The Lion's Game (11 page)

He then pulled back the curtain to the Coach section and stared down the long, wide body of the 747. Facing him were hundreds of people, sitting up or reclining, perfectly still, as though it were a photograph. He kept staring, waiting for someone to move or to make a sound. But there was no movement, no response to his presence, no reaction to this alien in a silver space suit and mask.

He turned away, crossed the open area, and tore open the curtain to the First Class compartment and walked quickly through, touching a few faces, even slapping a few people to see if he could get a response. There were absolutely no signs of life among these people, and a totally irrelevant thought popped into his head, which was that First Class round-trip tickets, Paris to New York, cost about ten thousand dollars. What difference did it make? They all breathed the same air, and now they were just as dead as the people in Economy Class.

McGill walked quickly out of the First Class compartment and back into the open space, which held the galley, the spiral staircase, and the two open doors. He went to the starboard side door and pulled his mask and headgear off.

Sorentino was standing on the running board of their RIV, and he called out to McGill, “What’s up?”

McGill took a deep breath and called down, “Bad. Real bad.”

Sorentino never saw his boss look like that, and he assumed that real bad meant the worst.

McGill said, “Call the Command Center ... tell them everyone on board Flight One-Seven-Five is dead. Suspect toxic fumes—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. Have a Tour Commander respond to your call. Also, get a company rep over to the security area.” He added, “In fact, get everyone over to the security area. Customs, Baggage, the whole nine yards.”

“Will do.” Sorentino disappeared inside the cab of the RIV.

McGill turned toward the Coach section. He was fairly certain he didn’t need his Scott pack, but he carried it with him, though he left his crash ax against a bulkhead. He didn’t smell anything that seemed caustic or dangerous, but he did smell a faint odor—it smelled familiar, then he placed it—almonds.

He parted the curtain, and trying not to look at the people facing him, he moved down the right aisle and popped open the two exit doors, then crossed the aircraft and opened the two left doors. He could feel a cross-breeze on his sweat-dampened face.

His radio crackled, and he heard a voice say, “Unit One, this is Lieutenant Pierce. Situation report.”

McGill unhooked his handheld radio and responded to his Tour Commander, “Unit One. I’m aboard the subject aircraft. All souls aboard are dead.”

There was a long silence, then Pierce replied, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Again, a long silence, then, “Fumes? Smoke? What?”

“Negative smoke. Toxic fumes. I don’t know the source. Aircraft is vented, and I’m not using oxygen.”

“Roger.”

Again, a long silence.

McGill felt queasy, but he thought it was more the result of shock than of any lingering fumes. He had no intention of volunteering anything and he waited. He could picture a bunch of people in the Command Center all speaking at once in hushed tones.

Finally, Lieutenant Pierce came on and said, “Okay ... you’ve called for a company tug.”

“Affirmative.”

“Do we need ... the mobile hospital?”

“Negative. And the mobile morgue won’t handle this.”

“Roger. Okay ... let’s move this whole operation to the security area. Let’s clear that runway and get that aircraft out of sight.”

“Roger. I’m waiting for the tug.”

“Yeah ... okay ... uh ... stay on board.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Do you want anyone else on board? Medical?”

McGill let out an exasperated breath. These idiots in the Command Center couldn’t seem to comprehend that everyone was dead. McGill said, “Negative.”

“Okay ... so I ... I guess the autopilot landed it.”

“I guess. The autopilot or God. It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t the pilot or the co-pilot.”

“Roger. I guess ... I mean, the autopilot was probably programmed—”

“No ‘probably’ about it, Lieutenant. The pilots are cold.”

“Roger ... no evidence of fire?”

“Again, negative.”

“Decompression?”

“Negative, no oxygen masks hanging.
Fumes
. Toxic fucking fumes.”

“Okay, take it easy.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll meet you at the security area.”

“Roger.” McGill put his radio back on his hook.

With nothing left to do, he examined a few of the passengers, and again assured himself that there were no signs of life aboard. “Nightmare.”

