Christy blinked, more bewildered than ever. “Okay,” she said finally. “You don’t need anything? Aspirin?” She darted another look at Crane.
“Just a few minutes. I’m okay, really.”
But after Christy had gone back to the last row, where Lori was, Ponti felt the fear pressing down again like a weight, making her weak. How could just the two of them do what had to be done?.
“Do we tell them?” she whispered, nodding toward the other flight attendants.
Crane shook his head. “No. I don’t think she could cover like you can. And we can’t trust any passengers either.”
“But we’ve got to get everyone buckled in.”
“Impossible. The pilot’s the only one who can turn on the sign.”
Ponti thought. How could they get Emil to do that without raising his suspicions? She had an idea. “I’ll take care of it. Give me a minute to brief Christy and Lori. I’ll be right back.”
But Crane grabbed her elbow again. “No! We can’t risk letting them know. And besides, there isn’t time.”
“It’s okay,” Ponti said. “I’m just going to tell them to expect the seatbelt sign. This is an old trick. It’s just never been used for this reason before. But don’t worry, it’ll work.”
“Crane kept his hold on her, though. “What about mace? You carry it?”
Ponti shook her head. A lot of flight attendants did carry it, even though it was against regulations. But she wasn’t about to ask the others. “We’ll have to use the fire extinguisher.”
She started forward, remembered Peach Pants, and went back get his Tanqueray and soda, which she delivered so quickly he had no time to thank her. Then, stepping into the first class cabin, she pulled the curtain that separated it from coach.
She made a quick check of the passengers: everyone was quiet. The businessmen were still asleep. Mrs. Howard, too. So was Senator Sanford’s aide. Only the senator was awake, reading a New World magazine. He glanced up as Ponti stepped past him.
She smiled, her heart pounding. “Everything okay here?”
“Just fine, thanks.” He returned to the magazine.
Not waiting for him to change his mind, Ponti went quickly to the front of the cabin. On the forward wall, by the entry door, was an interphone panel. She removed the handset and punched the cockpit call button.
“Yeah, cockpit.” Emil answered immediately, his voice abrupt, angry. Suspicious? Ponti couldn’t help but wonder. She swallowed hard and forced herself to sound normal.
“Emil? It’s Mariella again. Sorry to bother you but there’s a couple in the aft lav. They’ve been in there about fifteen minutes and ...”
“You want the seatbelt sign?”
“Could you? We’ve got a line forming.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Okay, thanks, Emil.” For a moment the cabin surrounding her seemed to grow smaller, shrinking as if she were Alice in Wonderland. This couldn’t be happening, she thought. Emil couldn’t possibly intend to kill her and everyone else. And she couldn’t be about to help someone try to kill him. She wanted desperately to say something more, tell him she knew everything, that it couldn’t happen, it just couldn’t. His name was on the tip of her tongue. He’d listen to her.
But a hand touched her shoulder. David Crane had come up behind her.
“I’m going into the lav,” he whispered, his eyes stark with intent. “Give a little knock when you’re ready.”
Nodding, Ponti replaced the phone. “I’ve just got to make the announcement,” she said. Now there was only sadness inside her. But she couldn’t allow herself to feel even that.
Punching in the intercom, she made the routine announcement, asking passengers to observe the seatbelt sign. Then she stepped back into the coach and relayed her message about severe turbulence to Lori. The flight attendants were to make certain all passengers were belted and then strap themselves in as well.
Ponti returned to first class and made a similar check of her passengers. Then she stepped back into the forward entry nook and leaned down and opened the compartment beneath her folding jumpseat. Strapped to the compartment wall, next to a portable oxygen generator, was the bright red halon fire extinguisher. She checked the gauge: the unit was fully pressurized. Carefully, she unstrapped it and lifted it out. There was a small lead seal on the top. She broke it, then stood the canister in the corner formed by the cabin wall and the wall of the forward lavatory. Staring at it, she was sure the plan wouldn’t work. There had to be something else to do, some other way. She leaned around the corner of the wall and stared at the senator’s brawny shoulders, wondering if they should tell him. He was a war hero, he’d know what to do. But suddenly he glanced up at her and smiled, as if flattered to have caught her looking at him. Ponti pulled her head back. No—no time to explain, she whispered to herself. No time left. David Crane could do it. He would have to. She stepped out of the niche. None of the other first class passengers noticed her. Tightening her fist, she raised it to the door of the lav, breathed in deeply, and then tapped against the door.
