Skyhammer (37 page)

Parked in the loading zone at the far end of the building was Farraday’s white limousine. Kelly went to the trunk of his own
car and got out the tire iron. Then he walked down to where the limo was parked. The engine was running, the windows up. Sealed
comfortably inside were two of Farraday’s henchmen. They were both in the back seat, watching a small television screen—a
football game. The man on Kel-ly’s side lowered the tinted window and looked up when Kelly leaned down next to the glass.

“Yeah?”

“You’re in a loading zone,” Kelly said.

“So?” The man smirked. It was a joke, right?

Kelly nodded. “So, it’s time to unload. My name’s James Kelly, Federal Aviation Administration. You can find me easy, so there’s
no need for you guys to even get out, okay? I’d roll this window shut again, too, if I were you.”

Kelly smiled at the look of puzzlement on the other man’s face. Then he straightened up.

He started at the back of the car, smashing the tail lights first. At the sound of the breaking plastic, the man’s door came
open and the man sprang out.

“I told you to stay in the car!” Kelly shouted, brandishing the tire iron. Then he went back to work.

Flight Deck

New World 555

20:54 GMT/13:54 MST

Crane examined the MD-80’s autopilot control panel, located along the glareshield. It was different from a 737’s, but well
labeled. He made another throttle adjustment, and found the switch marked “AP.” Tentatively, he fingered it for a moment,
and then switched it on. Through the yoke he felt the autopilot take control of the machine, working to hold its present pitch
and bank settings. A check of the altimeter showed them passing through seven thousand feet. Just to the left of the on-off
switch was a small thumbwheel labeled “V-SPD.” Crane gave this a nudge, and the row of LED digits in the window next to it
switched from “5(K)” to “400” as the aircraft’s nose dipped slightly. Okay, he decided, rolling the control a bit more, until
the window showed only three dashes. The plane responded, its nose descending smoothly, the altimeter stabilizing at 7,600
feet. That was close enough. He adjusted the power to maintain 250 knots.

“David?”

Mariella had returned. She handed him a blanket. Then, wordlessly, she helped him drape it carefully over Pate and tuck it
around the body. Behind them in the cockpit doorway a man who identified himself as John Sanford’s aide watched. Behind him
was another passenger, a husky man with a bearing Crane immediately recognized as military. The man, in fact, was a police
sergeant, as Crane found out when they were quickly introduced.

“How’s Senator San ford?” he asked the aide.

“He needs medical attention as fast as we can get it.”

“Let’s get this scat cleared then,” Crane said. “Let’s get them both cleared.”

It was a tricky operation. Crane had to stand as far forward as he could, straddling the center console and leaning up against
the windscreen. But he didn’t want to leave the cockpit. Once they got Pate’s body out of the right-hand scat, he occupied
it quickly.

He had just put on the headset and adjusted the boom microphone when he saw the F-15 maneuver up (in his left side, less than
a hundred feet away. Crane raised his hand and waved, and the pilot of the fighter waved back. Then the flyer in the rear
seat, looking straight ahead, brought his hand up to pat the side of his helmet. He was giving the standard military signal
for a radio frequency change. Crane nodded again. The man began signaling, holding up first one finger, then three, then two,
and so on, retracting his fingers between each digit. Crane dialed the digits into his radio control head.

“Albuquerque, Consul Five-fifty-five,” he transmitted.

The response was immediate. “Mr. Crane, I presume?”

“Yessir.”

“Roger, this is Albuquerque. The guys out your left window want to know how you’re doing.”

Suddenly Crane felt so giddy he could hardly keep from laughing out loud. He was alive and well. What more could be said?
The joy of it surged through him. He smiled over at the F-15, sorry he couldn’t talk to them directly. But he knew they had
only UHF radios. “Tell ‘em we’re okay,” he transmitted. “We’re going to make it.”

“Roger, Five-fifty-five. Please advise when ready for a vector to Phoenix.”

Crane pulled himself together. “ Roger, Albuquerque. Stand by.”

Mariella had come in behind him again.

“How’re they doing back there?” he asked.

