The Lion's Game (12 page)

“Not really ... but I can tell it’s not a hijacking. Don’t think it’s mechanical either. I hear a lot of Emergency Service trucks going back to the house.”

“How about medical?”

“Don’t think so—I can tell by the call signs that they’re not calling for backup medical—” He stopped short and said, “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh, what?”

Kate leaned forward between us.

“Simpson? Uh-oh, what?”

“They’re calling for the MM and the ME.”

Which means Mobile Morgue and Medical Examiner, which means corpses.

I said to Simpson, “Step on it.”

Andy McGill peeled off his hot bunker suit and threw it on an empty seat beside a dead woman. He wiped the sweat from his neck and pulled the fabric of his dark blue police shirt away from his wet body.

His radio crackled, and he heard his call sign. He spoke into the mouthpiece, “Unit Eight-One. Go ahead.”

It was Lieutenant Pierce again, and McGill winced. Pierce said in a patronizing voice, “Andy, we don’t want to bug you, but we have to be sure, for the record, that we’re not missing an opportunity to deliver medical aid to the passengers.”

McGill glanced through the open cockpit door and out the windshield. He could see the opening of the enclosed security pen only about a hundred feet ahead. In fact, Sorentino was nearly at the gates now.

“Andy?”

“Look, I personally checked out about a hundred passengers in each of the three cabins—sort of like a survey. They are all cool and getting colder. In fact, I’m in the dome now, and it’s starting to stink.”

“Okay ... just checking.” Lieutenant Pierce continued, “I’m in the security area now, and I see you’re almost here.”

“Roger. Anything further?”

“Negative. Out.”

McGill put the radio on his belt hook.

His eyes went to the three men he was supposed to escort out of the aircraft. He walked over to the two sitting together—the Federal agent and his cuffed prisoner.

McGill, because he was a cop first and a fireman second, thought he should retrieve the pistols so there would be no problem later if they disappeared. He opened the suit jacket of the agent and found the belt holster, but there was no piece in it. “What the hell ... ?”

He moved to the agent in the row behind and checked for a pistol, again finding the holster but no gun. Strange. Something else to worry about.

McGill realized he was very thirsty and moved to the rear galley. He knew he shouldn’t be taking anything, but he was parched. He tried to ignore the stewardess on the floor as he looked around. He found a small can of club soda in the bar cabinet, fought with his conscience for half a second, then popped open the can and took a long swig. He decided he needed something stronger and unscrewed the top of a miniature bottle of Scotch. He downed the Scotch in one gulp, chased it with club soda, and threw the can and bottle into the trash bin. He let out a little burp, and it felt good.

The aircraft was slowing, and he knew that when it stopped, the cabins would be swarming with people. Before that happened and before he had to talk to the bosses, he had to pee.

He stepped out of the galley, went to the door of the lavatory and pulled on it, but it was locked. The little red sign said OCCUPIED.

He stood there a second, confused. He’d checked the lav when he came into the dome. This made no sense. He tugged on the door again, and this time it opened.

Standing in the lavatory facing him was a tall, dark man wearing a blue jumpsuit with a Trans-Continental logo on the breast pocket.

McGill was speechless for a second, then managed to say, “How did you ...”

He looked at the man’s face and saw two deep black eyes boring into him.

The man raised his right hand, and McGill saw that the man had a lap blanket wrapped around his hand and arm, which seemed odd. “Who the hell are you?”

“I am Asad Khalil.”

McGill barely heard the muffled sound of the shot and never felt the .40 caliber bullet piercing his forehead.

“And you are dead,” said Asad Khalil.

Tony Sorentino passed through the opening of the security pen, aka the hijack area.

He looked around. This was a huge horseshoe-shaped enclosure with sodium vapor lights mounted on tall stanchions, and he was reminded of a baseball stadium, except that the whole area was paved with concrete.

He hadn’t been in the security pen for a few years, and he looked around. The blast fence rose about twelve feet high, and every thirty feet or so was a shooter’s platform behind the fence. Every platform had an armored shield with a gun slit, though no one was manning any of the positions as far as he could tell.