On the other side of the door, David Crane was waiting. He had already separated the cockpit key from the other keys on his key chain and placed it in his left pocket. In his right pocket now was his shoelace garrote. He checked his watch, then slid the latch on the door and opened it. Mariella had moved into the galleyway across the aisle. Crane hoped he didn’t look as terrified as she did. He forced a smile and a nod of reassurance. She nodded too and looked down at the fire extinguisher and then back at him.
Crane nodded again, and Mariella reached down and picked it up. He had the key in his hand now, but still inside his pocket. He could feel the aircraft’s pitch changing, the sound of the wind sliding down to a lower level. They had to be approaching ten thousand feet, he realized. Pate was slowing the craft to the mandatory speed limit of 250 knots. Every second meant less distance from the ground. There was no more time to wait. He looked at Mariella again, saw in her eyes the great sadness he felt. The hopelessness. On the other side of the cockpit door was another human being, a man he had never met, had never known existed until a few minutes ago. He didn’t want to kill him. But there was no choice really, when it came to killing someone. This was what they’d taught him in basic training. When it came time to kill a man, you had to believe that you and he were tied by destiny, that he was hanging by a rope, dangling over the abyss and that to save yourself you had to cut the rope.
It seemed much too quiet now. Crane wished the MD-80’s forward cabin zones were not so well insulated from the air noise—that the engines were not so far back. Pate would surely hear the key in the lock. He would be waiting on the other side with his pistol, if that was what he had. But no, Crane had been in that seat enough times. He knew Pate wouldn’t hear anything until the door slid open. Then he would have to reach for his gun. It would take him a couple of seconds. That was all the time they’d need. Surely.
Crane stepped across to the other side and whispered to Mariella, “I’m going to put the key in and turn it and open the door. All in one motion if I can. Have that thing ready. And for godsakes, don’t hesitate. Not even for a second.” He wanted to say something more, some word of encouragement, but any brave words right now would be a lie. Besides, he had to act now. His heart was pounding so hard it made his throat ache.
The door was a bifold, opening from left to right along a hinge at the midpoint. It folded outward to prohibit someone from breaking through easily from the outside. With his left hand Crane took the key from his left pocket. He took the garrote from his other pocket and uncoiled it so that it dangled down loose and he would be able to take hold of the loose end as quickly as possible. For an instant a thousand thoughts spilled into his head-but before he could even grab hold of one they drained out again—-all but one, a single, simple impulse.
He pushed the key into the lock. And then, turning it, he gave the door a hard pull to the right.
But it didn’t move.
He’d pulled before the mechanism had time to turn. Crane let his breath out in a hiss of exasperation. He’d failed before he could even begin. But he couldn’t give up now. He turned the key ferociously and this time felt the mechanism relent. He yanked the door violently. It popped open, and for the first time Crane saw his adversary, Emil Pate, turning in the right seat, his head twisting around to see. For a frozen second Crane stared at the mask of shock and fury on the man’s face.
In the next instant a roar filled his ears. A torrent of white fog rushed into the cockpit, engulfing Pate. Crane could still see him, but he was ghostlike now, turning away again. Incredibly, he was reacting exactly as he should; instead of going for any weapon, he had already pulled his oxygen mask down from its retainer above the side window. Even as Crane stumbled forward, his eyes stinging from the halon fog, filling with tears, Pate slipped the mask over his face. Crane was nearly blinded by the gas, but he managed to get his right hand on the other man’s throat while with his left he tried to rip the mask loose.
