Skyhammer (33 page)

She couldn’t think about it. But here was Peach Pants with his goofy, friendly face. “Right away,” she whispered, her throat
choked, and hurried on, past sweet-faced children a teen couple holding hands—ordinary, good-hearted, innocent people—until
at last, mercifully, she reached Crane’s aisle. But even now a girl came out of the lav, her pretty hair copper, her mouth
big and full as she smiled sweetly at Ponti and stepped past, her arm bumping Ponti’s elbow, her hip Ponti’s hip.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

Ponti, holding back an almost overwhelming grief, sat down beside Crane and handed him the phone.

New World Airlines Flight Crew Scheduling Office

Phoenix, Arizona

20:32 GMT/13:32 MST

It was one hellacious mess, Gordon Miller thought, scratching a note to himself on a bare corner of his cluttered worksheet.
The thick-set, prematurely graying crew scheduler was sitting at one of a dozen desks in the department. Each desk was equipped
with a computer terminal and a multiline phone system. Each of the airline’s crew bases, or domiciles, had two desks: one
handled captains, the other first officers. Miller was working the Cleveland first officers, and at that moment he was talking
to one. He was in his customary position, slouched forward, one hand propping up his head, telephone receiver perched on his
shoulder, the cigarette in his mouth leaping up and down when he talked, like the needle of some gauge that registered his
impatience. This afternoon was anything but customary. The diversion of New World’s inbound flights and evacuation of the
aircraft on the ground was crating a huge spider’s nest of snarled communication. At that moment. Miller was explaining for
the second time to a first officer why they were being reassigned to Oklahoma City, rather than being sent back to Cleveland.
The second line of his phoneset was flashing, but he was in no hurry to hassle with another goddamn pilot. “Look, you’ll get
an extra day off when you get back to Cleveland. Tomorrow. I’ve got another call waiting.”

Dismissing the hapless man with a stab of his finger, he gazed reluctantly at the second, insistently flashing line. He was
tired. He’d just about had it up to here, and one of these days, he thought, the job was going to wear him out completely.

But, after taking a sip of lukewarm coffee, he perched the handset again on his shoulder and punched in line 2.

“Crew schedule. Gordon.”

“Gordon? This is first officer David Crane.” The voice was full of static, and urgency as well. “Look, I’m calling from aboard
one of our planes.”

“Who’d you say you were?”

“David Crane. Cleveland 737 F.O. I’m calling on an Air-fone. From flight five-fifty-five.”

For a moment. Miller couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t that the hijacked flight causing all this mess? “Repeat that. You’re on Five-fifty-five?”

“Correct. What’s going on? We’re being followed by an F-15, and the flight crew’s ...”

“Hold on!” Miller broke in. “You say you’re a pilot? And you’re on the plane?”

“That’s what I said. Now tell me what the hell’s going on! Is this a hijacking or what?”

“Wait! Crane, listen. You’re in big trouble, but I’ve got to get you to the right people. Okay? Just hold the line a sec.
Don’t go away!”

Miller cupped his hand over the mouthpiece, afraid even to put Crane on hold. “Ed!” he shouted to his supervisor. “I’ve got
a pilot here who’s on board five-fifty-five!”

Miller’s supervisor, Ed Sikes, whirled around. “What?”

“He’s in the goddamn cabin, can you believe it? He’s on the Airfone right now!” Miller brandished his receiver.

“Holy shit!” Sikes’s eyes went round. “Jesus, don’t lose him.” Sikes was already dialing on his phone.

Miller uncovered his receiver. “Crane, you there?”

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

“Your first officer’s taken over the plane.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I wish.”

“What’s he going to do with it?”

Sikes arrived with a slip of notepaper. “Have him call this number. Fast.”

“Listen, Crane. I’ve got a number for you to call. They’ll tell you what it’s all about.”

“Okay, give it to me.”

Miller read off the seven digits.’ ‘Good luck,” he said, and then, after Crane had already hung up, added, “and God help you.”

Air Route Traffic Control Center

Albuquerque, New Mexico

20:32 GMT/13:32 MST

“They’re in position,” Curtis told Charbonneau. On his screen the twin blips of 555 and Shadow were almost to the grease mark.
He looked up at the colonel. The colonel nodded.

