Skyhammer

by Richard Hilton

  And these days they needed all the efficiency they could get. The job wasn’t getting any easier, Searing thought as he crossed to the center of the control room to recheck the depictions on Pittsburgh and Philly.

  This was the part of the job he enjoyed, though, watching the traffic symbols proliferate and converge, studying the patterns that developed. To manage a score of aircraft simultaneously converging on a single point was essentially like running a football through tacklers. In both cases, you had to see patterns developing, know when to make the right move, and where to make it. Searing had played tailback for Georgia Tech in ’66 and ’67. He liked it when the situation got tense, which was why his teammates had called him O.T.—for overtime—during his playing days at Tech. Now his staffers used the nickname when a situation became critical.

  Searing made his decision: They’d delay flights to both airports. He got another tissue, then crossed to the northeast section.

  “Double whammy,” he said to one of the controllers. “Another hour on both.”

  Blowing his nose again, he watched the controller enter the coded sequence that would instruct all controllers nationwide to delay departure for up to one hour of all flights destined for the two cities. That would take care of it, Searing concluded. The day was settling down to something more or less routine.

  He was almost sorry it was. Now he would have to get to the side of the job he did not like—the paperwork. He’d been warned: You work for the government, you push paper, and the higher you climbed, the more of it there was. A new mountain was piling up consisting of progress report memos, evaluation updates, preliminary specifications, addenda, revision supplements, and requests for more information. It was all part of the agency’s push to develop the next-generation traffic management system by the year 2000. Searing was swamped. It wasn’t just any Saturday either. Clemson was playing Georgia Tech; they’d be kicking off in less than an hour. All morning he had been concocting a scheme to smuggle a small TV from the trunk of his car into the coffee room. The trick was to do it without anyone finding out he was the culprit. He was just beginning to think that he’d have to let someone in on the plan—someone he could entrust with the dirty work, someone other than his assistant Ron Quarry, who’d never learned to appreciate the importance of football—when Quarry called to him from the command desk.

  “It’s Kansas City on the hotline, O.T.”

  The facility’s overhead lighting, although not as dim as that in ARTCC centers, was rheostatted down to provide better resolution on the monitors. Searing could see the red light on his hotline glowing brightly. He stepped back to the center U and leaned across his station to pick up the handset.

  “This is Otis Searing.”

  “Jim Slusser, Mr. Searing. K.C. supervisor.” The voice on the other end contained a clear note of urgency. “I’m afraid we’ve got a situation out here. A hijacking, technically.”

  About to pluck another tissue from the box. Searing stopped dead. Nobody had informed him of any training session scheduled for today. “This ain’t no drill, is it?”

  “No, it’s real,” the man answered. “The first officer contacted us and said ...”

  “Hold up.” Searing released the key on the handset. Real or not, major or minor incident, there was a set procedure to be followed. “It’s a hijack,” he told Quarry quietly. “Real one. Get the checklists and put this on the speaker. I’m comin’ round.”

  Searing’s adrenalin began to pump. Until recently FAA Security had handled hijackings, but government cost-cutting had finally caught up with the agency, and more than a year ago procedures had changed. A new directive called for the Flow Control supervisor to run the command center during such emergencies. Searing had been through a half dozen training sessions. There hadn’t been a bona fide domestic hijacking in years, only threats, a few hoaxes. The center still scheduled exercises, but they hadn’t actually conducted one in months.

  Searing slid into his chair and took a pen from his shirt pocket. In a holder atop the counter between their desks, Quarry had found a pad of hijacking checklists. He peeled one off for himself and handed the pad to Searing. By then Searing had engaged the speaker and opened the telenet, which provided hotlines to all of the regional centers. It would also let him connect one center to another, or connect approach and departure controllers to the DC center. He could also monitor communications between any aircraft and center.

  “You all ready?” Searing said.

  Quarry nodded. He had pulled his chair over. Searing removed the handset from its cradle on the side of the module and keyed its transmitter.

