The Lion's Game (8 page)

Another voice said, “Rescue Three, I’m at your left.”

All fourteen vehicles were moving and transmitting now. One by one, they drove onto the runway as the huge airliner passed them.

The 747 was now abreast of McGill’s vehicle, and he had the impression that the rollout speed was too fast.

Sorentino hit the gas pedal, and the RIV V8 diesel roared as the vehicle sped onto the runway in pursuit of the decelerating jet.

Sorentino said, “Hey, Andy—no reverse thrust.”

“What ... ?”

As the RIV gained on the aircraft, McGill could now see that the cascading scoops behind each of the four engines were still streamlined in their cruise position. These hinged metal panels—the size of barn doors—were not deployed in the position to divert the jet blast to a more forward angle during rollout, which was why the aircraft was going too fast.

Sorentino checked his speedometer and announced, “One hundred ten.”

“Too fast. He’s going too fast.” McGill knew that the Boeing 747 was designed and certified to stop with just its wheel brakes and this runway was long enough, so it wasn’t a huge problem, but it was his first visual indication that something was wrong.

The 747 continued its rollout, decelerating more slowly than usual, but definitely slowing. McGill was in the lead pursuit vehicle, followed by the five other trucks, who were followed by the six patrol cars, who were followed by the two ambulances.

McGill picked up his microphone and gave each of the vehicles an order. They closed on the big, lumbering aircraft and took up their positions, one RIV to the rear, two T2900 trucks on each side, the patrol cars and ambulances fanned out to the rear. Sorentino and McGill passed under the mammoth wing of the aircraft and held a position near the nose as the jet continued to slow. McGill stared at the huge airliner out the side window. He called out to Sorentino over the roar of the jet engines, “I don’t see any problem.”

Sorentino concentrated on his speed and spacing, but said, “Why doesn’t he use his reverse thrust?”

“I don’t know. Ask him.”

The Boeing 747 slowed and finally came to a stop, a quarter mile short of the end of the runway, its nose bobbing up and down twice from the last of its momentum.

Each of the four T2900 vehicles had positioned themselves forty yards from the aircraft, two on each side, with the RIVs at front and rear. The ambulances stopped behind the aircraft, while the six patrol cars paired up with an Emergency Service vehicle, though each patrol car was further from the aircraft than the fire trucks. The six men in the patrol cars got out of their vehicles, as per standard operating procedures, and were taking precautionary cover on the sides of their cars away from the aircraft. Each man was armed with a shotgun or an AR-15 automatic rifle.

The men in the trucks stayed in their vehicles. McGill picked up his microphone and broadcast to the other five trucks, “Anyone see anything?”

No one responded, which was good, since procedurally the other rescue vehicles would maintain radio silence unless they had something pertinent to say.

McGill considered his next move. The pilot hadn’t used reverse thrust, so he’d had to apply a lot of wheel brakes. McGill said to Sorentino, “Move toward the tires.”

Sorentino edged their vehicle closer to the main tires on the aircraft’s starboard side. Putting out brake fires was the meat and potatoes of what they did for a living. It wasn’t hero stuff, but if you didn’t get some water on super-heated brakes pretty soon, it wasn’t unusual to see the entire landing gear suddenly erupt into flames. Not only was this not good for the tires, but with the fuel tanks right above the brakes, it also wasn’t good for anyone or anything within a hundred-yard radius of the aircraft.

Sorentino stopped the vehicle forty feet from the tires.

McGill raised his field glasses and stared hard at the exposed brake disks. If they were glowing red, it was time to start spraying, but they looked dull black like they were supposed to.

He picked up the microphone and ordered the T2900 vehicles to check the remaining three gangs of wheels.

The other vehicles reported negative on the hot brakes.

McGill transmitted, “Okay ... move back.”

The four T2900 vehicles moved away from the 747. McGill knew that the flight had come in NO-RAD, which was why they were all there, but he thought he should try to call the pilot. He transmitted on the ground frequency, “Trans-Continental One-Seven-Five, this is Rescue One. Do you read me? Over.”

No reply.

McGill waited, then transmitted again. He looked at Sorentino, who shrugged.

