Big Trouble (32 page)

The plane had reached the end of the taxiway and was turning onto the runway. The engines were very loud now. They were taking off.

 

 

 

As they turned into Garbanzo Street, the couple in the Lexus was arguing. They had been arguing for two hours now, since the start of their dinner at the Italian restaurant in Coral Gables. The issue was whether to stay in Miami, where the husband had been transferred by his bank a year and a half ago, or move back to Cedar Rapids, where they were both from. He thought that, for career reasons, they should stay; she wanted to go.

They were arguing so heatedly that the husband almost ran into the large man standing in the street, waving his arms. The man seemed to be wearing a uniform, but it was filthy and drenched in sweat, and there was blood running down his arm, which was . . .
handcuffed
to some big, mangled piece of metal, which was . . .
my God,
it was handcuffed to
another
man, a strange-looking man, off to the side there. With a big dog.

“I think we should get out of here,” the husband said.

“They look like they need help,” the wife said.

“OK,” said the husband, “but we stay in the car.”

Keeping the car in gear, the husband pressed the power-door-lock button and lowered his window two inches.

“Listen,” said the large man. “I'm a Miami police officer, and I need you to . . .”

“GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN!” said the strange-looking man.

“SHUT UP!” said the large man. Turning back to the couple, he said, “I need you to . . .”

“SHE WANTS YOUR SOUL!” said the strange-looking man. He was pointing at the dog, who sniffed his finger, then barked.

“I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP GODDAMMIT!” said the large man, shoving the big metal thing hard, knocking the strange man over. “THAT IS NOT ELIZABETH FUCKING DOLE!”

The husband pressed the accelerator. The car shot forward, tires squealing.

“NO!” screamed the large man. “COME BACK!”

The husband drove three blocks before speaking.

“OK,” he said. “You call the movers.”

 

 

 

“You
know
this guy?” Baker asked Greer. They were standing with Henry, who was watching three police officers and two paramedics unwrap Daphne from Leonard, who had regained consciousness. So had Daphne's owner, who was being formally taken into police custody and had already been handed business cards by four personal-injury attorneys who happened to be on the scene.

“Oh yeah,” said Greer, “I know Henry from the old days, in Jersey. I used to interrogate him alla time, back when I worked organized crime.”

“Wasn't
that
organized,” said Henry. “Which is why I got out of it.”

“You're saying you're retired now?” asked Greer. “Workin' on the stamp collection? Drinkin' Ensure?”

“More or less,” said Henry.

“Sure,” said Greer. “Listen, much as I would enjoy hearin' you explain to these officers why you come to their airport wearin' a piece on your ankle, I got important federal business, OK?”

“Real good chattin' with you,” said Henry, turning back to Leonard.

“OK,” said Greer, to Baker and Seitz. “These are assholes, but not the
right
assholes. I need to talk to somebody in charge.”

“That guy there, I'm pretty sure he's the head airport cop,” said Baker, pointing to a white-haired man in a shirt and tie, talking on a cell phone and holding a walkie-talkie, which was emitting a drumbeat of messages and static. Greer walked over.

“No, nobody got hit,” the white-haired man was saying. “Just the snake.” He listened for a moment, then said, “I don't
know
what kind. A
big
snake.”

Greer was holding his badge wallet in the man's face.

“FBI,” he said.

The man waved the wallet away.

“We don't need any help,” he said. “We got this.”

“No,” said Greer, “I need somethin' from
you
.”

“Well, it's gonna have to wait,” said the white-haired man, turning away.

Greer stepped a few paces away. He pulled the odd-looking phone from his pocket and pressed a button on it. He waited for two seconds, then spoke for about twenty. He pressed another button and put the phone back in his pocket, then walked back and stood next to the white-haired man, waiting. The white-haired man, ignoring him, continued talking on his cell phone for about thirty seconds, then stopped and listened.

“What?” he said. He looked up at Greer. Greer showed him his badge again.

“Yes,” said the white-haired man, into the phone.“He's right here.” He listened some more, frowning.

“But . . .” he said, then listened some more.

“OK,” he said. “I got it.” He shut off his phone, looked at Greer.

“My name's Arch Ridley,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need you to find out if anything else unusual has happened in this airport in the last thirty minutes,” said Greer. “Besides this mess here.”

“Lemme call the security office,” said the man. He dialed a number, waited, and said, “Doris. Arch. Listen, is there . . .
What?
Oh Jesus. When?”

“What?” asked Greer. Ridley raised his hand, indicating
wait a sec
.

“No, that's not your fault,” he was saying, “all this radio traffic. So what else did they . . . OK . . . OK . . .
shit
. OK. Keep the phone line open. I'll call right back.” He shut off the phone.

“
What?
” said Greer.

“Five minutes ago,” Ridley said, “the tower here got a message from a pilot on the ground, saying he had a guy on his plane, with a gun, telling him to take off.”

“Oh Jesus,” said Greer.

“The tower tried to get more, but they're not responding,” said Ridley. “The plane taxied out and just took off, just now.”

“
Shit
,” said Greer. “For where?”

“It's an Air Impact! flight,” said Ridley. “Prop plane. It's supposed to go to the Bahamas.”

“OK,” said Greer, “listen. Call the tower, tell 'em to watch the plane, keep trying to raise 'em. Which way is the Air Impact! counter?”

“That way,” said Ridley, pointing, “little over halfway around the concourse. I can . . .”

But Greer, Seitz, and Baker were already running.

 

Flight 2038 took off into the prevailing winds, to the west. As the plane gained altitude over the Everglades, Justin banked left, making a long, slow turn until he was heading almost due east, toward downtown Miami, with Biscayne Bay beyond, then the southern end of Miami Beach, then the Atlantic. Justin was praying that air traffic control was telling the other air traffic where he was, since without his radio he had no way to get flight instructions.