He looked in his sideview mirrors to be certain the tug guy hadn’t panicked at the opening and stopped his vehicle. The fence on each side of the opening was low enough so that the wings of just about any commercial jetliner would clear, but the tug guys didn’t always get it.

The tug was still behind Sorentino and the wings of the 747 sailed over the fence. “Keep moving, bozo. Follow Tony.”

He glanced around at the scene spread out over the concrete. Nearly everyone had gotten here before him. He spotted the Mobile Incident Command Center, a huge van inside of which were radios, telephones, and bosses. They had direct communication with half the world, and by now they’d called the NYPD, the FBI, the FAA, maybe even the Coast Guard, who sometimes helped out with helicopters. For sure they’d called the Customs people and the Passport Control people. Even if the passengers were all dead, Sorentino thought, no one got into the USA without going through Customs and Passport Control. There were only two differences in today’s procedures—one, everything would be done here and not at the terminal, and two, the passengers didn’t have to answer any questions.

Sorentino slowed his RIV and checked his position and the position of the 747. A few more feet and they’d be centered.

Sorentino also spotted the mobile morgue and a bigger refrigerator truck near it, surrounded by a lot of people in white—the crew who would tag and bag the passengers.

On each side of the enclosure were mobile staircase trucks, six in all. Standing near each mobile staircase were his own guys, Port Authority cops and EMS people, positioned to get on board and begin the shitty job of unloading the corpses.

He also saw a lot of Trans-Continental vehicles—trucks, conveyor belts, rollers, baggage carts, and a scissor truck to unload the baggage containers in the hold. There were about twenty Trans-Continental baggage handlers standing around in their blue jumpsuits, holding their leather gloves. These guys usually had to hustle or a supervisor was up their ass. But the unloading of Flight 175 was not going to be timed.

Sorentino also spotted a Port Authority mobile X-ray truck to check out the baggage. He also noticed four catering trucks, which weren’t there to put food on board, he knew. The catering trucks, which could raise their cabins hydraulically to the level of the 747 doors, were actually the best way to unload bodies.

Everybody was here, he thought, everybody and everything that normally took place at the terminal was here. Everybody except the people waiting for Flight 175 to get to the gate. Those poor bastards, Sorentino thought, they’d be in a private room soon with Trans-Continental officials.

Sorentino tried to imagine Trans-Continental making all those notifications, keeping track of what morgue the bodies were in, getting the baggage and personal effects back to the families.
Jesus
.

And then, in a few days or weeks, when this 747 was all checked out and the problem was fixed, it would be back on the line, earning money for the company. Sorentino wondered if the passengers’ families would get rebates on the tickets.

A Port Authority cop was standing in front of Sorentino’s RIV now and motioning him forward a little, then the guy held up his hands and Sorentino stopped. He checked his sideview mirrors to make sure the idiot in the tug stopped, too, which he did. Sorentino reached up and turned off his rotating beam. He took a deep breath, then put his face into his hands and felt tears running down his cheeks, which surprised him because he didn’t know he was crying.

Kate, Officer Simpson, and I didn’t say much, we just listened to the patrol car radio. Simpson switched frequencies and made a call directly to one of the Emergency Service vehicles. He identified himself and said, “What’s the problem with Trans-Continental One-Seven-Five?”

A voice came over the speaker and said, “Seems to be toxic fumes. No fire. All souls lost.”

There was complete silence in the patrol car.

The speaker said, “Copy?”

Simpson cleared his throat and replied, “Copy, all souls lost. Out.”

Kate said, “My God ... can that be?”

Well, what more was there to say? Nothing. And that’s what I said. Nothing.

Officer Simpson found the taxiway that led to the security area. There was no urgency any longer, and, in fact, Simpson slowed down to the fifteen-miles-per-hour speed limit, and I didn’t say anything.