He felt claustrophobic in the crowded Coach compartment, creepy with all the dead. He realized he’d rather be in the relatively light and open space in the dome where he could better see what was happening around the aircraft.

He made his way out of Coach, up the spiral staircase, and into the dome. Through the port windows he saw a tug vehicle approaching. Through the starboard windows, he saw a line of Emergency Service vehicles heading back to the firehouse, and some heading toward the security area.

He tried to ignore the bodies around him. At least there were fewer of them up here, and none of them were children or babies. But no matter where he was on this aircraft, he thought, he was the only living, breathing soul aboard.

This wasn’t precisely true, but Andy McGill didn’t know he had company.

Tony Sorentino watched the Trans-Continental tug vehicle drive up to the nose wheels. The vehicle was a sort of big platform with a driver’s cab at each end so that the driver could pull up to the nose wheel and not have to back up and chance causing damage. When the hookup was made, the driver would change cabs and drive off.

Sorentino thought this was clever, and he was fascinated by the vehicle. He wondered why Guns and Hoses didn’t have one of these, then remembered that someone told him it had to do with insurance. Each airline had its own tugs and if they snapped off the nose wheel of a hundred-fifty-million-dollar aircraft, it was their problem. Made sense. Still, Guns and Hoses should have at least one tug. The more toys the better.

He watched as the Trans-Continental driver hooked a fork-like towbar to each side of the nose wheel assembly. Sorentino walked over to him and said, “Need a hand?”

“Nope. Don’t touch nothing.”

“Hey, I’m insured.”

“Not for this you’re not.”

The hitch was complete, and the driver said, “Where we headed?”

“The hijack area,” Sorentino said, using the more dramatic but still correct name for the security area.

The driver’s eyes darted to Sorentino, as Sorentino knew they would. The driver glanced up at the huge aircraft towering above them, then back to Sorentino. “What’s up?”

“Well, what’s up is your insurance rates, pal.”

“Whadda ya mean?”

“You got a big, expensive hearse here, buddy. They’re all dead. Toxic fumes.”

“Jesus Christ Almighty.”

“Right. Let’s get rolling. As fast as you can. I lead, you follow. I have a vehicle in trail. Don’t stop until you’re in the security pen.”

The driver moved to the front cab as if he were in a daze. He climbed in, engaged the huge diesel, and began moving off.

Sorentino got into the cab of his RIV and moved off ahead of the tug vehicle, leading it to a taxiway that in turn led to the security area, not far from Runway Four-Right.

Sorentino could hear all kinds of chatter on his radio frequencies. No one sounded very happy. He broadcast, “Unit One moving, tug and aircraft in tow, Unit Four in trail.”

Sorentino maintained a fifteen-mile-per-hour speed, which was all that the tug could do pulling a 750,000-pound aircraft behind it. He checked his sideview mirrors to make sure he wasn’t too close or too far from the aircraft. The view in his mirrors was very strange, he thought. He was being followed by a weird vehicle that didn’t know its ass from its dick, and behind the vehicle was this monster silver aircraft, being pulled along like a string toy.
Jesus, what a day this turned out to be
.

* * *

Inaction is not John Corey’s middle name, and I said to George Foster, “I’m again requesting permission to go out to the tarmac.”

Foster seemed indecisive as usual, so Kate said to me, “Okay, John, you have permission to go down to the tarmac. No further.”

“I promise,” I said.

Ms. Del Vecchio turned and punched in a code on the door’s keypad. The door opened, and I walked through it, down the long jetway, and descended the service stairs of the jetway to the tarmac.

The convoy that was to take us to Federal Plaza was grouped close to the terminal building. I moved quickly to one of the Port Authority police cars, flashed my tin, and said to the uniformed officer, “The subject aircraft is stalled at the end of the runway. I need to get to it now.” I got into the passenger side, deeply regretting my lie to Kate.

The young PA cop said, “I thought the Emergency Service guys were bringing your passenger here.”

“Change of plans.”

“Okay ...” He started driving slowly, and at the same time called Tower Control to get permission to cross the runways.