“Couple of injuries. You know how it is—always someone who won’t fasten his seat belt.”

“Sanford?”

“It’s not too serious. We found a doctor on board, thank God. He’s says he’s lucky. It missed everything important.”

“Maybe he got it wrong at first,” Crane said, “but he also saved my life, does he know that? He saved all our lives.”

“I told him. He said we’d better vote for him when he runs for president.”

“If he wants to run for king of the world I’d vote for him.”

“How do you feel?” Mariella frowned at him.

“How do I look?”

“Like you were just scared out of ten years. Do you think you’re up to making a PA announcement? They’re all still pretty
worked up back there. It would help them to know there’s a friendly guy flying the plane.”

Crane nodded. “Yeah, I can do that. I think.”

He took the PA handset from the rear of the pedestal. What should he say? He decided, to tell them who he was and that everything
would be all right and they’d land in a few minutes. But he wouldn’t reveal what had really happened. They’d have to find
that out later, if ever.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “This is David Crane speaking. I’m an off-duty New World pilot. Everything is going to be
fine. We had an attempted hijacking, but everything is over now. The plane is undamaged. We’re all safe. I thank God none
of you were hurt seriously. We’ll be landing in a few minutes.” He paused, then keyed the mike again. “I guess I’ll add one
more thing. For what it’s worth, there aren’t too many people around who can say they’ve been upside down in an airplane,
even fewer who’ve done it in an MD-80. It’s something to tell your friends and grandchildren anyway. I’ll see you all when
we land.” He released the key then and hung up the set. Some would probably be upset with him for making light of it, but
he didn’t care.

“Thanks, David,” Mariella told him, patting his shoulder. “I’d better get back.”

“Okay, Albuquerque,” Crane transmitted. “Ready for that vector.”

Aviation Command Center

21:04 GMT/16:04 EST

They had gathered in the Operations Room to watch 555’s landing on the monitor. The plane appeared now out of the clear Arizona
sky, gear already extended, wings tipping gingerly one way and then the other—like some giant sea bird, Searing thought, one
of the kind that spent weeks aloft and forgot how to land. But the landing seemed perfect, and the camera followed it all
the way through its deceleration. Finally it came to a stop at the far end of the runway and was immediately surrounded by
vehicles. They could hear cheering from the crowds, beyond the newscaster’s excited voice.

One of Searing’s assistants from downstairs arrived, bringing the book L’Hommedieu had wanted. Searing turned from the monitor
and realized the agent was no longer in the room. He had gone back into the command center and was sitting at station 8, slumped
forward with his hands cupped over his eyes.

Searing glanced at the title of the book, then carried it into the command center and laid it down carefully on the desk in
front of L’Hommedieu.

“Book you ordered.”

The agent stared at it but said nothing. Searing sat against the edge of the desk and let his big shoulders go loose. The
sudden relief was curiously familiar. It was that same vacuum of sensation—and even thought—that he had felt dozens of times
before as a college football player, when the final seconds were ticking down at the end of a close game, when it was too
late for anything else to happen, the contest all over except for the three ... two .. . one ... win or lose. He looked at
L’Hommedieu, who still sat hunched over with his face hidden in his hands. The agent would never know, he thought, if Emil
Pate could’ve gone through with it or not. That was what troubled him. But that was the way things went sometimes, especially
in this business.

“How about some fresh air?”

L’Hommedieu nodded. “Look at this,” he said, lifting the book as though he were surprised to see it there. He stared at it
for another moment but then put it down again and got to his feet.

In the elevator, they leaned against opposite walls and stared at each other.

“It’s a sorry thing,” Searing said to him, and L’Hommedieu nodded. He looked haggard, a five o’clock shadow smudging his jaw.
He took off his glasses to wipe the lenses with his handkerchief, and the red marks they’d made on the bridge of his nose
looked like fresh bruises. He rubbed them for a minute, then he smiled faintly.

“Some day, huh? I expected to be watching football all afternoon.”

Searing smiled back. “Army-Navy? Bunch of pansies. You didn’t miss anything, let me tell you.”

“Probably not,” the agent said.