  “All right, sir. Go ahead now.”

  Jim Slusser spoke rapidly, his voice accompanied by short bursts of soft static. “It’s a New World flight, Five-five-five. About forty-five minutes out of Cleveland, en route to Phoenix.” He paused a moment, then continued. “The situation is rather ... unique, I’d say, sir. The hijacker appears to be one of the pilots.”

  Searing and Quarry had been busy filling in blanks on their checklists. Now they stopped and looked at each other. Searing found the transmitter key.

  “Give me that again. One of the pilots?”

  “That’s affirmative, sir. The first officer, apparently. He claims the captain’s incapacitated, and he’s taken control.”

  “Hold up now. He said he was hijacking it?”

  “Words to that effect. He said—”

  “What was wrong with the captain—did he say that?”

  “No, sir. I asked. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  Under the checklist heading, “Number of hijackers,” Searing wrote “1?” and beside it “PILOT?” He looked up at Quarry, who shook his head.

  “Mr. Slusser,” Searing said, keying the phone again. “You got any sense on this? The guy under coercion or is he for real?”

  “In my opinion—for real. He hasn’t given out any covert signals, not one. Maybe it’s possible somebody’s got a gun to his head—another pilot maybe, somebody else who knows the signals. But I don’t think so. He just doesn’t sound like it. Especially when he said what he was planning to do.”

  “What are his intentions?” Searing asked, drawing a circle around the question mark after PILOT. “What does he plan to do?”

  Slusser took a few seconds before he replied, “Apparently, crash the plane in Phoenix. At least that’s what he’s intimated.”

  Searing stared at Quarry, whose eyes registered astonishment. Searing wrote “CRASH PLANE—PHOENIX” into the space for “Subject’s Stated Intentions.”

  “Demands?” he asked Slusser.

  “The only demand he’s made so far was that I call Washington.”

  “That’s all?”

  “So far. I tried to find out what weapon he had, but he said it didn’t matter, to just call NAMFAC.”

  “Stated grievance?”

  “Sort of. “Slusser paused again before he said, “Jack Farra-day.”

  For a second the name Farraday didn’t register with Searing. Then it clicked. Quarry nodded in recognition.

  “He said,” Slusser continued, “that maybe he’d ’drive the plane right into New World headquarters in Phoenix.”

  As he wrote “REVENGE—JACK FARRADAY” into the space for grievance, Searing realized the magnitude of what faced him. Had any pilot ever done this before? He didn’t think so. He looked at the “Intention” again.

  “The subject said maybe?”

  “Yes,” Slusser answered. “I remember that specifically. He said he didn’t know but ‘maybe’ that’s what he’d do. But then he said there would be a major air disaster when he got there. At least I think that’s what he said.”

  Searing noted this in the space for intentions. “All right, sir,” he said when he’d finished. “What else?”

  “I’ve got his name.”

  “Good. Let’s have it.” Searing copied the name into the space for number of hijackers. Emil Pate—an odd name. But then the whole thing was
odd as hell. No hard demands yet. Except that the hijacker wanted to talk to the people at the top. That indicated he had a statement to make.

  “Do you have his ETA?” Searing asked.

  “My equipment indicates twenty fifty-one, Zulu.”

  Searing glanced up at the facility’s large master clock with its prominent LED display of universal coordinated, or “Zulu,” time in Greenwich, England, the world standard for aviation time-keeping. It was now 17:31 So they had just over three hours, if Phoenix were actually the final destination. For all they knew, this Emil Pate could be teetering on the edge at this point, ready to nose-dive, literally.

  “You think he’s stable enough for now, Mr. Slusser?”

  “I’d say, Yes. He sounded awfully damn calm.”

  “Any sign the passengers know what’s in progress?”

  “No. My guess is they don’t know. He’d be better off that way.”

  “What about the flight attendants?”

  “I don’t know. You’d think it’d be hard to keep them in the dark for very long.”

