The F-15’s high bubble canopy actually allowed the man in the rear seat to see behind the aircraft, and now in his mirror O’Brien saw Nesbitt’s helmet turning one way, then the other. “No contrail,” the RIO confirmed.
Good, O’Brien thought. The fighter’s dull, blue-gray skin would be virtually invisible against the terrain below. Without a contrail, the hijacker would never spot them.
They were coming abeam the MD-80 now. O’Brien could clearly make out the airliner’s gleaming blue and white fuselage, the swept wings, the engine pods on the tail.
“Say his Mach, Center.”
“Can’t be sure, Shadow. My readout is strictly ground speed. He’s filed at seven-six.”
O’Brien checked his own speed, decreasing now through Mach 1.0. They were still closing easily on the he target. He adjusted the throttles to hold .95 and then, keeping his eye on the other airplane, rolled into a thirty-degree left bank. The radius of his turn would be six to seven miles; he could play out the last half of the turn to align their track with the airliner’s. And it worked perfectly. A minute later Shadow rolled out on 555’s tail.
“On altitude,” Nesbitt said.
They were still too fast, though, by ninety knots according to the HUD. O’Brien brought the throttles back further, the airframe rumbling as the big engines decelerated. The MD-80’s contrail streamed above them now, while the airliner itself, dead ahead and maybe a hundred feet higher, seemed like a toy suspended in the blue field. This was more like a formation rejoin than an intercept, and O’Brien had flown hundreds of those in the course of his training. It would be a cakewalk, he thought. Except that his knees were shaking again, and his heart beating fast.
“Overtake thirty knots,” Nesbitt said.
Mach was still decreasing. “Rodge,” O’Brien answered. He cracked the speed brakes, then retracted them. It slowed the plane to a manageable overtake. “Albuquerque,” he transmitted, “Shadow is joining with the target. I’m moving in for a closer look.”
The controller acknowledged. “Be advised, we don’t know the passengers’ reaction should they see you. Recommend you stay below and behind.”
“No problem,” O’Brien radioed. He could bring Shadow right up under the airliner’s tail if he wanted. The pod-mounted engines would block him from view. O’Brien nudged the throttles ahead slightly, and the other plane began to grow larger again. Within two minutes it seemed to fill the sky above them, so close O’Brien could see the oil streaks under the engines, the plaques marking the exit under the tail. He could actually make out the warning message inside each red rectangle. Tapping the throttles back, he stabilized their position scarcely a dozen feet below the larger craft.
“Something, isn’t it?” Nesbitt said.
“Yeah,” O’Brien answered. It was something all right. Only the big jet’s twin contrails streaming from a few feet aft its engines showed how fast both planes were traveling. Otherwise, the MD-80 seemed pinned above them in the blue space, like some giant placid creature, harmless, and oblivious to the killing machine that lay just beneath it.
O’Brien called the center again, his voice quiet. “Center, there’s no damage to the aircraft. I’m going to drop back a thousand feet and remain in trail.”
“Roger that,” the controller answered. “Keep an eye on him.”
As Shadow drifted back, O’Brien realized he had gone rigid. He relaxed now, checked Nesbitt in the mirror. “You believe this?” he said.
Nesbitt’s helmet wagged back and forth slowly. “No, way, Stick. No way.”
Air Route Traffic Control Center
Albuquerque, New Mexico
20:08 GMT/13:08 MST
After the bright sun outside, the windowless control room seemed dark and confined. Jack Farraday felt as if he had gone underground, or perhaps even entered some kind of science fiction submarine—the rows of big, black radar-depiction screens glowing with myriad sparks of green, like deep-sea portholes, or so he imagined. Even the illuminated faces of the controllers who sat in front of the screens wore the calm concentration of men trapped under a great subtle pressure. At least that was how it seemed, and he knew he would be glad to get out of there.
