Skyhammer

by Richard Hilton

  “Mr. Pate,” he transmitted, “I’m taking full responsibility for this. I’m to blame. Do you see what I’m saying? I’m fully prepared to reevaluate the whole seniority system, bring in guarantees for the rehires. I’ll pledge that to you, if you’ll just land the plane and let the people get off. That’s all you have to do.”

  He released his switch. The headset crackled once and then there was only static again. A half minute passed. What was Pate up to now?

  Curtis, who was on the headset to Washington, leaned over. “L’Hommedieu wants to talk to you.”

  Farraday shook his head.

  “Pledge?” Pate said suddenly.

  “Right,” Farraday transmitted. “I’m very serious about this. I never give my word on anything unless I intend to back it up.”

  “And how’re you going to back it up, Jack?” Pate answered. “How will you set things right?”

  “How?” What did Pate want, a full-dress report? That was ridiculous. Far too complex. He wouldn’t even understand the kind of massaging the stockholders would require, not to mention the bend-overs the replacement pilots would want, or the financial gymnastics his bankers would need to perform. Besides they weren’t really going to do it anyway.

  “How’s it possible?” Pate said, as if he knew it wasn’t. Farraday stared at the green dash. This was ridiculous. Why was he even talking to a hijacker?

  Curtis leaned over from the next station again and said. “L’Hommedieu says you’ve got to move toward the hostage-trade offer now. Or you’ll lose him.”

  Farraday nodded, keyed his mike. “I will meet with you, face to face, on that airplane. That’s how serious I am. We let the people off, and you hold me hostage. Together we can reverse everything. Do you see how this could work? You trust me, and I’ll trust you?”

  “And all I have to do is land?” Pate answered immediately. And this time he sounded interested, even anxious.

  “Yes,” Farraday said.

  “You’d personally guarantee that if I landed there’d be no SWAT team, just you and me, talking it out?”

  “My absolute word on it,” Farraday said. “With me personally as your hostage. The board of directors, everyone, would do whatever you wanted.”

  Pate was silent. Boyce leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t forget the personal restitution. Mention it for the record.”

  “One more thing, Emil,” Farraday transmitted. “I know you’ll need—shall we call it personal restitution? I just want you to know that I’m prepared to pay a sizable amount. Just remember, my main concern is to get those passengers down safely. So when you’re ready, you name a price.”

  Pate stayed silent. Thinking up a figure, no doubt. That was good. Better that the figure grow irresistibly high. They had plenty of time now. Farraday swiveled his chair to look for Curtis, but this time another man was on the phone to Washington. A big, burly bushy-haired man glaring at him.

  “Who are you?” Farraday asked.

  The man still glared, then said, “Kelly. I know the hijacker personally.” Then he listened into the phone again, as Farraday waited, studying him. A typical Mick, blunt-nosed, big-chested. Hostile as hell. Ex-Westar? Kelly suddenly held out the phone. “L’Hommedieu wants to talk to you.”

  But just then Pate spoke again. “You’re taking a little ransom money, right?”

  “Yes, if you want to call it that.” Farraday sat back. It was so easy, just like the closing of a sale, and Pate had gone for it. He smiled at Boyce and Masters, even at Cook. Now Kelly tried to get him to take the call from L’Hommedieu again, but Farraday waved it off. He didn’t want to talk with the agent now, not until after Pate spoke. But why didn’t Pate answer? What was holding him up? Farraday felt his face go hot. It was insulting, this whole damn thing. A muscle in his cheek twitched, and he put his hand up to stop it. What was the big deal, he wondered. They’d get Pate down all right. And when they did...

  Kelly put his hand over the phone and turned to Farraday again, wanting to relay the message from the FBU agent. But at that moment, Farraday’s headset crackled, and he waved Kelly off again.

  “Jack?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pate.”

  Once again Pate failed to answer. Farraday kept his hand up, warning Kelly not to speak. Then Pate said quietly, “Thanks, Jack. You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

  Farraday’s hand fell. A chill slid up his spine. “Excuse me?”