But Pate’s left hand came up, latching onto Crane’s wrist like a vise and twisting it savagely. Crane’s grip failed. He had to get the garrote in place. But he’d lost it. He had only his bare hands. And suddenly Pate leaned forward and twisted his shoulders and Crane’s right hand lost its grip completely. Before he could react he saw that Pate had reached for something. His right hand came up again, and to Crane’s horror against the bright windshield was the black silhouette of a pistol. As Pate shifted to turn, the gun was in profile for a moment, its bulky silencer clearly visible. Then it moved downward again, the outline blurring as the barrel swung around, foreshortening, the shape collapsing, the round hole in its center coming to bear.
Crane reached for it, knowing he had to get his hand around the barrel, turn it away. But in that instant he felt the presence of someone behind him, and then an arm slapped across his chest, and he was pulled violently off his feet, backward, through the cockpit entryway. Whoever it was was attacking him! The arm slid upward around his throat. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He heard Mariella scream. There were screams rising from the cabin beyond.
Then came the sharp “thunk” of the silenced weapon and immediately the arm across his throat slipped free. Somehow Crane had kept his feet, but he stumbled now and fell into the galley way to the right of the cockpit door, his head banging into the wall with stunning pain. He lay there, gasping for breath, his eyes burning from the halon. But he forced them open, and through stinging tears he saw the man who’d attacked him, kneeling in the aisle, gripping his wounded arm in agony. He was the big, silver-haired man Crane had noticed sitting in first class. In an instant Crane knew what had happened. The man had thought he was a hijacker.
“No,” he whispered, his throat too bruised to speak.
But the man’s head shifted from him. Instinctively, Crane turned and, squinting upward, saw a dark form looming against the bright fog still settling through the cockpit doorway. It was Pate, the fully-stretched hose of his oxygen mask pulling at his head as he peered into the dimmer light of the forward cabin. Crane saw the pistol, still in Pate’s right hand, saw the barrel move smoothly around and come to a stop pointing directly at his head.
He closed his eyes. So this was how it would end. He heard the sharp crack and he winced, expecting beyond all reason for the instant blackness to hurt.
There was pain, but it came from a glancing blow to his thigh, and he realized that the shout of agony he heard was not his own. He was still alive. His eyes popped open to see Pate retreating into the cockpit. Across the aisle, Mariella met his astonished stare with her own, the heavy halon canister still clenched in her hands.
It was Pate’s pistol that had struck his thigh. Mariella had brought the fire extinguisher down on his arm just before he could fire. The gun had slid under him, and now Crane’s hand closed on it. Pate was frantically trying to shut the cockpit door. But it wouldn’t close. The other man had kicked out his leg and wedged his foot into the opening. Thank God, Crane thought, the man had figured out the situation. Now his pain-filled eyes met Crane’s and darted forward. Pate had disappeared.
Grasping a galley compartment handle for support, Crane hauled himself to his feet. He seized the door and slammed it open so forcefully it rebounded half-closed, but he saw that Pate had returned to the right-hand seat. He pulled the door aside again, more deliberately, trying at the same time to move into firing position and aim the pistol.
Pate had seen him, though. Suddenly Crane was knocked off his feet as the MD-80 pitched up violently. He fell backward, against the forward lavatory wall, and then bounced into Ma-riella, knocking her to the floor.
As he struggled to his feet again, a shrill, warbling sound erupted from the cockpit, a warning that the autopilot had been disengaged. This time, Crane remained well aft of the entryway, and, bracing himself against the lavatory wall, he tried once more to aim the pistol. He couldn’t manage it. Pate was maneuvering the plane too violently. Now he saw that Pate was advancing the throttles, increasing airspeed. Through the windshield loomed the familiar outline of Camelback Mountain. Beyond it lay Phoenix.
The plane pitched up again. Then it pushed over and pitched to the left. The passengers were screaming. The negative gravity lifted Crane off the floor, but miraculously he came down on his feet. When he regained his balance he could see that they’d passed east of the mountain. But they were no longer aimed at Sky Harbor. Ahead of them lay the Arizona State University campus, and, directly ahead, between two gigantic outcrops of rust-colored rock, he saw Sun Devil Stadium, resplendent in the maroon and gold of seventy thousand fans.