Justin glanced over at Frank, and what he saw was not good: Frank was a zombie. It was up to Justin, the captain, alone, to handle this maniac with the gun. He figured the main thing was don't piss him off, do what he said, fly him to Freeport. They'd be tracked on radar; the authorities would be alerted; rescuers would be sent.

Justin clung to that thought. Help was coming.

 

 

 

As he ran, Greer was talking into his special phone. Baker was behind him and missed most of what he said. The only word he heard clearly was “fighters.”

 

The security personnel had heard Eliot running down the concourse toward them, shouting for the police. They were looking his way, and as he approached the checkpoint, they recognized him as one of the perpetrators who had violated their scanning procedures a few minutes earlier.

“STOP HIM!” shouted the rotund man, pointing at Eliot.

“STOP HIM!” echoed the X-ray woman, the stern conveyor-belt woman, and the other checkpoint personnel. “STOP HIM!”

As Eliot veered to his right toward the checkpoint exit, three young men, on their way home to Pittsburgh after a week in South Beach, jumped in front of him. All three of them lifted weights regularly, focusing especially on biceps development. All three were wearing tank tops. They always wore tank tops, unless the ambient temperature dropped below forty degrees.

“Out of the way!” shouted Eliot, trying to push past the biceps men. “I need to find a police officer.”

“GET HIM!” shouted the rotund security man.

One of the biceps men grabbed Eliot by the arm.

“Hold it, buddy,” he said.

“Listen,” said Eliot, fighting to sound calm. “I need to find a cop
now
. There's a man shooting back there.” He yanked his arm free.

“HOLD HIM THERE!” shouted the rotund man.

The biceps men were inclined to follow orders from the rotund man, because he was wearing an official blazer. All three of them grabbed Eliot.

“NO!” Eliot shouted, struggling. “I HAVE TO GET
ooof
.”

Eliot's breath was knocked out of him as he went down hard onto the carpet, with the three biceps men on top of him. They had been knocked over by Anna, who had hit the struggling huddle running and was now pounding one of the biceps men on the back of the head.

“Let him GO, you idiots!” she shouted. “He's trying to get help!”

“GRAB HER!” shouted the rotund man. “SHE'S ONE OF THEM!”

One of the biceps men threw a hard elbow that caught Anna in the gut and sent her rolling off the pile, moaning. The other two each had one of Eliot's arms and were pressing him hard, face-first, to the floor. Eliot could no longer open his mouth to yell, and his right arm felt as though it were coming out of its socket. Knowing it was hopeless, he gave one last, desperate heave, and . . .

. . . and one of the biceps men was gone. And then another one. Eliot rolled to his right and saw the third biceps man flying through the air, hitting the concourse wall, and landing next to the other two.

The thrower was Puggy, who had never lifted a weight in his life, but had always had a knack for picking up heavy objects. He reached down—he did not have to reach far—and raised Eliot easily to his feet. Nina was helping Anna, who was still gasping for air.

“SOMEBODY GRAB THEM!” shouted the rotund man, not making any moves in their direction personally.

“We gotta get outta here,” Eliot said to Anna, who nodded
I'm OK
and waved him forward. The four of them, Eliot in the lead, ran out of the checkpoint area and turned right. A couple of security people trailed behind, still shouting for somebody to stop them. As he ran, Eliot frantically scanned the gawking crowd;
where the hell were the cops?

 

When Greer, Seitz, and Baker reached the Air Impact! counter, it was abandoned; there were no more flights that night, and Sheila had gone home to her sick child.

“Now what?” asked Baker.

Greer was looking at the Air Impact! schedule on the wall behind the counter.

“I'm thinkin' we go to the gate,” he said. “Find whoever loaded the plane, find out who was on it.”

“This way,” said Seitz.

 

 

 

Flight 2038 was crossing Miami Beach now, the vast glowing blob of Dade County behind it, the blackness of the Atlantic ahead, dotted with the lights of a few seemingly motionless northbound freighters out in the Gulf Stream shipping lanes. Justin was feeling very lonely. Next to him, Frank was catatonic with fear. Immediately behind him, the postal-retiree couples were huddled in their seats, both women sobbing, both men staring at the floor. Behind them, the maniac was still standing in the aisle, holding the gun, watching. He had spoken to Justin only once, shouting over the noise of the plane.

“Two things, zitface,” he'd said. “You touch that radio, you're dead. This plane don't come down in the fuckin' Bahamas, you're dead.”

Justin knew the guy would be crazy to shoot him, because then who would fly the plane? But he also knew that the guy
was
crazy, because why else would he be doing this?

Adding to Justin's discomfort was a nagging alarm, beeping in his ear, telling him that the rear door was open. The door, and the hanging stairs, were making the plane handle weird. Justin was worried about the landing in Freeport. If they made it to Freeport.

Please,
he thought—although he was not sure to whom he was beaming the thought—
please send some help
.

 

 

 

The two F-16s had used rockets to accelerate their takeoff from Homestead Air Reserve Base in South Dade County. The instant they were airborne, they turned sharply toward the northeast, and in under a minute, they were approaching the speed of sound, closing on the civilian plane over Miami Beach as though it were moving no faster than the freighters out in the Gulf Stream. The fighter pilots' orders were to stay behind and above the civilian plane, out of sight but nearby. They were not to arm their missiles. Yet.

 

 

 

As Greer, Seitz, and Baker trotted through the crowd, they saw a man in shorts and T-shirt running in their direction, looking upset.

“POLICE!” the man shouted.

Greer and Seitz ignored him; whatever this guy's problem was, they weren't interested. But Baker stared at the man's face. He'd seen this guy, but he couldn't remember where. Then he saw the woman running behind the upset man, and it clicked.