  “Shoving me all this crap,” Pate answered, his voice still as quiet. “I know why I’m doing this now. Put everything back the way it was? You forget, I trusted you once already. We all did. You stabbed us right square in the back. Your word. Your word’s as worthless as New World’s stock will be.”

  The tone of Pate’s voice had not changed at all, yet there was no mistaking the menace, the change in his attitude. Farraday stared at the airliner’s blip, his face suddenly wet with sweat, his mind caught between anger and confusion. What was Pate up to? The deal was done. Why did he want to vent now? Farraday keyed his mike. “Mr. Pate,” he said, “I’m very sorry you feel the way you do. Especially since killing yourself and those hundred and thirty people won’t get even with me.”

  “I’m already a dead man,” Pate answered immediately. “I killed myself a couple days ago. That doesn’t matter. I want you to know something. You’re a dead man too. Ruined.”

  Farraday had taken out his handkerchief to wipe his face, but he waited for Pate to speak again. What could Pate possibly be talking about? He was a raving maniac.

  “I’m forty minutes out of Sky Harbor,” Pate said, his voice hardly more than a whisper now. “That’s it, Jack—just enough time to evacuate the New World concourse.”

  Static hummed in Farraday’s ear. Pate said nothing more. Now the black screen in front of Farraday seemed like a vacuum, endlessly deep, absorbing light—all except for the tiny green mark floating on it. What did Pate mean? Sky Harbor? Farraday’s heart held still. Then, for a moment, he wanted to laugh again. This really was absurd. Simply absurd. And so obvious. Why hadn’t he thought of it? Why hadn’t anybody? Even Pate, a goddamn pilot, knew the New World headquarters wasn’t that important. New World didn’t even own the building.

  “Good Lord,” someone behind him whispered, “he’s going to hit the airport.”

  “... and it’s not just the planes,” Pate was saying now.”... the gates, the jetways, luggage trucks, the whole shooting match. Can you survive losing all that? There’s no way you can cover this one. You’ll fry for it. Because it’s your fault. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

  The static crackled in Farraday’s cars, then hissed steadily. Pate was waiting for his response, and he had to come back with something. But they had made a huge mistake in completely forgetting to consider what they would do if Pate weren’t bluffing. Say something!. Farraday thought. His mind went completely blank, though, as blank as it sometimes became in those moments after he had run for miles, had run through the pain, the oxygen depletion, and into that emptiness that filled with euphoria. Except this time there was no euphoria, only a swelling numbness.

  And now Boyce was tapping his shoulder, trying to whisper something to him, leaning so close Farraday choked on the antiseptic scent of his aftershave. What the hell was he saying—they’d gotten word the Air Force was involved? What kind of idiot did Boyce take him for? He’d seen the officer, already figured that out, for Christ’s sake! Ahead of Boyce as usual.

  Farraday swung around. “Get out of my face,” he hissed. “Or I’ll crush you.”

  “They’ve launched a fighter,” Boyce whispered, then fell back staring at him as though he had gone crazy. And now the whole room was full of the same eyes—drilling into him, cornering him, as if they all knew he had no way out. When there had to be one. There was always a way out. He only had to think, put it all together. What were the options? They could evacuate in time, maybe, but could they move the planes? Some, perhaps, but there wouldn’t be enough tugs to
do it in forty minutes. They’d have to get the people off first. No matter what happened, there’d be a spate of lawsuits ...

  Suddenly Farraday’s mind stopped racing. What had Boyce said? He swiveled, found the man in the Air Force uniform, standing closer now, unable to stay back. What was he doing there? A full colonel, he saw now. A high-ranking officer. Why? Farraday stared at the man, locked eyes with him. Instantly, the colonel looked away.

  And then Farraday knew. He understood what Boyce had meant. Staring at the faint “echo” jumping along behind the green mark of 555, he put it all together. There was another option. One they hadn’t told him about. Why hadn’t they? Because they’d known it was the option that would save him. They’d wanted him pleading for his life, unaware of the last resort. But he didn’t need to beg after all. It wasn’t going to cost him twenty planes, a whole concourse. It would only cost one plane.

  Farraday keyed his mike once more. “Pate?” he said quietly. “There’s nothing I can do?”