“You’ll be able to see okay in a few minutes,” the man who had led them in said as he showed them to a station close to the door and pulled another chair over for Boyce. There were two rows of stations separated by a central aisle. At the far end of the room was a desk, and a number of men—pale shirts in the darkness—were gathered there. Two of the pale shirts came down the aisle in a hurry now. The first introduced himself as the center’s supervisor, Lenard Curtis, and the other was Alex Cook, one of the controllers. They were clones, both pudgy and bespectacled. Farraday shook their hands quickly and sat down.
The radar screen in front of him was as big as a serving platter, black, and seemingly empty save for the narrow green line that traced an irregular shape within its circumference. A small hexagon of green near the center was labeled “ABQ.” Otherwise, there was only one more, smaller mark, a green diagonal dash, near the right-hand edge of the screen, and beside it a block of tiny letters and numerals.
Curtis leaned close. “That’s him.” He tapped a finger below the dash. “A couple of minutes into Sector ninety-four. We’ve cleared out the rest of the traffic.”
“When do we get started?” Farraday asked.
Cook had to show him how to use the radio first. Then Curtis was back, handing him a telephone receiver.
“The FBI negotiator wants to talk to you.”
Farraday turned to check with Boyce, who nodded, whispering, “For the record.”
Farraday identified himself. “And who am I speaking to?”
“L’Hommedieu,” a sharp, clipped voice answered. “Brian. Special agent. Have you got a pen, Mr. Farraday? 1 want you to write down some things.”
“Such as?” It was probably a waste of time, but he would play along.
“First write down ‘objective,’” the agent said. “I want you to keep in mind the objective at this point—the only objective—which is to get him to land the plane. So write that down after the word ‘objective.’ You must remember it, Mr. Farraday, above all else. We’re not trying to talk him out of his intent, only into landing.”
Farraday had dutifully written the word ‘objective,’ at the top of the legal pad Cook had supplied him. But he resented the agent’s tone. It was condescending. Of course they had to get Pate down first. But the only way to do that was to make a deal with him. “Is this really necessary?” he asked, unable to keep a note of irritation out of his voice.
“Yes it is,” the agent responded. “You know the subject’s intention.”
“I know he has made a specific threat. His intention isn’t completely certain.”
The agent was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “But you know his motivation—his rationale. Do you know what’s going on inside him?”
Farraday put down the ballpoint Cook had given him and took out his fountain pen. This agent—he would have to get his name again—was not helping at all. “Actually, I have a problem with the scenario you’re pushing.” Farraday tested the point of his pen, drawing a line on the page. “First because our pilots are carefully monitored; second because this particular one is, according to his own record, very competent; and third because I know human nature. Why do you think he wants to talk to me? He’s not crazy, he wants a guaranteed deal. A million, five million—whatever. You know the real scenario as well as I do. I make the deal—that’s my part in this. He lands to collect, and then you people do your part.”
“Except he’s not after money,” the agent said immediately, as if he hadn’t even been listening. “I’m certain of that, Mr. Farraday. He wants revenge on you and—”
“Of course he wants to portray that motive.” Farraday looked at Boyce again, saw in the pained expression on the lawyer’s face that he had spoken too sharply. He went on in a more placid tone, “But why wo
uld he actually want to kill himself? Isn’t it a bit ridiculous to believe he would?”
The static buzzed softly for a half dozen seconds. Then the agent said, “You wouldn’t be willing to admit to him any guilt in this?”
Guilt? Farraday wanted to laugh. “I’m willing to offer some concessions.”
“But no confession.”
He did laugh now, a soundless snicker he couldn’t hold in. “Confession of what?”
The static buzzed again. “All right,” the agent said. “Let me explain this. The subject may well be in a delicate balance right now. Caught between following through and giving up. Letting him talk to you is extremely risky. If you treat him badly at all, his reaction might well be to remember just why he’s doing this. You must let him talk—let him tell you whatever he has to tell you, however he wants to. Don’t antagonize him by demeaning his motive, which is more than revenge. I think that, because he stayed on, agreed to work for you, he feels guilty.”
This was something new. Farraday glanced back at Boyce again. The lawyer gave a tiny shake of his head, meaning, Farraday supposed, that true or not it didn’t matter. “I understand,” Farraday said to the agent. “We’ve already decided exactly that.”
