusser again,” he transmitted. “Could you give me your name again?”
Slusser’s earphones crackled. “Emil ... Pate. You need that spelled?” He spelled it without waiting for Slusser to answer.
Slusser had already pulled a pen and notepad from his shirt pocket. He flopped the pad open on the console’s narrow desk and jotted down the name. Still no code words.
“Could you tell me some more about what’s going on here, Mr. Pate? You’re saying you’re a scheduled crewmember on this flight?”
“That’s affirmative. And there’s no one up here with a gun to my head, K.C. I’m on my own, so why don’t you just go ahead and call Washington like you’re supposed to.”
Slusser ran his finger along the crease of his double chin, wondering how he’d report it. On his pad he wrote “weapon,” underlining it. “I need to follow through on some items, Mr. Pate,” he transmitted. “As I understand it, sir, you said the captain’s no longer in command. Is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“Where is the captain, sir?”
Slusser waited, his pen poised above the pad. He glanced at Nordstrom. He was trying to concentrate on his own screen while also doing his best to listen in. Their eyes met briefly.
“That’s not important,” came the response. “Same for all the other crap you’re supposed to find out. So let’s get on with this, pardner. Get Washington on the line.”
Slusser nodded, made a question mark on the pad beside “weapon.”
“Stand by, Mr. Pate,” he transmitted. Then he leaned back in the chair. He had to think. This man was either exactly who he claimed to be or else someone doing a damn good job posing as the first officer. Although in the end it didn’t matter a whole lot which of them he was. Either way, they were dealing with someone who knew the situation and the FAA procedures as well as they did. A pilot, or a former pilot, then. One who’d gone over the edge, clearly. But not so far over the edge he had no reasons for what he wanted to do. And, therefore, he could be reasoned with. And there was time, if he truly meant to go on to Phoenix. Slusser knew he should try to establish motive, regardless of the hijacker’s impatience. He ran his finger into the crease again, then keyed his mike.
“Mr. Pate Jim Slusser again. Let me just review this one more time. As we understand it, you plan to take the aircraft on to Phoenix? And then you intend to crash it, is that correct, sir?”
“I’ve told you,” Pate answered. “Get Washington on the line.”
Slusser breathed in and let it out. “Okay, sir. Roger. But I’ve got my job to do. Could you just give me some idea of why you’re doing this?”
For several seconds there was no response. Then Slusser’s headset hissed. “I can tell you why in two words,” Pate said. “Jack Farraday.”
Slusser had been ready to write it down, but the pen hovered. He had an impulse to ask for an explanation even though Emil Pate knew he didn’t need it. Anyone in the business could understand the motive. Jack Farraday had hurt a lot of people, hurt them badly. Slusser sighed as a sense of inevitability pushed aside his amazement. Somehow it was no surprise someone was finally taking revenge. It was time to call Washington.
He keyed his mike. “Okay, Mr. Pate. I’m calling D.C. Please stand by this frequency.”
He waited a second for a response. When none came he slipped the headset off and rolled the chair back and stood up. “Bill,” he told Nordstrom, “I’m pulling the handle on this one. Take over here and stick with this guy into the next sectors. Follow him from station to station. Try to keep him on the low-sector frequencies. Let’s hope not too many other flights overheard any of this before we switched him.”
At his desk Slusser picked up the phone and punched a button that opened the hotline direct to the Federal Aviation Agency headquarters in Washington, D.C.
SIX
National Aerospace Management Facility (NAMFAC)
Control Room
Federal Aviation Agency Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
17:29 GMT/12:29 EST
For a mid-November Saturday, NAMFAC was busier than usual. All morning the northeast section had caused headaches. Two storm systems had rubbed shoulders over Quebec and shoved a rapid cold front down along the seaboard. Some of the section’s airports had reported microbursts and driving sleet; others complained of heavy fog. Delays had started with the red-eyes into Boston. Those had backed up the early flights coming into La Guardia and Kennedy from all the major hubs to the south and west.
Fortunately, the storm system had begun to clear out as rapidly as it had developed, and the section’s controllers had managed the overloads. But now the moderate storm brewing in the Ohio Valley was about to go big time. Already it was stalling traffic to Pittsburgh and Philadelphia.
Otis Searing, the traffic management supervisor for the day, scanned the depictions on the twenty-inch monitors, and then picked up the printouts. He sat against the edge of the U-shaped command desk and leaned to pluck another Kleenex from the box he’d brought from home. Head colds had never bothered him, not until he’d moved north from Georgia. But since then he seemed to get at least one doozy every fall and then another in the early spring. This one had bee
n with him almost a week and he was tired of it, tired of the Washington chill. He missed the hot, sultry Georgia air—even though he thought he never would. That, the food, and, as always, the companionship of his own people. Although Searing had lived for twelve years in the north, he still considered himself a southern black. Only his accent, his health, and maybe his world view had changed; inside was the Augusta hometown boy—the son of a Camp Lejeune drill sergeant. Whenever he went home he felt like a fish tossed back into its own pond again. He reverted instantly to the soft Georgian drawl of his kinfolk and complained about the north, and thought about retirement.
But the truth was, Searing loved his job. And he was proud of the fact he was the first African-American to have become one of the six supervisors sharing the responsibility of running the NAMFAC control room—“Flow Control” as those who worked there called it. Flow Control was the brain of the whole FAA system. Flow Control kept the entire nation’s air traffic moving smoothly. It was the spout end of a big funnel of channeled information—a funnel called the Enhanced Traffic Management System. Raw data flowed in from twenty air route traffic control centers, or ARTCC’s to be refined and collated by the Department of Transportation’s analysis center in Cambridge. The information was then relayed electronically to the control room, on the sixth floor of the FAA’s big white-marble complex on Independence Avenue. Kitty-corner from the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum. In the two decades since deregulation the system had come a long way. Now, instead of canned databases and hypothetical scenarios, NAM-FAC’s powerful new computers analyzed live flight data and up-to-the-minute weather information. At a keystroke, any one of a number of displays could be made available to the controllers—from a depiction of virtually every aircraft in the sky over the U.S. to an analysis of a single target in the traffic pattern at a specific airport. Although the facility could now be managed by just a dozen controllers, it was easily three times more efficient.
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