Then the doors opened onto the lobby.

They went out onto Seventh Avenue and walked north, past the Air and Space Museum, toward the Mall. It was chilly now, and
Searing buttoned up his overcoat, then realized his sinuses were clear. The headcold was leaving him.

“Amazing,” L’Hommedieu said as they came up to the light at Independence Avenue. “Isn’t it?”

Searing frowned at him. L’Hommedieu had his hands stuffed into his pockets and his shoulders were hunched against the chill.
He was staring across at the looming flank of the Air and Space Museum.

“What’s amazing?” Searing said.

L’Hommedieu swiveled on his heels and looked at Searing as if it should be obvious. “Here, we are,” he said. “A thousand miles
away from Phoenix.” He shook his head, unable to explain further. Then the light changed and he started out again.

They hadn’t discussed where they would walk to. But L’Hommedieu seemed to know, so Searing walked after him. They came up
to Jefferson. The Washington Monument to the west was dark against the last daylight. Out in the open of the Mall the air
seemed colder, and the wind blew more steadily. L’Hommedieu turned and walked east, toward the Capitol dome. And they talked
then. About Searing’s kids and about Georgia. About L’Hommedieu’s plans to take his wife back to Europe in the spring. The
dome ahead of them was blanched by the pale November sunset. It occurred to Searing that come Monday there’d be something
new for congress to talk about.

When they reached Fourth, they turned once more and headed back. In another few minutes they were passing the Air and Space
Museum again, somber in the twilight except for some yellow school buses drawn up in front. L’Hommedieu stopped again and
turned. There were happy shouts ringing out behind them, and Searing turned too as dozens of children came running down the
steps of the museum.

Washington DC

20:42 EST

Brian L’Hommedieu had to admit that in the final analysis the system would’ve worked. But only if you accepted the final option
as a solution, and he didn’t. They’d been lucky, that was all. Next time there wouldn’t be a David Crane, and the only other
statistic in their favor was that Emil Pates were rare. There were others out there, plenty of them treated wrongly, thinking
their mistake was to go on hanging at the end of the rope. But most of them would simply hang, hands tied, until they choked
on guilt and shame and anger. As Pate had said, the hard part was getting your hands loose. Once you did, it was easy to climb
up the rope that was choking you. Too easy, maybe, when madness seemed as logical as sanity. But most people never loosed
themselves from all that bound them—the social contracts, the moral contracts, the behavior conditioning that started at birth.
Thank God they didn’t—he believed that. Otherwise there would be no civilization. And yet there was something wrong with the
whole idea that you had to play by rules when they were bad rules written by men like Jack Farraday. You didn’t have to, but
it was insane not to—that’s what you were led to believe.

He could reason it out that way, but it didn’t relieve the sadness he felt on the ride home. From across the Potomac, as the
car veered north onto 66, he could see all the lights of the residential areas, thousands of lights, thousands of people.
How many of them had watched the news? A good percentage no doubt. The whole country would be buzzing about it tonight, and
the story would be front page tomorrow. The whole story, he hoped. In a few minutes the Nutley exit sign went past the window.
Six minutes later he was home.

Beth had watched the news reports, but they hadn’t given out much. L’Hommedieu got a Watney’s from the fridge and ran hot
water over the bottle to warm it a little, then sat at the kitchen table and told her, as well as he could, what had happened.
Then he went into the TV room. But the idea of watching the game on tape now didn’t appeal to him. Beth came in, sat on the
arm of the chair.

“Just tell me who won,” he said.

She looked at him, making sure, then leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Army,” she whispered. “Twenty-one, twenty.”

“No kidding. You watch it?”

“Second half.”

“What—did Navy miss an extra point?”

“No, they tried for a two-point conversion to win.”

“How about that?” L’Hommedieu took a sip of ale. “Those Navy bums.”

He sat quietly for a while, finishing the ale, thinking over the events of the day one more time. Then he remembered the book
in his brief case. Maybe there wasn’t much point to looking at it now, he thought, but he was curious, so he got up and went
out to the hall and got his briefcase from the front closet where Beth had put it.