  “Yeah, you’d think,” Searing agreed. “Okay. You do good work, Mr. Slusser. Feel like carrying the ball for a couple more minutes?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “All we’re asking for: Tell him we’re informed. Tell him we’ll be making contact soon as we get an ARINC hookup. Tell him ten minutes. After that tell him you don’t know what the hell the hold up is. String him out. We’ll need twenty minutes to get a negotiator in here. Don’t hassle him. Talk to him if he wants to be talked to. Otherwise let him be. I’ll get back to you soon as we got the response coordinated.”

  “Roger that.”

  Searing had a nervous habit of loosening and tightening the knot of his tie. He tightened it now, then switched off the speakerphone and looked at Quarry.

  “What do you make of this?”

  Quarry shrugged a shoulder. “My guess? You know what Jack Farraday’s done.”

  “Right,” Searing said. He rose to his feet, still holding the handset. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his booming voice easily penetrating the room’s normal background din. “Kansas City’s got a hijacking in progress. Designees please report.”

  He brought the handset back to his ear and pressed 1114.

  “Operations,” a voice said after one buzz. “Bob Stouffer.”

  “Bob,” Searing said, “We got a hijacking. No drill this time. I’m activating the ACC, and put a call in to the administrator. We’re coming straight up.” He turned back to Quarry. “Get on the line to the Bureau and get a negotiator over here fast as possible. Somebody with experience if possible.”

  From the half-dozen designees that gathered around his desk, Searing chose two, John Travis, the controller for the Southwest section, and Peggy Lofton, the Northeast controller. Travis had a cool head and was virtually a computer when it came to remembering data. Lofton was less good with details but better at seeing what no one else could. Both had been through a score of drills as well as false hijackings. Within two minutes they were aboard the elevator, riding up to the eleventh floor.

  The Aviation Command Center was located almost directly above Flow Control. When the elevators opened, the group made its way past the administrator’s office, a row of offices and conference rooms, and then down a narrow hallway. Finally they came to the two metal doors of room 1114, painted the same ugly pale yellow as the surrounding walls. The first was labeled OPERATIONS, the second AIR TRAFFIC COMMAND. Searing pushed open the door to Operations and nearly slammed it into Bob Stouffer, who was coming through another door connecting Operations to the ACC.

  “We set?” Searing asked.

  “Set,” Stouffer answered, “but I gotta warn you, they’re starting renovation in here on Monday, so we’ve moved a bunch of stuff into the command center. I tried to make space.”

  Searing pushed open the inner door to the ACC. It was a room the same size as Operations, not much bigger than his living room. There were no windows to the outside but three large glass windows in the wall between the two rooms. In front of the windows, on a carpeted platform six inches above the floor, was the principal’s station, a simple, Formica table with two high-backed, overstuffed swivel chairs pushed up to it. This was where Searing was supposed to sit, along with his number-two man. They would face three more tables that were curved and fit together to form a bank of six stations known as the “Horseshoe.” On the wall behind the horseshoe, opposite the principal’s station, two large National Geographic maps were displayed, one of the United States and the other of the world. A row of digital readouts were mounted above the maps and labeled with the names of major cities around the globe. When activated they would tell the times in those places.

  On his previous visits, Searing had been impressed with the emptiness of the room, as compared with most spaces in the FAA building, which were overfilled with desks, filing cabinets, and odds and ends of furniture, all belying the fact that the agency was outgrowing its home. But now the ACC seemed to have finally been caught in the tide of clutter. Boxes were stacked everywhere, along with piles of paper, stacks of spiral binders, and pieces of equipment he did not even recognize. Pushed to the far end of the horseshoe were two TV monitors and VCR’s, plus two surveillance-camera monitors. As part of security, Operations viewed and reviewed all news items that concerned aviation and the FAA, and they also maintained surveillance on restricted areas in the building.

  Behind the horseshoe, the room was filled with overstuffed swivel chairs, crowded together like cattle in a stock pen.

