Skyhammer

by Richard Hilton

  Now he looked to his right, toward the northeast, the direction from which New World 555 would be coming. Scattered cumulus clouds had formed over the distant mountains. Nothing more than usual, though. He glanced into one of the rearview mirrors on the canopy frame and saw Nesbitt’s helmeted head also turned in that direction. But Nesbitt’s sun visor was down, and O’Brien couldn’t see his eyes. Was Nesbitt feeling the same thing? How would the negotiators talking to the hijacker know whether or not the hijacker was bluffing? O’Brien realized that he and Nesbitt would serve, at the very least, as a counterbluff. If the hijacker was bluffing, they might scare him into giving up.

  He had no more time to think about it right now, though. The techs had reappeared, holding the safety pins aloft, their red streamers flapping in the wind. The leader snapped off a salute. O’Brien returned it and bayoneted his oxygen mask into positon. They were ready. He keyed his microphone.

  “Tower, Shadow is ready for takeoff.”

  A dozen seconds seemed to pass before the controller cleared them. O’Brien advanced the throttles a half-inch, and the jet began to move. A second later he brought the nose around and advanced both throttles to military power. The twin engines accelerated symmetrically, so he pushed the throttles on over the gate into afterburner, and the jet surged forward, pressing him back hard into his seat. O’Brien felt his heart pounding. His knees shook as he worked to keep the nose straight. Within seconds the airspeed was passing 120 knots. He brought the stick back, and the jet seemed to leap into the air, the sudden acceleration making him grunt. Humans were not made for this, he’d often thought, but the ease with which the plane itself could leave the ground never ceased to amaze him. In that moment of takeoff he’d often felt as if some giant invisible armature, attached amidships, was simply turning on an axis, swinging the plane up into the air like a carnival ride. Already the airspeed was at 350, the vertical speed indicator had pegged at 6,000 feet-per-minute; they were probably actually doing closer to 30,000. At forty-five degrees nose up, he stopped the rotation and held it there, and within a half minute from the beginning of the takeoff roll they were passing 10,000 feet.

  O’Brien eased the throttles out of afterburner and lowered the nose. Now they were rapidly leaving Phoenix behind. Over the left rail of the canopy, he caught sight of the northern reaches of Paradise Valley. He switched his radio to Phoenix Departure Control and checked in.

  “Roger, Shadow,” the controller responded. “Fly heading zero five zero; climb and maintain flight level two seven zero. Cleared to go supersonic.”

  O’Brien banked to the new heading, then brought the throttles through the gate a second time and watched the Mach meter as the acceleration pushed him back into his seat again. A tiny jolt bumped the airframe when the needle passed 1.0. The needle continued to climb until it reached Mach 1.4, and then O’Brien brought the nose up to maintain that speed.

  They were climbing through 25,000. Below them now, the land was mottled, a yellowish tan and dark, greenish gray where the northern Arizona forests began. They were over the Mogollon Rim and the boundary of the White Mountain Apache Reservation, tracking outbound at more than seventeen miles per minute. Their path was one they’d flown dozens of times before. It would take them over the Fort Apache Reservation, fifteen miles south of Payson, and Snowflake, Arizona, and then on into New Mexico to meet New World 555 coming the other way.

  FOURTEEN

  Flight Deck

  New World 555

  19:52 GMT/14:52 EST

  At the sound of Katherine’s voice, Pate had reached out to the radio’s frequency dial. He held the knob, between his thumb and first finger, willing himself to turn it to another level.

  But his hand did not respond. He could not make it move.

  “Emil?” she said again. “Will you listen to me?”

  “Switch it off,” Pate whispered. Beads of sweat broke and slid down the side of his face. But still he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to hear her voice at least.

  “If you can hear me,” she said, “say so, Emil. Please? You owe me that much.”

  Wetness stung his eyes, blurred his vision. It slid out and ribboned down to his jaw. He felt himself being squeezed in, getting smaller, tighter, as though a huge hand was closing on him.