  “You’ve already done it,” Pate answered. “See you in Hell, ‘Ripper.’”

  “Okay.” Farraday smiled at the tiny green dash on the screen in front of him. A final remark occurred to him. He couldn’t resist. “Have a nice day, Mr. Pate.”

  There was no response. The static hissed in Farraday’s ear again. He listened for a few more seconds, and then he placed the mike down on the console. He rose from his chair and slipped off his headset. With a perfectly measured shrug of hopelessness, he turned to Curtis and Kelly. Then, smiling at the Air Force officer, he said, “It’s out of my hands. Do whatever you have to do.”

  SIXTEEN

  Aviation Command Center

  20:22 GMT/15:22 EST

  Brian L’Hommedieu had comprehended immediately the magnitude his failure—the failure of all of them—to anticipate the real target. They’d focused so intently on the question of Pate’s resolve that they’d forgotten to consider his threat. If he’d planned it this way, the plan had worked perfectly. Now they had mere minutes to evacuate the airport—not nearly enough time. Was it possible, though, that Pate didn’t realize they would shoot him down? Maybe, but it was also possible he was aware of that option and considered it a second-best finale. This they might never know for certain, however. There was little chance that anyone would ever talk to Pate again.

  The ACC was quiet now, all of them waiting except Searing, who was on the line to Sky Harbor, scowling at what he was hearing. As Brian L’Hommedieu watched the principal’s face, he could feel the pit of his stomach deepening, sucking down into a vortex. Not simply because Pate had upped the ante, but also because Jack Farraday had betrayed them. He hadn’t said anything to make Emil Pate feel less guilty. And somehow Farraday had figured out their final option and reacted exactly as L’Hommedieu had feared he might: he had quit trying to negotiate. According to Kelly, he had simply walked out of the control room, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and would have left the center completely had he not been ordered to remain on the premises.

  Maybe it didn’t matter anyway; not after what Pate had said, but L’Hommedieu wouldn’t let the treachery go unre-ported, for whatever it was worth. And neither would Kelly, he knew, no matter what influence Farraday had.

  L’Hommedieu lifted his chin from his hand and looked up at the clock. He didn’t have time to think about Farraday now. He had to concentrate on Emil Pate. How smart Pate had been, withholding his real intention until there wasn’t time to respond. It was a classic technique of torture, in fact. The victim prepared himself for one threat, then suddenly found himself facing a different one, and the surprise, the jolt of fear that came with it, broke down his resistance, his ability to think rationally. Had Pate done this, knowing the result? His military training had no doubt taught him such a technique, but ...L’Hommedieu turned back the train of thought and found himself realizing they could still do the same thing to Pate. Maybe he did not yet realize that they would shoot him down. What if they showed him the chase plane? Would he panic? No, L’Hommedieu didn’t think so, but he might be scared into contacting them again, giving them one more chance. And maybe if Jim Kelly talked to him... L’Hommedieu picked up the phone, punched in the line to Albuquerque and asked for Kelly. In a moment he was on.

  “What if we call up the chase plane and tell it to show itself? Let’s see if Pate won’t get back on to us when he sees it.”

  “That’s a damn good idea,” Kelly answered. “Hang on.”

  As L’Hommedieu waited. Searing approached him.

  “Sky Harbor’s not at all happy about this. I talked to the security deputy director. They’ve got plans for evacuation all right, but none for any thirty-minute fire drills, which is about all the time they’ll have. Plus, get this: New World’s stalling. Can you believe that? They’ve started rerouting flights in, but they’ve got seventeen planes sitting at the B Concourse with people boarding right now! I just told Travis, find anyone in charge of New World operations out there and ride his butt, and then let me get on.” Searing was fuming now, his big hands clenched. “It’s Farraday, that sonofabitch. He wants to make sure we do it.”

  L’Hommedieu shook his head, wanting to offer something hopeful. But Kelly was back on. “Okay, Homm. They’ll pass underneath, come up directly in front of him so the cabin won’t see them. We’ll know in a few minutes if this’ 11 work.”

