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Praise for the Writing of John J. Nance
“King of the modern-day aviation thriller.” —Publishers Weekly
“Nance is a wonderful storyteller.” —Chicago Tribune
Final Approach
“A taut high-tech mystery that could have been written only by an airline industry insider.” —New York Times–bestselling author Stephen Coonts
Scorpion Strike
“Gripping.” —Seattle Post-Intelligencer
Phoenix Rising
“Harrowing … Nance delivers suspense and smooth writing. A classy job.” —The New York Times Book Review
Pandora’s Clock
“A ticking time bomb of suspense.” —Chicago Tribune
“A combination of The Hot Zone and Speed.” —USA Today
Medusa’s Child
“So compelling it’s tough to look away.” —People
The Last Hostage
“A thrilling ride … [Will] keep even the most experienced thriller addicts strapped into their seats for the whole flight.” —People
Blackout
“A high tension, white knuckle thriller … Joltingly scary.” —New York Post
Turbulence
“Mesmerizing in-flight details [and] a compelling cast of realistic characters … once again prove John J. Nance ‘the king of the modern-day aviation thriller’.” —Publishers Weekly
Skyhook
“Readers are in for death-defying plane rides, lively dialogue, and realistic characters who survive crises with courage and humor.” —Associated Press
On Shaky Ground: America’s Earthquake Alert
“Gripping! Breathlessly unrolls a succession of disasters.… If you want a literary equivalent of the quake experience, On Shaky Ground is the book for you.” —San Francisco Examiner & Chronicle
Phoenix Rising
John J. Nance
There are many invincible, intelligent women in this world who, like Elizabeth Sterling, have survived terrible adversity with both their
dignity and femininity intact.
This work is dedicated to two of them:
Patricia Ann Davenport,
my long-time business partner and executive assistant,
and
Mary Carolyn Carmichael,
my sister, and a fellow Texas lawyer.
PROLOGUE
Tuesday, February 14, St. Valentine’s Day
Elizabeth Sterling woke in a panic with her heart racing and the distant roar of surf in her ears. In the darkness she grasped frantically for the fading image before her, trying to hold on to the tranquil feeling that had enveloped her so completely mere seconds before.
But the warmth was slipping away rapidly—and so was he, the man who had been with her on the beach. She watched him race away, recognizing slowly that he was only a fleeting character in a disturbingly sensual dream that evaporated with the suddenness of a slammed door, leaving her alone and empty again.
Surrounded by darkness, she fought to clear the mental cobwebs and locate reality. In his place now was only the same background roar that sounded like surf, tinged with the rich aroma of new and expensive fabrics. She was in a comfortable bed—alone. That much was clear. But where was that bed?
“Mom? Are you awake?”
Kelly’s sleepy voice floated in from somewhere above in the darkness, bringing Elizabeth’s memory with it.
That background roar wasn’t surf, she realized. It was high-speed air passing just outside their window.
“Cover your eyes.”
Elizabeth groped for a switch, flooding the lower regions of their small cubicle with light as Kelly lay unseen above in the upper bunk. Squinting, Elizabeth tried to read the tiny, numberless dial on her watch. Although the small hands seemed to show a few minutes past 2:00 A.M., she felt as if she’d been asleep much longer. Her subconscious had been lulled by the sounds of the slipstream at 39,000 feet as their airborne bedroom sped through the night toward the mainland of the United States.
“Where are we?” Kelly asked.
“Over the Pacific and at least seven hours out.” They were supposed to arrive in Seattle, she recalled, at 9:30 A.M.
“Were you having another nightmare, Mom?”
“No.” Elizabeth remembered the man on the beach and smiled to herself. It definitely hadn’t been a nightmare.
“You’ve been real tense, Mom, and that’s when you get them.”
“I’m fine, Kelly. Are you okay, though?”
“I think I was having one of your bad dreams. I woke up falling.”
“Try to get back to sleep, honey.”
There was a singular murmur of assent from her fourteen-year-old daughter and, within a few minutes, the sound of gentle snoring from overhead. Elizabeth smiled and leaned back on one elbow, trying to recapture the feelings of pleasure she’d felt when she snuggled into this gilded cocoon after takeoff, luxuriating in the opulence of the compartment and stretching her legs against the crisp percale sheets with the Pan Am logo.
I’d better wake up. I promised Ron Lamb I’d meet him at 3:00 A.M. Seattle time, in the upper lounge.
The mattress was seven feet long—more than enough for her five-foot-six-inch height—and three feet wide, with an identical bed just above. The compartment itself was eighteen inches wider than the beds—just enough extra room for the occupant to stand comfortably between the sliding compartment door and the edges of the beds at night—each of which had privacy curtains. During the day, the upper bed retracted neatly into the ceiling while the lower one split into two plush, first-class seats facing each other in the private compartment.
Unlike the railroad Pullman cars of decades past, which featured beds separated from an open corridor by curtains, each of the roomettes was separated from the adjacent aisle by a wall of space-age glass that could be turned electronically opaque with the flick of a switch.