The sight in front of us was almost surreal—this huge aircraft lumbering along the taxiway toward this strange-looking wall of steel that had a wide opening in it.

The 747 passed through the opening in the wall, and the wings passed over the top of the wall.

Within a minute, we were up to the opening, but there were other trucks and cars ahead of us who’d waited until the 747 cleared. The other vehicles—an assortment of everything I’d ever seen on wheels—started to follow the 747, causing a small traffic jam.

I said to Simpson, “Meet us inside.” I jumped out of the patrol car and started running. I heard a door slam behind me and heard Kate’s footsteps gaining on me.

I didn’t know why I was running, but something in my head said, “Run!” So I ran, feeling that little pencil-shaped scar area in my lung giving me a problem.

Kate and I did some broken-field running around the vehicles and within a minute we were inside this huge enclosure, filled with vehicles, people, and one 747. It looked like something out of
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
. Maybe the
X-Files
.

People who run attract attention, and we were stopped by a uniformed Port Authority cop, who was joined quickly by his sergeant. The sergeant said, “Where’s the fire, folks?”

I tried to catch my breath and say, “FBI,” but only managed a sort of whistle that came out of my bad lung.

Kate held up her Fed creds and said, without any huffing or puffing, “FBI. We have a fugitive and escorts aboard that aircraft.”

I got my creds out and stuck the case in my outside breast pocket, still trying to catch my breath.

The Port Authority sergeant said, “Well, there’s no rush.” He added, “All dead.”

Kate said, “We have to board the aircraft to take charge of ... the bodies.”

“We have people to do that, miss.”

“Sergeant, our escorts are carrying guns as well as sensitive documents. This is a matter of national security.”

“Hold on.” He put his hand out, and the police officer beside him laid a radio in his palm. The sergeant transmitted and waited. He said to us, “Lots of radio traffic.”

I was tempted to get uppity, but I waited.

The sergeant said, while we waited, “This bird came in total NO-RAD—”

“We know that,” I said, happy that I’d picked up this jargon recently.

I looked at the 747, which had stopped in the center of the enclosure. Mobile staircases were being driven up to the doors, and soon there would be people on board.

The sergeant wasn’t getting a reply to his call, so he said to us, “You see that Mobile Incident Command vehicle over there? Go talk to somebody in there. They’re in direct contact with the FBI and my bosses.”

Before he changed his mind, we hurried off toward the Mobile Command vehicle.

I was still breathing hard, and Kate asked me, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

We both glanced over our shoulders and saw that the Port Authority sergeant was busy with something else. We changed course and headed toward the aircraft.

One mobile staircase was now in place at the rear of the aircraft, and a few Emergency Service guys were heading up the stairs followed by men and women in white, plus some guys in blue jumpsuits, and a guy in a business suit.

A gentleman never climbs a staircase behind a lady with a short skirt, but I gave it a try and motioned for Kate to go first. She said, “After you.”

So we got on the stairs and went through the door of the aircraft and into the huge cabin. The only lights were emergency floor lights, probably powered by batteries. There was some illumination from the late afternoon sunlight through the port side windows. But you didn’t need a lot of light to see that the cabin was about three-quarters full and that no one in the seats was moving.

The people who had entered with us stood motionless and quiet, and the only sounds came through the open doors.

The guy with the suit looked at Kate and me, and I saw he had a photo ID on his breast pocket. It was actually a Trans-Continental ID, and the guy looked awful. In fact, he said to us, “This is awful ... oh, my God ...”

I thought he was going to cry, but he got himself under control and said, “I’m Joe Hurley ... Trans-Continental baggage supervisor ...”

I said to him, “FBI. Look, Joe, keep your people out of the aircraft. This may be a crime scene.”

His eyes opened wide.

I really didn’t think at that point that this was a crime scene, but I wasn’t totally buying the toxic fumes accident thing either. The best way to get control of a situation is to say, “Crime Scene,” then everyone has to do what you say.

One of the Port Authority Emergency Service guys came over and said, “Crime scene?”