Crane couldn’t be sure of his aim. He didn’t even know if the gun would fire. But he couldn’t wait any longer. There was no time left. So he pointed the weapon as best he could and pulled the trigger.
Shadow
When 555 had first pitched up violently, O’Brien was taken by surprise. Now he worked to follow the airliner as it alternately banked left and right, pulled up and pushed over. Curtis’s voice crackled in his ear.
“Shadow, Albuquerque. What’s going on? We show increase in airspeed!”
“All hell’s busted loose!” O’Brien shouted back. “There was a major pitch-up and now someone’s throwing the thing all over the sky!” To keep up with 555’s latest maneuver, he’d had to push his stick forward hard, lifting himself and Nesbitt violently against their shoulder harnesses. “Center,” he transmitted breathlessly, “he’s turned away from the airport. He’s headed more to the south.”
New World 555
The first shot had shattered an engine r.p.m. gauge, just to the left of Pate’s elbow. Without thinking he’d pulled the aircraft up sharply again. He’d held the climb a moment too long, however. His assailant fired again, and this time the shot tore into his left shoulder, the .22 Hollowpoint bursting like white-hot fire and spraying a cloud of reddish-pink mist against the instruments in front of him. He recoiled, groaning at the pain, shocked by what had happened. Then a blinding rage filled him. This was why they hadn’t shot him down, and he had failed to foresee it. How incredibly stupid he was! Through his teeth, Fate groaned. He would not let his own weakness win. He was too close now. But where was the goddamn airport? He pushed the nose over again, crying out as the negative gravity pulled up on his arm.
The airport was not there. His heading had wandered; he was too far east. In front of him instead were two huge, rust-colored hills, jutting up out of the fiat valley . .. And between the hills—he knew it as soon as he saw it—was the Arizona State football stadium, the near rim of it opening to show a confusion of color. He stared, seized by panic. But just as suddenly the panic released him. It was Saturday, he realized. There was a football game in progress... thousands of spectators who didn’t even know what was approaching in the sky to the north ... thousands who didn’t care that he was about to die for them, who wouldn’t even fight back and kill the thing that was consuming them.
>
Instantly, the rage rolled over him again. Darkness fell, shutting out all thoughts but one: He had to finish this. Make his final leap. Climb up and do it. He rammed the throttles forward to their stops and pulled back hard on the yoke. The airliner’s nose came up sharply, the g-force pushing him down into his seat, tearing at his wounded arm. He clenched his teeth against the pain. He only needed a few more seconds.
The man behind him would be regaining his balance, though, aiming the pistol. Pate pushed the control column forward again, as hard as he could. The negative gravity nearly floated him out of his seat, but he hooked his feet under the rudder pedals and held on. His left arm swung up, and the pain made him shout. But now he hauled back on the column, brought the nose up sharply once more, into a twenty-degree climb this time. He pulled back harder, until there was nothing but sky in the windshield. The airspeed was decreasing through 280 knots, but he was nearly back to ten thousand feet. He rotated the yoke full left, all the way to its stop. The airliner responded, rolling in the same direction. He could hear the passengers in the cabin scream in unison as they experienced the sensation of riding in an aircraft being rolled completely and violently over onto its back.
Albuquerque Center
“He’s climbing again,” O’Brien radioed. “Something’s going on. I’m going up with him.”
The center was silent now. Everyone there was holding his breath, staring at the two glowing blips on the screen. The radio speaker emitted another crackle as Shadow transmitted again.
“What’s he doing now? Jesus Christ!”
“What?” Curtis shouted into his mike.
“Center, he’s—rolling it! He’s got it completely inverted!”
“Shadow! Shadow!” Curtis broke in.
“It looks like ... Oh, Christ! He’s aiming for the stadium!”
“What stadium?”
“ASU, man!” O’Brien’s voice had risen an octave. “Oh, Christ, he’s going down, Center. He’s crashing it.”
Skyhammer Page 27