Not since the days of propeller transports had an airline embraced the concept of private airborne compartments for sleeping and sitting, but the startling new Pan Am design had garnered worldwide attention—and full bookings. Equipped with television, air-to-ground telephone, and an intercom, the compartment’s only flaw was a traditional one: the communal bathroom and airborne showers were located where the first-class galley used to be, at the foot of the circular stairway leading to the upper deck.
A small concession at worst, Elizabeth figured, as she pulled on the gold-monogrammed terrycloth robe Pan Am had supplied, and opened the sliding door, intent on padding barefoot down the plush carpet to the bathroom. It was, indeed, the only way to fly—and Elizabeth felt a flash of pride that she had been a part of making it happen.
She glanced again at her watch.
Oh Lord, it’s not two, it’s after four! I’m late!
A raven-haired senior flight attendant was waiting for Elizabeth when she emerged from the gold-trimmed bathroom fifteen minutes later and rushed back to her compartment to dress. The inaugural flight of Pan Am’s Seattle-Tokyo route was filled with expensively dressed guests and dignitaries, but in terms of importance to the airline, Elizabeth Sterling and her daughter were at the top of the list. The flight attendant recognized her instantly. Pan Am had flown them nonstop from New York to Tokyo on a competing carrier just to attend the inaugural party and join the flight back.
“Ms. Sterling?”
Elizabeth felt somewhat embarrassed to have been cornered in a bathrobe, even talking to another woman.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Lamb’s waiting for you on the upper deck.”
“I know, I
know. I overslept.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes toward the ceiling as she fumbled with a plastic bag filled with toiletries.
Ron Lamb, president of the newly created airline using the venerable name of Pan American, was well known to her. After the gala party in Tokyo, she had seen him only briefly before departure from Narita Airport, and he had asked her to set an alarm and meet him when they both presumed the party in the upper lounge would be over. Something important was up, and considering the immense amount of money involved in restarting worldwide operations, it couldn’t be good news. Elizabeth had felt a shiver of apprehension telegraph itself down her spine, the same little announcement of fear she’d felt for the entire eighteen months it had taken to construct the billion-dollar start-up package from her office in New York. It hadn’t seemed possible to do what she’d done.
The flight attendant was waiting quietly for a message.
“Please tell Mr. Lamb I’m embarrassed, but the compartment was too comfortable and I didn’t hear the alarm. Tell him I’ll join him upstairs in a few minutes, as soon as I get myself together.”
Ron Lamb was waiting for Elizabeth when she topped the circular stairway, still feeling like a dried prune from the low in-flight humidity, despite a liberal application of skin moisturizer and several glasses of water. She marveled at the thought that flight crews could tolerate such environments for an entire career.
The upper lounge was breathtaking. Extending back from the cockpit door some forty feet, the new Pan Am design had converted the upper deck area into a luxurious club of leather and chrome, teakwood and indirect lighting, with couches and huge swivel chairs that could be moved in various directions on hidden rails. Movable tables were set at intervals. A quiet track from an album by Seattle’s own Kenny G blended in the background with the soft sound of the slipstream at 39,000 feet.
Ron Lamb greeted Elizabeth with a warm smile. He looked tired and worried, but if he was upset at her lateness, he was trying to hide it. He was of average height with silver hair, sparkling eyes, and a perpetual smile that made the small mustache he wore look slightly silly. Elizabeth had enjoyed working with him from the day Lamb and his delegation of hopeful entrepreneurs had walked into the offices of Silverman, Knox, and Bryson in New York to pitch their outlandish idea. Since he was the former CEO of two substantial airlines and, at fifty-eight, a thirty-year airline veteran, even a wild idea from Ron Lamb was worth listening to.
But his idea had turned out to be far from crazy.
That had been just under three years ago, and now—with a year of highly successful operations under their belt—it looked as if “Pan Am: The Sequel” was going to make it. But with so much money at stake, not to mention her reputation with the financial community, it seemed like a continuous high-wire act without a net.
“Ron, I’m very sorry to keep you waiting.”
He smiled. “I’m just glad you’re here—on the inaugural, I mean.”
The senior flight attendant materialized with a freshly brewed pot of gourmet coffee from Starbuck’s specialty house in Seattle on a silver tray that also held a variety of pastries. Elizabeth followed Ron to a couple of leather chairs with a small table in between.
“You slept well, then? You like the accommodations?” He asked it with a proud air as he sat opposite her, placing his cup and saucer on the highly polished teak tabletop.
Elizabeth smiled. “Too much so.”
They talked about the magnificent interior for a few minutes, and the galvanizing effect Pan Am’s bold new ideas were having on the big carriers. But she ran out of superlatives as Lamb ran out of polite questions, and an awkward silence filled the lounge before they both spoke in unison.
“So …”
“I wanted to …”
“You first.” Elizabeth laughed. “You’ve been waiting up all night for me. What’s up? Are we in trouble?”
Ron Lamb leaned over and pulled a sheaf of papers from a battered brown leather briefcase, placing them on the small table, slightly under the edge of the pastry tray.
“I’ve got the latest financial results and projections here for you to study. The good news is we’re still ahead of schedule and gaining traffic.”
“And the bad news?”