The emergency vehicles, the police cars, the ambulances, and the 747 all sat motionless. The Boeing’s four engines continued to run, but the aircraft remained still. McGill said to Sorentino, “Drive around where the pilot can see us.”

Sorentino put the RIV in gear and drove around to the front right side of the towering aircraft. McGill got out and waved up at the windshield, then, using ground controller hand and arm signals, he motioned for the pilot to continue toward the taxiway.

The 747 didn’t move.

McGill tried to see into the cockpit, but there was too much glare on the windshield, and the cockpit was high off the ground. Two things occurred to him almost simultaneously. The first thing was that he didn’t know what to do next. The next thing was that something was wrong. Not obviously wrong, but quietly wrong. This was the worst kind of wrong.

So we waited there at the International Arrivals gate—me, Kate Mayfield, George Foster, Ted Nash, and Debra Del Vecchio, the Trans-Continental gate agent. Being a man of action, I don’t like waiting, but cops learn to wait. I once spent three days on a stakeout posing as a hot dog vendor, and I ate so many hot dogs that I needed a pound of Metamucil to get me regular again.

Anyway, I said to Ms. Del Vecchio, “Is there a problem?”

She looked at her little walkie-talkie, which also has this readout screen, and she held it up to me again. It still read ON THE GROUND.

Kate said to her, “Please call someone.”

She shrugged and spoke into the hand radio. “This is Debbie, Gate Twenty-three. Status of Flight One-Seven-Five, please.”

She listened, signed off, and said to us, “They’re checking.”

“Why don’t they know?” I asked.

She replied patiently, “The aircraft is under Tower Control—the FAA—the Feds—not Trans-Continental. The company is called only if there’s a problem. No call, no problem.”

“The aircraft is late getting to the gate,” I pointed out.

“That’s not a problem,” she informed me. “It’s on time. We have a very good on-time record.”

“What if it sat on the runway for a week? Is it still on time?”

“Yes.”

I glanced at Ted Nash, who was still standing against the wall, looking inscrutable. As with most CIA types, he liked to give the impression that he knew more than he was saying. In most cases, what appeared to be quiet assurance and wisdom was actually clueless stupidity. Why do I hate this man?

But to give the devil his due, Nash whipped out his cell phone and punched in a bunch of numbers, announcing to us, “I have the direct dial to the Control Tower.”

It occurred to me that Mr. Nash actually did know more than he was saying, and that he knew, long before the flight landed, that there might be a problem.

Supervisor Ed Stavros in the FAA Control Tower continued to watch the scene being played out on Runway Four-Right through his binoculars. He said to the controllers around him, “They’re not foaming. They’re moving away from the aircraft ... one of the Emergency Service guys is hand-signaling to the pilot ...”

Controller Roberto Hernandez was talking on a telephone and said to Stavros, “Boss, the radar room wants to know how long before they can use Four-Left and when we can have Four-Right available to them again.” Hernandez added, “They have some inbounds that don’t have much holding fuel.”

Stavros felt his stomach knotting. He took a deep breath and replied, “I don’t know. Tell radar ... I’ll get back to them.”

Hernandez didn’t reply, nor did he pass on his supervisor’s non-answer.

Stavros finally grabbed the phone from Hernandez and said, “This is Stavros. We have ... a NO-RAD—yeah, I know you know that, but that’s all I know—look, if it was a fire, you’d have to divert anyway and you wouldn’t be bugging me—” He listened, then replied tersely, “So tell them the President’s getting a haircut on Four-Right and they have to divert to Philly.” He hung up and was immediately sorry he’d said that, though he was aware that the guys around him were laughing approvingly. He felt better for half a second, then his stomach knotted again. He said to Hernandez, “Give the flight another call. Use the Tower and Ground Control frequencies. If they don’t answer, we can assume they haven’t had any luck with their radio problems.”

Hernandez picked up a console microphone and tried to raise the aircraft on both frequencies.

Stavros focused the binoculars and scanned the scene again. Nothing had changed. The giant Boeing sat stoically, and he could see the exhaust heat and fumes behind each of the power plants. The various Emergency Service vehicles and the police cars held their positions. In the far distance, a similarly composed team sat well away from the runway, burning fuel and doing what everyone else was doing—nothing. Whoever it was that had been trying to get the pilot’s attention—probably McGill—had given up and was standing there with his hands on his hips looking very stupid, Stavros thought, as though he were pissed off at the 747.