  “Emil,” she said. “You have to talk to me, honey. You can’t just shut me out. Emil? Please talk to me.” Her voice was like a valve inside him opening, flooding him with sadness, remorse.

  Switch off! he shouted silently. But instead, he keyed his mike.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he whispered.

  Then he meant to do it—switch off the radio, before she could answer. But again his hand would not obey.

  “Emil!” she cried. “Thank God—”

  She broke off with a sob. Pate tipped his head back and groaned. He couldn’t go through with it. But he couldn’t quit either. She had to understand what it was all about. He keyed the mike again. “They’ll want your story,” he said. “Get a good lawyer, or whatever it takes ...”

  “God damn it, Emil!” A sob of exasperation sharpened the pain in her voice. “Why do you think you have to do this? To me, Emil. And Melissa and Carrie. You’re not solving anything. You didn’t solve it by leaving us, and this won’t do it either.”

  “It’s hard,” he answered. “But it will work.”

  “Work?” Through her crying she sounded amazed. “You think killing yourself and all those people will do anything to Jack Farraday?”

  For a moment Pate was stunned. How could she not understand? But he had to remind himself that she didn’t really know. None of them did. Not yet. “Rat,” he said. “Believe me. There’s more to it. You’ll know it soon enough. I’m minimizing the casualties this way. It’s for everybody else,” he said. “It’s for Deke and anybody else Jack Farraday ruins.”

  “Listen to yourself,” she answered. “Why do you always have to be the hero? Why do you think you have to be the one to save everybody?” She sobbed again, then tried to stop crying. “Listen, Emil,” she said, speaking fast now. “You have to understand why you’re doing this. You think you do but you don’t. It’s redemption, Emil. Yes, Jack Farraday cheated you. He fooled you. He used the only bait that would work on you. He said you could keep flying. And nobody condemns you for taking that bait. You’re the only one who does, can’t you see that? You don’t have to redeem yourself.”

  “You’re wrong,” Pate said, though his heart was beating harder now. Was she right? “I’m doing this for another reason,” he said.

  “No, you’re not a savior!” she shouted back at him. “You’re just a man, just one man. And you need to take care of your own—you can’t change everyone else. You can’t fix everything! You just need to fix your own life, get over this terrible sense you did something wrong! That’s what it really is, honey—your damn pride. That’s what you have to overcome, sweetheart. Please see it. Whatever happens, Emil, we can work it out. We can. It doesn’t matter. Whatever you’ve done.”

  Whatever he’d done? As Pate turned his head and looked at the dead man beside him, he knew there was no hope. This was certain. He had killed Boyd for that reason. Now he had to die as well. If he lived, all he’d have was the pain, and the knowledge that he had failed, that Farraday was still out there. He’d lose everything except the pain. He would gnaw on it like a bone. Katherine would gnaw on it too. It would ruin the rest of her life. He knew that. Maybe he’d done wrong, maybe this whole thing was a mistake—he didn’t know anymore—but it was too late, wasn’t it? He wished suddenly, intensely, that he had not done it. But he had.

  “Emil,” Katherine said now, nearly whispering. “Please see what the real enemy is. You can’t go on.”

  “Have to,” he said quietly. “I’m already inside. I’m sucked into him now, Kat, and I’m going to cut Monster’s heart out. Like Coyote did. Remember the story? You’ll know what I mean. You’ll know I always loved you. Now don’t try to talk to me anymore. Jus
t get Jack Farraday on the line.”

  It took all his strength. But he finally managed to twist the dial. Abruptly, the static of the new frequency filled his ears like silence, and in the silence there was no thought or feeling, and the silence closed around him completely.

  Aviation Command Center

  FAA Headquarters

  19:56GMT/14:56 EST

  “Did you lose him?” L’Hommedieu held his breath.

  “Yeah,” Kelly said after a moment. “He won’t respond.”

  “But he listened.”

  “You heard him, though. Last thing he said?”