“Then that’s good,” the agent said after a moment, as if he hadn’t expected Farraday’s response. “So I also want you to understand that you must at least try to blame yourself. Take the guilt from him if you can. And then offer him an option that’s better than what he’s got. I want you to offer to meet with him, on board the plane.”
Farraday had been about to agree again—anything to get the agent to finish—but this was preposterous. “That’s not at all possible—”
“Wait!” the agent interrupted. “I’m not asking you to do it. Just offer to do it.”
“He may be asking you to lie,” Boyce whispered. “Get him to state that.”
Boyce was right. “You’re asking me to lie?” Farraday said.
“No, it’s a hypothetical situation.”
“I don’t see the difference.” Farraday did, though. No, technically he wouldn’t be lying. Too bad.
“Just tell him you’d trade yourself for the people,” the agent said now. “If he guarantees not to simply kill you. And if he says he’ll give you his word, take it. Show that you trust him. It also shows you can be trusted. If there’s one thing Pate might respond to from you, it would be that. And besides, you would meet with him, wouldn’t you? If your safety could be guaranteed?”
Farraday had written down “trust,” and now he began to draw circles around the word. Of course trust was the base ingredient. He had known that all along. “The idea here,” he said, “is that I’m worth so much that he’ll be willing to land just to make the trade.”
The agent didn’t answer at first. Then he said, “That’s right. You can explain to him just how valuable you are.”
Farraday sat back. He needed to think about this. He needed minutes with Boyce, somewhere else, not here in this room of eavesdroppers. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and now he could see them, all interested no doubt, though Curtis was at the far end of the center aisle talking to a man in a uniform—Air Force? Yes, he could make out the wings. For a moment Farraday wondered why the Air Force was involved, but then he realized they were probably going to try to get Pate to land at some nearby air base. If Pate did agree to meet him, would he also have to travel out to some godforsaken strip of concrete in the middle of the desert?
Farraday stared at the tiny green dash dragging its little block of numbers slowly across the screen in front of him. It seemed so inconsequential, and he felt suddenly ridiculous. He had meant to be on his way back to Phoenix soon and home in another hour, off on a ten-mile run. He would need that when this was finished. Maybe the room wasn’t so confining, now that he could see, but he still did not like being there. It reminded him of something—or somewhere—he did not like. An attic? Somewhere in an attic in a large house. It didn’t have the smell, but it had the boys acting like men. Not like these men, though. The memory was unpleasant but intriguing. He knew he’d recalled it before—had run his mind over it the way you might run your hands over your mother’s underthings in a bureau drawer—guiltily, with some kind of disgusting curiosity. And just as suddenly now, he shoved his mind shut on the memory. No, it was only the clutter, the organized chaos here he didn’t like, the monotonous hum of controllers talking to pilots. It gave him the sense that a frantic disorder lay just below the surface. His grandfather’s upstate New York marble quarries had always appalled him for this reason. All the finished white stone, cut into smooth slabs—that was satisfying, not the rough-hewn blocks lying in the dirty rubble on the quarry floor. He didn’t like the uncertainty that came from such disorder. He preferred careful, precise planning. His meeting notes often ran twice as long as anyone else’s. He usually memorized his speeches. If he was late to anything, it was by design. “No surprises,” he would tell his staff at the end of every planning session. “Cover all the bases.” And woe to anyone who left something to chance.
Which was why this situation infuriated him. No matter how carefully he planned, he still could not control the little people, with their private wills, their petty stubbornness and cardboard pride, mewing to get their own way. This FBI agent, these nerd controllers surrounding him. This Pate. What was he but some crackpot bastard? A boozer, probably, staring at a failed life and trying to blame it all on him, Jack Farraday. As if the whole thing were something personal. As if he gave a fuck. He’d ruined men a hundred times more important than any Pate. Deliberately. That was part of the game, and if you played you accepted losing. None of this kamikaze crap. He hated it, having to fake concern for a worm, playing it soft, as he had all morning at the pilots’ meeting. As his grandfather had always said, cold stone cut harder. His grandfather had made the family’s first fortune playing it the hard way, without compromise. Unlike Farraday’s father, who’d wanted him to be a politician, a senator, maybe even president some day. That was his father’s idea of power, crawling on your belly to get what you wanted.