I was aware of someone running alongside the car and by the looks of him, he had to be FBI agent Jim Lindley. He called out, “Stop.”

The Port Authority cop stopped the car.

Lindley identified himself and said to me, “Who are you?”

“Corey.”

“Oh ... where you going?”

“Out to the aircraft.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Who authorized—”

All of a sudden, Kate came up to the car and said, “It’s okay, Jim. We’re just going to check it out.” She jumped in the back seat.

I said to the driver, “Let’s go.”

The driver said, “I’m waiting for permission to cross—”

A guy’s voice came over the speaker and said, “Who’s asking for permission to cross the runways and why?”

I grabbed the microphone and said, “This is ...” Who was I? “This is the FBI. We need to get out to the aircraft. Who is this?”

“This is Mr. Stavros, Tower Control Supervisor. Look, you can’t cross—”

“It’s an emergency.”

“I
know
there’s an emergency. But why do you have to cross—”

I said, “Thank you.” I told the Port Authority cop, “Cleared for take-off.”

The PA cop protested, “He didn’t—”

“Lights and siren. I really need you to do this for me.”

The cop shrugged, and the car moved off the tarmac toward the taxiway, its flashers and siren going.

The Tower Control guy, Stavros, came on the speaker again, and I turned down the volume.

Kate spoke for the first time and said to me, “You lied to me.”

“Sorry.”

The PA cop cocked his thumb over his shoulder and asked me, “Who’s that?”

“That’s Kate. I’m John. Who are you?”

“Al. Al Simpson.” He turned onto the grass and followed the taxiway east. The car bumped badly. He said, “Best to stay off the taxiways and runways.”

“You’re the boss,” I informed him.

“What kind of emergency?”

“Sorry, I can’t say.” Actually, I had no idea.

Within a minute, we could see a big 747 silhouetted on the horizon.

Simpson turned and crossed over a taxiway, then headed across more grass, avoiding all kinds of signs and lights, and headed toward a big runway. He said to me, “I really need to call Tower Control.”

“No, you don’t.”

“FAA regulations. You can’t cross—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep an eye out for airplanes.”

Simpson crossed the wide runway.

Kate said to me again, “If you’re trying to get fired, you’re doing a good job.”

The 747 didn’t look as though it were too far away, but it was an optical illusion and the silhouette didn’t get much bigger as we traveled cross-country toward it. “Step on it,” I said.

The patrol car bounced badly over a patch of rough terrain.

Kate asked me, “Do you have a theory you’d like to share with me?”

“No.”

“No, you don’t have a theory, or no, you don’t want to share?”

“Both.”

“Why are we doing this?”

“I got tired of Foster and Nash.”

“I think you’re showing off.”

“We’ll see when we get to the plane.”

“You like to throw the dice, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t
like
to throw the dice. I
have
to throw the dice.”

Officer Simpson was listening to Kate and me, but offered no insights and took no sides.

We drove on in silence, and the 747 still seemed out of reach, like a desert mirage.

Finally, Kate said, “Maybe I’ll try to back you up.”

“Thanks, partner.” This, I guess, is what passes as unconditional loyalty amongst the Feds.

I looked at the 747 again, and this time it definitely hadn’t gotten any bigger. I said, “I think it’s moving.”

Simpson peered out the window. “Yeah ... but ... I think they’re towing it.”

“Why would they tow it?”

“Well ... I know they shut down the engines, so sometimes it’s easier to get a tow instead of restarting them.”

“You mean you don’t just turn a key?”

Simpson laughed.

We were making better time than the 747 and the distance started to close. I said to Simpson, “Why aren’t they towing it this way? Toward the terminal?”

“Well ... it would seem to me that they’re heading toward the hijack area.”

“What?”

“I mean, the security area. Same difference.”

I glanced back at Kate, and I could see she was concerned.

Simpson turned his radio volume up, and we listened to the radio traffic. What we heard was mostly orders, reports on the movement of vehicles, a lot of Port Authority mumbo jumbo that I couldn’t make out, but no situation report. I guess everyone else knew the situation but us. I asked Simpson, “Can you tell what’s going on?”