What didn’t make sense to Stavros was the pilot’s inaction. No matter what the problem was, a pilot’s first inclination would be to clear an active runway at the earliest opportunity. Yet, the Boeing 747 just sat there.

Hernandez gave up on the radio and said to Stavros, “Should I call someone?”

“There’s no one left to call, Roberto. Who are we supposed to call? The people who are supposed to get the fucking aircraft out of there are standing around with their fingers up their nose. Who should I call next? My mother? She wanted me to be a lawyer—” Stavros realized he was losing it and calmed himself down. He took another long breath and said to Hernandez, “Call those clowns down there.” He pointed toward the situation at the end of Four-Right. “Call Guns and Hoses. McGill.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hernandez got on the radiophone and called Unit One, the lead Emergency Service vehicle. Sorentino answered and Hernandez asked, “Situation report.” He hit the speaker phone button, and Sorentino’s voice came up into the silent room. Sorentino said, “I don’t know what’s happening.”

Stavros grabbed the radiophone and, trying to control his anxiety and annoyance, said, “If you don’t know, how am I supposed to know? You’re there. I’m here. What is going on? Talk to me.”

There was a few seconds of silence, then Sorentino said, “There’s no sign of a mechanical problem ... except—”

“Except
what?”

“The pilot came in without reverse thrust. You understand?”

“Yes, I fucking well understand what reverse thrust is.”

“Yeah, so ... McGill is trying to get the flight crew’s attention—”

“The flight crew has everyone else’s attention. Why can’t we get
their
attention?”

“I don’t know.” Sorentino asked, “Should we board the aircraft?”

Stavros considered this question and wondered if he was the person to answer it. Normally, Emergency Service made that determination, but in the absence of a visible problem, the hotshots down there didn’t know if they should board. Stavros knew that boarding an aircraft on the runway with its engines running was potentially dangerous to the aircraft and to the Emergency Service people, especially if no one knew the intentions of the pilot. What if the aircraft suddenly moved? On the other hand, there
could
be a problem on board. Stavros had no intention of answering the question and said to Sorentino, “That’s your call.”

Sorentino replied, “Okay, thanks for the tip.”

Stavros didn’t care for this guy’s sarcasm and said, “Look, it’s not my job to— Hold on.” Stavros was aware of Hernandez holding a telephone out to him. “Who is it?”

“A guy who asked for you by name. He says he’s with the Justice Department. Says there’s a fugitive on board Flight One-Seven-Five who’s in custody, and he wants to know what’s happening.”

“Shit ...” Stavros took the phone and said, “This is Mr. Stavros.” He listened and his eyes widened. Finally, Stavros said, “I understand. Yes, sir. The aircraft came in without radio contact and is still sitting at the end of Runway Four-Right. It’s surrounded by Port Authority police and Emergency Service personnel. The situation is static.”

He listened, then replied, “No, there’s no indication of a real problem. There was no hijacking transponder call sent out, but the aircraft did experience a near miss—” He listened again, wondering if he should even mention the reverse thrust thing to someone who might overreact to a relatively minor mechanical problem, or maybe an oversight on the pilot’s part. Stavros wasn’t sure exactly who this guy was, but he sounded like he had power. Stavros waited until the man finished, then said, “Okay, I understand. I’ll get on it—” He looked at the dead phone, then handed it back to Hernandez. The decision had just been made for him and he felt better.

Stavros put the radiophone to his mouth and transmitted to Sorentino, “Okay, Sorentino, you are to enter the aircraft. There’s a fugitive on board. Business Class in the dome. He’s cuffed and escorted so don’t be pulling guns and scaring the passengers. But take the guy and his two escorts off the aircraft and have one of the patrol cars take them to Gate Twenty-three where they’ll be met. Okay?”

“Roger. But I have to call my Tour Commander—”

“I don’t give a shit who you call—just do what I asked. And when you get on board, find out what the problem is, and if there is no problem, tell that pilot to get off the damned runway and proceed to Gate Twenty-three. Lead him in.”