“William Hayes has resigned as chief financial officer.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Elizabeth replied. She had worked with Hayes, and found him secretive and not terribly sharp, but his departure shocked her.
“Well, it was sudden, and so is this,” Ron Lamb was saying. “We want to hire you for the job. I want you, the board unanimously agrees, and the airline you helped to create needs you. I know it would mean resigning from your partnership. I know it would mean moving to Seattle and uprooting your life and your daughter’s life.”
“To say the least. I’m not opposed to the idea of a change, but …”
I mustn’t let him know I’m sick of Wall Street! she cautioned herself.
Lamb was almost sputtering, his hand moving higher in her visual range. “Okay, consider this, please. If you accept and come aboard, this position will give you your very first full executive position in a publicly held corporation, and, to our benefit, you could be of immense assistance in nurturing this company through the formative years. And remember, Elizabeth, we wouldn’t even exist if you hadn’t kept at it. You’re the wizard who built this financial structure, and you’re the one to bring it to maturity.”
Some of the flattery and awe drained away with that, and she looked hard at him. “Why, then, Ron,” she began, “have you been fooling around with the debt structure? I’m aware you renegotiated several of the credit lines I sweated blood to arrange. Several friends alerted me. I didn’t think it was my place to say anything, since neither you nor Bill Hayes asked my advice at that point, but—”
“Elizabeth, I know.” Lamb was moving closer across the table, earnestly, his hands gesturing in symmetry with his words. “I apologize for leaving you out of the loop. But that’s precisely why we no longer have the CFO we started with. He screwed around with your structure, and lied to me and the board about it. We thought he had coordinated with you. After all, you’re still our investment banker.”
“He sure didn’t.”
“I know that—now! That’s why I need you. We need you.”
She sat in silence, searching his eyes for hidden meanings.
“How much can you tell me?” she asked at last.
“Until you’re legally a corporate officer, only what’s in this report.” He patted the stack of papers on the edge of the table. “But I promise you can handle it, and the compensation package I’ve arranged includes a new condo in downtown Seattle, moving expenses, signing bonus, parachute, and stock options.” Ron Lamb smiled and leaned back, looking at Elizabeth with what he hoped was a slightly envious and appreciative look, and being very, very careful not to betray the anxiety that had gripped him the last few days.
“Think about this, Elizabeth. You’ll be making more than I do!”
1
Friday, February 17
La Guardia Airport, New York
The ground dropped away beneath Elizabeth Sterling with stomach-churning suddenness as the helicopter leapt off the western end of the overcrowded airport like a startled cat, clawing for altitude over the Grand Central Parkway as it headed toward the south end of Manhattan Island. The leaden sky above was an Impressionist painting of impending snow set off by wild swirls of alto-stratus clouds, nature’s brushstrokes of winter on the gray canvas of a high overcast, framed by leaf-whipping winds.
“Good grief!” The words were half-muttered as her senses rebelled at the acrophobic recognition that only the raw power of the Jet Ranger’s turbine engine was holding them aloft. Elizabeth was a low-time, fixed-wing private pilot, and to her the lack of forward airspeed was unsettling.
Eric Knox was grinning at her behind the microphone boom of his headset, fully aware she had a death grip on the arm rests. One of the senior partn
ers of Elizabeth’s investment banking firm and worth many tens of millions now, Eric could afford to commute by helicopter. Forty-two and single, he owned a mansion on eastern Long Island equipped with its own airfield, and spent his spare time indulging a grand passion for flight. With the retirement of his father, he was now the Knox in the highly respected investment banking firm of Silverman, Knox, and Bryson.
“Wait’ll you see what’s ahead, Elizabeth! Only the worst weather days can force me to take the train. I love coming to work in Cinemascope and Surround Sound!”
They reached five hundred feet and began moving forward faster toward the East River as Eric gently banked the Ranger twenty degrees left toward the heliport by the South Ferry dock near their office building.
Elizabeth’s eyes scanned the magnificent cityscape ahead, her apprehension draining away as the chopper accelerated and began to behave like a traditional air machine—as if someone had finally equipped it with some visible means of support, such as wings.
How could twelve years have passed so fast? She had been utterly thrilled to move to New York. The day she first drove into the city, even from the cluttered perspective of the Triboro Bridge, she’d luxuriated in the intimidating visage of Manhattan’s skyline, drinking it in with the wide-eyed excitement of a cat in an aviary. The years in Harvard Business School had been nothing short of brutal, especially for a widowed mother going through the lonely trials of raising a baby daughter alone. She had fallen in love with a fellow MBA candidate—an ex–Air Force pilot named Brian Murphy—whom Kelly had begun to regard as her father. But Brian had had six months to go to his degree and couldn’t accompany them to the big city as Elizabeth began her new job.
Nevertheless, New York had taken her in and hugged her those first few weeks. First she had had the amazing good fortune of finding an affordable flat in Greenwich Village, a flat, she reminded herself, owned by Hilda Biggersford, a somewhat lonely, retired schoolteacher. Mrs. Biggersford began helping with baby-sitting chores in the first few months. She grew protective of Kelly and Elizabeth over the following year, and disapproved sternly when an unmarried male named Brian moved in with mother and daughter just before Christmas.
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