  L’Hommedieu had, and it baffled him. What story? What was Pate talking about—being inside, cutting out the monster’s heart? He was sure Pate had used the term “monster” before, describing Farraday. This time, though it had seemed the reference was specific to something. It had seemed, too, in the way he had spoken to Katherine Winslow, that he had expected her to know the reference.

  “Could I talk to his wife, please?”

  “Hold on.”

  He waited more than a minute, thinking about what Katherine Winslow had said to Pate. She had done well. She’d gotten right through—as only someone who knew Pate could—gotten right down to the core of the man, and if there was any chance at all it might come in the next few minutes, while Pate sat there, alone, thinking about what she’d said. If only he would think about it. What was this “story,” though?

  Finally he heard her voice on the other end of the line. She sounded very tired.

  “I guess you’ve had a rough time.”

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work,” she said.

  “No, you knew exactly what to say. You cracked him, I think. So I need to ask you some things quickly.” L’Hommedieu turned to a fresh page in his notepad. “He mentioned a story, a monster. And a coyote? He said you knew what he was talking about.”

  She was quiet for a few seconds. Then she said, “Coyote and Monster—that’s the Nez Perce story of creation.”

  “He was refering to that—an Indian legend?” L’Hommedieu felt a current run up his spine.

  “Yes, and I see what he means.” Her voice filled with surprise now. “Coyote saved the animals from Monster—rescued them, because Monster swallowed all the animals, so Coyote let himself be swallowed too. Do you see how it fits? Coyote cut out Monster’s heart. Emil is trying to do the same thing. To Jack Farraday.”

  “Why? Why did Coyote kill the monster? Was it for redemption?”

  She didn’t say anything at first. Then she said, “I don’t know. But maybe. The Nez Perce still—”

  “And he’s Indian, isn’t he?” L’Hommedieu broke in. “Emil is Nez Perce?”

  “Only half Nez Perce. But he grew up on the reservation. So did I.”

  “You knew him then? You were ... high school sweethearts? Forgive me for prying, but I’m—”

  “No, I understand. No. I only really got to know him later. Years later, not until his grandmother’s funeral.”

  “What about his parents?”

  “They died in a car wreck when Emil was nine. Louise, his grandmother—Louise Yellow Wolf—took care of him after that. She probably told him all the Nez Perce stories—” Katherine Winslow broke off for a second, then said, “Do you think Emil’s gone crazy? Is that it? That he thinks he is Coyote?”

  “No, I don’t think that,” L’Hommedieu said and meant it. “But I think he’s using this story as a kind of moral justification, the same way we’d use a Bible story. How does the story end? Do you remember?”

  She was quiet again. Then she said, “Coyote frees the animals and then he creates the People out of the Monster’s blood.”

  “So Coyote survives?”

  “He’s immortal. There are other stories where he dies and comes back to life.”

  L’Hommedieu wrote “Christ” on his pad. But the idea overwhelmed him. In the little time that remained, how could he possibly make Pate see that he had slipped into such a frame of mind, teetering on the edge of a Jesus complex? “Are these stories published in any form?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I have a book of them. Nez Perce Stories, that’s the title.

  L’Hommedieu finished writing down the title. It was probably too late, but he tore the page from his pad and signaled Peggy Lofton. “Get someone over to the Library of Congress to find this book. Fast.”

  “Mr. L’Hommedieu?” Katherine Winslow said. “Should I try to talk to him again?”

  “That might not even be a choice we get to make,” he answered. “Could you wait there, though? Just in case?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks. And could you put Jim Kelly back on?”

  In a moment Kelly answered.

  “What’s the word on Jack Farraday?” L’Hommedieu asked.

  “Not here yet.”

  “Okay, when he gets there, I’ll want to talk to him first, briefly.”

  “Do you want me to say anything more to Pa:e if he comes back on?”

  “I don’t think he’ll let you, not right now. But if things go well—if Farraday can get him to agree to land, or even just to consider it, then you’ll talk to him. I want you to ask him first if he’ll talk to me one more time. I would think he would. If he won’t, I’ll have something worked out for you to say to him, okay? Now find some place to take Katherine Winslow, someplace out of sight maybe, if you can, but close by.”