“We have to do it now.”

Curtis’s hand was unsteady as he keyed his headset mike, and he swallowed, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

“Shadow, Albuquerque.”

There was a considerable pause. Then, “Shadow here. Go ahead, Albuquerque.”

“Roger, Shadow.” Curtis swallowed again. “Stand by for firing instructions.” The blips were no more than fifteen miles—two
minutes—from the mark. The blood pounded in his temples, and he could feel the perspiration break out on his face. He looked
at Charbonneau again. The colonel was sitting beside him now, his face propped in his hand as he stared at the blips. Kelly
was on the phone to Washington. Curtis could hear him tell the FBI man that they’d done everything they could.

The blips closed in on the grease mark. Again Curtis looked at the colonel. The officer returned his look now, his mouth drawing
into a tight line. Then he nodded, his eyes blinking slowly.

Curtis turned back to the screen, a sense of utter hopelessness overwhelming him. His blood was no longer pounding. His heart
seemed still.

“Shadow, this is Albuquerque.”

“Go ahead, Albuquerque.”

“Shadow ... destroy the target.”

Seconds passed. Then, “Roger, Albuquerque, Shadow. Understand ... destroy the target.... Authenticate Charlie X ray, please.”

Curtis took a deep breath. “Roger, Shadow,” he transmitted, his voice cracking. “Destroy target. Authentication Papa.”

Shadow

20:33 GMT/13:33 MST

O’Brien took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. He scanned the panel, wishing beyond reason now that he might suddenly
find some malfunction that would force him to abort the mission. But the array of dials and CRT displays only confirmed the
fighter’s incredible power, its letial force. At his fingertips, literally. He suddenly felt very alone. Very insignificant.
Very sorry.

Reaching above the weapons panel, he toggled the master arm switch. Instantly a green cross appeared on the HUD, confirming
hot armament.

“Master arm switch on,” he told Nesbitt.

Nesbitt didn’t answer. O’Brien looked at him in the mirror, and Nesbitt shook his head. “Didn’t think it would get this far,
Stick.”

“Me neither,” O’Brien said. He stared at the cross for a moment and then thumbed a switch on the throttle to select the Sidewinders.
The target box had superimposed on New World 555, and now a circle appeared in it. The electronic growl of the missiles’seekers
sounded in O’Brien’s earphones. They had found a sufficient heat source. O’Brien uncaged the seeker heads, anxious to put
an end to the awful growling. Now the circle began to track the source, the growl eased, and the pointer appeared below the
target box, flashing on and off. In his peripheral vision, the two amber shoot-lights on the canopy bow were flashing in unison.
To fire, he had only to nudge the pickle switch on the control column, just above his thumb.

O’Brien opened and closed his hand. His stomach was churning, and his heart seemed to pound in time with the flashing cues.
The harsh sound of his own breathing, and Nesbitt’s, filled his helmet. He thought briefly of how strange it was that such
a constant noise could become so ordinary you didn’t even notice it after a while. Then his thumb found the pickle.

He had been through this drill a hundred times in mock combat. But he’d never actually shot down another airplane. The Iraqis
had been smart enough to stay out of the skies during the Gulf War. He had only seen videotapes of what happened to MiG’s
and Mirages. They burst apart, disintegrated. What would happen to a plane the size of an MD-80? The heat-seeking rocket would
probably blow off the engine it flew into, blasting shrapnel into the fuselage, severing control cables and hydraulic lines
and sending the airliner spinning into the desert floor below. What was more, it would probably rupture the cabin, creating
an explosive decompression and rendering everyone inside unconscious in seconds.

Unless the engine struts were designed to fail, O’Brien realized. Made to shear off under extreme stress. If they were, the
cabin might not rupture, might remain pressurized. Then most of the passengers would be conscious during the two or three
minutes it would take the plane to fall.

O’Brien’s thumb slipped away from the switch. He had an idea. They should fire two Sidewinders, to increase the chances of
really opening the airliner up, shortening its trajectory, and killing everyone aboard instantly, mercifully.

“I’m firing two Sidewinders,” he told Nesbitt.

“Two?”

“Yeah.” Quickly, he explained his reasons.

“Roger,” Nesbitt answered. “I concur.”