  “If it does,” L’Hommedieu said, “I want you talking to him. Tell him the whole airport’s already been evacuated. Tell him we guessed his intentions, that there aren’t any planes or people left, just the buildings—they don’t belong to Farraday. He’s got nothing to destroy.”

  “If he doesn’t believe it?”

  L’Hommedieu thought. “I don’t know. I might just break in on you then, try to make a final plea.”

  “Roger,” Kelly said. “Okay, we’ve got Shadow moving up.” A minute passed. “There,” he said. “Shadow’s on the point. He can see them now.”

  Searing had fitted on his headset again. Both of them waited for Pate’s response. They heard nothing. The static clicked intermittently. Almost a whole minute passed. Then abruptly the static hissed a lower pitch.

  “All right, boys.” Pate said. “I see your Eagle.”

  “Emil, listen,” Kelly answered immediately. “They already figured you might head for the airport. They’ve cleared it out. So there’s nothing left that’ll get Farraday.”

  They waited again. L’Hommedieu watched the clock as a half minute passed.

  “Emil, you still there?” Kelly said.

  L’Hommedieu watched the second hand sweep through another half minute. He was not a religious man, but he prayed now, silently, that Pate would give up. And yet, he thought, what would it mean? There were no guarantees, Searing had said. And he was right. It didn’t matter if Pate said he would give up. How could they believe him? L’Hommedieu looked up at Searing and saw that the principal was staring back at him, thinking the same thing.

  Then they heard the crackle as Pate keyed his mike. “Okay, Kelly,” he said. “I’ll land her in Phoenix.”

  Both Travis and Lofton let out whoops. But L’Hommedieu sat back with a sigh of utter frustration. It was like being caught in a maze where every corridor led back to the same dead end.

  “We’ve got to get him to agree to land somewhere else,” Searing said. “An isolated field. And force him to do it.”

  Now L’Hommcdieu’s frustration vanished. Yes, a vacant field would work. If Pate agreed, they’d know he was giving up. And he would agree. He’d have to. L’Hommedieu sat forward again and quickly explained their new concern to Kelly.

  “There’s an airstrip down at Marana,” Kelly said. “South of Phoenix. The Air Force uses it to park obsolete aircraft.”

  “Al1 right,” L’Hommedieu said. “Let’s send him there.”

  “Negative on Phoenix, Emil,” Kelly radioed. “You’ve got to land at the Pinal County Airpark. Stand by for a heading.”

  T
hey waited through another ten seconds, but Pate didn’t respond.

  “Go ahead and give him the heading,” L’Hommedieu said. He listened as the controller transmitted the vector. Then there was silence again.

  “Emil?” Kelly said. “Did you get that?”

  “Sorry,” Pate answered finally. “No can do, pardner. I’m going on in to Phoenix.”

  L’Hommedieu put his hands over his face, stunned by the words. Didn’t Pate realize their threat was real? “Tell him,” L’Hommedieu whispered. “Tell him we’ll shoot him down.”

  “They’ll shoot you down, buddy,” Kelly radioed.

  “I said I’d land,” Pate answered immediately. “Besides, you need presidential approval for that, and I don’t think you’ll get it because of who’s on board. You knew about him, didn’t you? Senator Sanford?”

  “We’ve already got approval,” Kelly lied. “Come on, Emil. Don’t go down like this.”

  “Got to.”

  Pate was silent. They heard his mike click. L’Hommedieu knew intuitively that the man was trying to think of some final thing to say. He pressed his own handset switch, cutting in on Kelly. His mind raced, searching for the right words.

  “Emil, Katherine was right,” he said quietly, hoping Pate would listen. “You can’t let your pride do this to you. Only if you go through with it—then you’re condemned.”

  “L’Hommedieu?” Pate said.

  “You did nothing wrong. And you aren’t Coyote, Emil. And Jack Farraday isn’t the only monster. There’ll be another and—”

  He was stopped by the shriek of Pate’s microphone switch. “Listen!” Pate shouted. “New World Five fifty-five is proceeding to Phoenix via the Foss! Two. I’m out of three one zero. Shoot me down if you have to.”

  And then he was gone. “He’s switched off again,” Kelly said after a minute. “I think maybe that’s it, Homm.”