  “Will do,” Kelly said.

  L’Hommedieu put his head in his hands and closed his eyes and thought carefully. Right now it seemed like their only hope was that Katherine Winslow had gotten through. If so, then Emil Pate had to be right at the edge. Now if he could only reach out they might be able to pull him down. But how did his Nez Perce upbringing factor in? L’Hommedieu knew very little about Native American cultures, but he had to suppose they were essentially similiar to other tribal societies, like those of the Middle East. For the Moslem fundamentalists anyway, social allegiance went far beyond mere patriotism. The Palestinian kids dying for their cause were motivated by promises of martyrdom. Khomeni’s teenage cannon fodder had charged the Iraqi lines for such honor. But would Pate,at almost fifty, be susceptible to a cultural influence more than thirty years behind him? Now L’Hommedieu wished he had Katherine Winslow on the phone again.

  Except that there really wasn’t any time to pursue the whole question. The problem now was, if Pate wouldn’t talk to him again, or Katherine, then they had only Jack Farraday. What could Farraday say that might get Pate to land? Would he be willing to confess his own guilt, admit he had cheated and lied? That seemed beyond all possibility. So how could they use Farraday? For another minute L’Hommedieu could think of nothing. Then an idea came to him. Getting Farraday to agree to try it wouldn’t be easy, but maybe possible.

  Interstate 1-25

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  20:01 GMT/13.01 MST

  During Jack Farraday’s call to the FAA command center, Walter Frye had watched and listened with the feeling a dam had burst somewhere and the water was beginning to rise around him. Not a flood that would engulf Jack Farraday and New World Airlines; no, this was his own personal drowning in progress. He had invested his reputation—his career—in this move to New World. He’d done it in the belief that he could be of service and with the understanding that Phil Masters had told him the truth: Jack Farraday had gotten a bad rap. It was clear now, though, he had been dead wrong about Jack Farraday, and he had also been far too naive—far too stupid—to think that New World had hired him to tell it straight. All they’d ever wanted was to coat Farraday’s ruthlessness with his, Walter Frye’s, credibility. Farraday’s own disguise—his mild-mannered, distracted act—didn’t work well enough.

  Frye was more than disgusted by Jack Farraday, however. He was downright scared of the man. Frye had seen some sinister people in his life—some brutally unpredictable men—but Farraday, ever since learning of the hijacking, had se
emed positively psycho. Cold and rational while talking to the FAA, but abusive and maniacal with Boyce, him, and everyone else at New World. Now, as they rode toward the Albuquerque control center in the back of Farraday’s white Mercedes limousine, the bulletproof windows sealing them like insects in a jar, Walter Frye wondered how he could get out of this trap. If it wasn’t already too late.

  “We’re going to murder this guy,” Farraday said quietly, his rage icy for the moment. “That’s priority one. Get him on the ground and kick the living shit out of him—post mortem if we’re so lucky. I want him painted as the coldest sonofabitch that ever stood on two legs. A fucking calculator machine. Heart made of computer chips. No way anyone could have foreseen his action.”

  Frye sat between them, Farraday on his right, Boyce on the left. Masters was up front. Farraday slapped Frye’s knee with the manila folder he held—Pate’s file. ‘It’s all right here. All his excellent performance, the hotshot, decorated vet. Fighter pilot—nerves of steel. The guy’s one of the best pilots on the line. We don’t need to change any of that.”

  “Right,” Boyce said. “That’s our body of evidence. And we’ll also touch lightly on his ethnicity, I think. Nothing blatant, but there is a ground swell against minorities. At least among some classes. It couldn’t hurt, if we’re careful.”

  This made Frye’s stomach churn. Boyce had talked to Pate’s chief pilot before they left, had found out Pate was half Native American. Now they were even plotting to use that against him? Frye wanted to tell them he thought this was wrong, not the way you did things. But he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to talk at all and give Farraday any reason to start screaming again, not as long as he was this close to him. And both of them were quiet now. Frye hoped it would last.