  “We’re testing new chairs too,” Stouffer explained. “So you’ve got your pick of the litter.”

  “You get the the administrator?”

  Stouffer shook his head. “Up in Montreal this weekend.”

  “And Rodgers?”

  “In Annapolis. I’ve put in a call, and they’re getting word to him.”

  “All right.” Searing nodded. He disliked Corbett Rodgers, the assistant administrator, even more than the administrator, but someone from the administrator’s office had to be in on this, or notified at least. He crossed the room and mounted the stage to the principal’s station. He’d never liked this setup either. The way it separated him from the others made him feel as though he was there to grade their performances. It only hampered communications.

  He turned and looked at Lofton and Travis, both seated in the center of the horseshoe, where Stouffer had cleared space. Searing glanced over the checklist he’d brought up from NAMFAC. Then he explained the situation quickly and concisely, watching their faces, assessing reactions. They showed surprise, but they were disciplined and well trained.

  “Peggy,” he said, “before you do anything else, get on the phone to New World and tell them we’ll want Jack Farra-day calling us soon as he can. Let them know it’s a hijacking. And tell them to evacuate their headquarters. Find out where the hell in the city it is, too. We’ll probably have to evacuate everything around it.” He paused, realizing his own authority might be needed in dealing with New World. “On second thought, I’ll call them. Peggy, you check the tape recorders first. And you’ll keep the log. John, I want you running lines to Sky Harbor and any other airports that might be involved. K.C.’s already on. Get Albuquerque. Denver and Wichita. Get ‘em all on standby for emergency landing. And the airport authority at Cleveland will want to know the nature of any weapon and how he got it aboard, so make sure we don’t forget that. Make sure you give any such information to the right people and the right people only. Both of you back each other. I’ll back you. Travis is the deputy. He’ll handle the FBI stuff, and anything to do with local law agencies, emergency agencies.” He paused to let them finish their notes. For a moment there was only the quiet murmur of the building’s heating systems. Then he continued.

  “It goes without saying this situation, if it’s for real, is unprecedented. At the same time, we don’t have much choice but to try and contain it with estab
lished procedures. So we’re starting with our normal chains.”

  Searing eyed each of them. “It also goes without saying that time is of the essence in this situation. But I want us keeping in mind that control’s what we’ve got to maintain, and it’s thoroughness that leads to control. Let’s cover all the bases.” He saw by their expressions that his emphasis had registered. “All right then,” he said, “let’s get the show rollin’.”

  He turned and sat down. Had he forgotten anything so far? The light began to blink on his telephone. It was Quarry downstairs.

  “They’ve got Brian L’Hommedieu,” he said. “But he’s at home.”

  Searing knew L’Hommedieu—they’d worked together on the same response-team during two exercises. The agent was in his thirties, a West point graduate, had a master’s in psychology, had taught some anti-terrorist courses at the Bureau. But he didn’t have much actual negotiating experience, not as much as Searing had hoped for. And L’Hommedieu had always seemed a little too WASPish. No, he would not have been his first choice. But then again, he didn’t dislike him, and L’Hommedieu had always seemed smart enough and a good team player—didn’t try to overstep his role. Besides, with so few domestic hijackings in the last decade, who did have experience?

  “Send a car for him,” he told Quarry. “And have him call in on the way.”

  Next, Searing opened the line to the switchboard and asked to be put through directly to the office of John H. Farraday, Chairman of New World Air Corporation in Phoenix.

  “This is Mark Rydell,” a man said a minute later, his voice sharp with apprehension. “Vice President of Flight Operations at New World Airlines. How can I help you, Mr. Searing?”

  “I need to speak to Mr. Farraday. Right now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rydell said after a moment. “Mr. Farraday isn’t here. In fact, he isn’t even in Phoenix today. He’s over in Albuquerque at a pilots’ meeting. Maybe—”

  “This is urgent,” Searing said. “And confidential.”