But business was politics. Farraday couldn’t deny that. Even the best had to crawl once in awhile. So he would let this Emil Pate dump on him. And then he’d tell Pate how worried he was about all the rehired strikers—no lie in that, they were a constant source of trouble. He’d say he wanted to take care of them the right way. Maybe he really would toss them a bone, make the rest of the New World pilots jealous so they’d turn their heat on the old Westar bunch. Why not? It wouldn’t be his fault if Pate forced him to make some concessions.
Farraday stared again at the tiny green blip on the screen. The idea was actually intriguing. A PR plus at no real risk.
“All right, I’m willing to offer myself,” he told the agent. “Anything else?”
“Fine. Thank you, Mr. Farraday.” The agent sounded immensely relieved. “Now, here’s the way this will work. I’ll be in your other ear, giving you advice as—”
“Thank you,” Farraday cut him off. “But that won’t be necessary.” Then, before the agent could object, Farraday handed the phone to Cook. He wasn’t about to let the agent yammer at him the whole time. “Let’s do it,” he said to Curtis, who had returned. “I’m ready.”
Cook plugged his own audio cord into an overhead jack. “Okay, I’m going to try to contact him.” He keyed his mike. “New World Five-fifty-five, Albuquerque,” he transmitted.
They waited, but there was no answer. A dozen seconds passed. Farraday stared at the glowing green symbol that represented the airplane. It moved in little jumps, he noticed, one every second or so, along with its block of data, and now he noticed something else—another, fainter smudge of green, a fraction of an inch behind 555’s. It seemed to be keeping pace with it but jumping out of synch.
“What’s this?” he asked Cook, pointing to it.
Cook seemed startled. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “ —An echo, we call it. You get t
hem sometimes. This equipment’s pretty old.”
As Cook made another transmission, Farraday stared again at 555’s radar image, wondering what would cause an echo. For some reason it didn’t look like an echo.
Suddenly his headset crackled, and Farraday forgot about radar echoes. A voice said, “Yeah, Albuquerque. Triple Nickel’s on.”
It was a heavy, deep voice, and it was steeped in fatigue, no mistake about that. Farraday swiveled around and glanced back at Boyce hunched forward in his chair. Boyce nodded in return; he’d heard it too—Pate sounded worn out, demoralized. And ready to give up?
“Mr. Pate,” Cook transmitted, “John Farraday is standing by to talk to you.”
They waited for a response, but none came.
Cook shrugged. “Go ahead, Mr. Farraday. He’s on.”
Farraday took a breath, then squeezed the key attached to the microphone’s cord. “This is John Farraday speaking.” He waited, but there was no reply.
“Try again,” Cook urged.
“This is John H. Farraday,” he transmitted. “Do you hear me, Mr. Pate?”
“I hear you,” Pate answered dully. Then he was silent again. Farraday adjusted the headset. Pate’s slow responses were irritating, but they had to mean he was already on the verge of giving up.
“Mr. Pate,” he transmitted. “Do you remember the old proverb about getting a mule’s attention? Well, I’m the mule, stubborn as hell. But I’ve got to admit, you’ve hit me right between the eyes with a two-by-four, Mr. Pate.”
Again there was no answer. Glancing down at the word “objective” on his pad, Farraday pressed the microphone switch again.
“Mr. Pate, we’d very much like to work out an arrangement that would allow you to land and save yourself and the rest of the people on board.”
A dozen more seconds passed. Then Pate said, “Talk to me Jack.”
So it was Jack to his Mister Pate, was it? Farraday suppressed his resentment. At least Pate was ready to deal. In fact it had come so easily he was even a little disappointed. No venting first? All he had to do now was lay out the terms and get this over with? It pleased him, too, that the FBI agent was apparently wrong. Pate wasn’t needing a confession from him. Still, a little wouldn’t hurt.
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