O’Brien repositioned his hand on the control stick. He could feel the perspiration building up inside his glove. This would
be over in another few seconds, but would he ever forget? He blinked rapidly a few times and then forced his thumb to find
the pickle again. A second went by. Then one more . ..

“Shadow, Albuquerque!” The transmission jolted him like an electric shock. “Hold your fire! Hold your fire! Acknowledge, please!”

O’Brien slumped in his seat, letting his hand slide down the stick’s handle. In the next instant he wanted to scream obscenities
at them. Were they insane? Was this some kind of grotesque training game, a crazy experiment to see if they could do it? But
the rage passed quickly. His breath was broken. Sobs, he realized. Tears of relief were streaming down his face. A half dozen
seconds passed before he could key his mike.

“Roger, Albuquerque,” he transmitted, his voice unsteady. “Shadow acknowledges.” And then, pulling himself together, recalling
protocol, he added, “Authenticate, please—Charlie Zulu”

“Authentication Tango Echo, repeat, Tango Echo.”

“Roger, Albuquerque, Shadow is going nose cold.” O’Brien snapped off the master arm switch.

“Thank God!” the controller responded, almost shouting. “We were afraid we were too late. Roger the nose cold, sir. Stand
by for further instructions.”

“Roger. Standing by.” O’Brien confirmed the de-arming of the weapons systems. And then he suddenly felt so giddy he had to
make a conscious effort to maintain his position in trail of the airliner. “That was awful close, Albuquerque,” he transmitted.
“What happened?”

“We just got word from D.C. An off-duty flight crew-member on board made contact. He might be able to do something. But we’re
not out of the woods yet, Shadow. Stay with him as long as you can.”

“We’ll be here,” O’Brien responded. He looked at Nesbitt in the mirror. “You okay back there?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Nesbitt answered. A minute later he said, “I’m sure as hell glad I’m not our replacement—that guy on
board 555.”

Passenger Cabin

New World 555

20:36 GMT/13:36 MST

As David Crane listened to the FBI agent explaining what had happened, he felt as if he were standing somewhere nearby, overhearing
a conversation about a terrible crisis that involved someone else. Everything was still too ordinary—the quiet murmur of passengers
sitting calmly in the rows of seats ahead of him, the reassuring hiss of the engines on the other side of the fuselage—all
of this was too real to be any part of the insane picture Agent L’Hommedicu was painting. But a prickling sensation had crowded
against the base of his skull, and now a burst of adrenalin scalded his gut, and waves of nauseating fear staggered him. It
was real. Terribly real. He’d seen the shadow of the F-15, and the copilot had lied about the HF transmitter.

Mariella Ponti, standing in front of him to shield his face from the passengers, saw his terror and mirrored it.

“What, David? What is it?”

He shook his head at her, not ready yet to try to relay the news. The agent was still talking, telling him that it was crucial
that he remain rational, as calm as possible. And Crane wasn’t to tell any passengers. If one knew, another would find out,
and it would spread. Then there would be no hope. Crane understood that, didn’t he?

“Yes. I understand,” Crane said, though he wasn’t even sure he’d heard it.

“David, I’m afraid you’re our last and only hope,” the agent was saying. “We’re going to have to count on you.”

Count on him for what? “I don’t know. I ...”

“There’s no one else, David!” L’Hommedieu insisted. “And we don’t have time to argue. You don’t have any choice. You
must
stop him.”

Crane couldn’t answer. He couldn’t even imagine what might be done. With any attempt to get into the cockpit, the copilot
could simply cut the engines, push the nose over. By the time they subdued him it could easily be too late. But what else
was there? What else could they do?

“Listen,” the agent said quietly but with a dose of menace in his voice. “I’m sorry to have to put it all on you, but that’s
the way things go sometimes. There isn’t time lo ask, ‘Why me?’ so you’ll just have to accept it. Right now. All right?”

Crane stared at Mariella Ponti. She’d tucked in her lip, trying to hold back the fear. How old was she? Mid-thirties maybe.
She didn’t deserve this. None of them did.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”

“Now listen,” the agent said. “Do you have your cockpit key?”

He could feel the familiar bulge of keys in his right pants pocket. He knew that the cockpit key, a small brass one, was one
of them, but he brought the key ring out anyway and made sure. “Yes. I’ve got one.”