Skyhammer (18 page)

Holding a tissue under his nose, he paced the floor, trying not to watch the clock. In college he had always hated standing
on the sidelines, waiting for the defense to get the ball back, even after Georgia Tech had built a wide margin. This waiting
was like that—too passive, too obedient. The hijacker had the ball and they needed to get it back before he had time to think,
adjust his strategy.

Searing turned and measured the floor again, between the horseshoe and the principal’s station, from one end of the cluttered
room to the other, glaring at the stacks of old files and notebook logs, at one wall and then the opposite, stopping only
to get another tissue from the box at the principal’s station. It irritated him now, too, that Brian L’Hommedieu could remain
so complaisant. The agent was sitting at station 8, chin in hand, calmly playing and replaying the tape recording he’d made
of Pate. Searing forced himself to stand still. With his hands gripped together behind him, he studied the big U.S. map on
the wall beyond the horseshoe, and listened. Pate’s voice was deep, full of gravel. As the FBI agent had said, it wasn’t the
voice you’d expect.

“We can forget the Established Strategy, can’t we?” the voice was saying.

Searing turned to pace again. The worst of it was that. The Established Strategy was useless now. And realizing this was like
finding out in the first quarter that you’d spent all week preparing a defense only to learn the other team had installed
a new offense. One you couldn’t read. You could only play a prevent-defense—let the enemy take his yardage, hope he made a
mistake, but be ready to stop him at the goal line.

Except they weren’t ready. Searing stopped pacing, unclenched his hands as the thought took hold: They were making a blunder—a
huge one. He stood still for another moment, making sure. Was there any other way? He couldn’t think of any. Circling around
the end of the horseshoe, he sat down beside L’Hommedieu. He didn’t need the negotiator’s approval, but he was supposed to
get his input. And he wanted agreement at least.

From the tape recorder came the familiar high-pitched squeal—Pate deliberately keying his mike at the same time as L’Hommedieu.
Then L’Hommedieu’s voice asking a question. Then Pate’s deep voice saying, “Yeah. Don’t talk about the passengers.”

“Turn that off a minute,” Searing told him.

“... Only those on the inside, the ones swallowed up in it,
know
,” Pate was saying. “But if I do this, everyone will know Farraday’s a slimeball, a monster.”

“We need to talk, damn it.”

L’Hommedieu stopped the tape and ran it back. He flipped a page on his notes and remained absorbed in them. “What is it?”

Searing leaned closer. “We need to initiate armed interdiction.”

Now he had the agent’s attention. “What are you talking about?” L’Hommedieu said, staring at him incredulously. “The subject
is at thirty thousand feet, for God’s sake.”

“I’m talking fighter intercept.” Searing straightened up. “He might be bluffing, but what if he isn’t? What if he’s totally
sure of his intentions? If he is, we’ve got to have the last-ditch option.”

Tissue wadded in his fist, Searing waited, watching L’Hommedieu’s eyes, but he got only a blank look—the agent was busy computing.
“Listen,” Searing went on. “That airplane’s a goddamn flying bomb, and right now only Pate’s in total control of where it
comes down. Populated area—we could be talking hundreds more lives. We can’t let him get anywhere near Phoenix. We need an
intercept in the air, in position to respond.”

“Do you know what you’re proposing?” L’Hommedieu said quietly.

“Of course I do. But we need it.”

L’Hommedieu thought for a few more seconds, and this time Searing could tell his argument was registering. But the agent shook
his head. “I don’t like it. We put a fighter up now, it becomes a threat. Not a good idea at this point.”

“We don’t let him know it’s there,” Searing said, exasperated now. “And we keep on negotiating, keep trying to talk him out
of it, trying to talk him down.”

L’Hommedieu stared at his notes again, then looked up at the clock. “How much time would we need to get a plane up?”

Searing tossed his tissue into the can beside station 2. “We’ll need Presidential approval to use military force, and that’ll
take some time. Let’s say thirty minutes. Make it forty-five. Count in another thirty minutes to intercept. Add another fifteen
minutes for Murphy’s Law.”

“That leaves a half hour,” L’Hommedieu said. “Let’s give it that long.”

“Why? Why wait if we’re going to do it anyway?”

L’Hommedieu had turned away, as if he thought the matter settled, but now he looked up again, studied Searing for a moment,
then shrugged. “Because as soon as the President and his staff know how serious this is, we start to lose some of that control
you’re worried about. Especially when they find out Sanford’s on the plane. If we give the President that piece of information
this early, he might latch onto it and simply cut us out of the whole decision-making process and then waffle around until
it is too late.”

Searing also hated the idea of involving politicians, stretching the chain of command. “But listen,” he tried, “the President
knows a hijack’s in progress. By now the White House Situation Room’s briefed him that the hijacker’s one of the pilots, right?
So now we tell him the subject’s intractable. We tell him we need the approval now, as a contingency, ahead of the time we
might have to use it.”

“And what about Sanford?” L’Hommedieu said. “You want to be the one to tell the President afterward that you simply forgot
Sanford was aboard?”

Searing let his breath out. It was a good point, one he couldn’t argue.

L’Hommedieu turned back to his notes. “We keep the lid on a little longer. Let’s see if we can get a demand out of Pate. We
get that, we’ve got something to hang our hopes on. And I’m betting Pate goes for the cheese.”

“But Pate’s trained as part of the response team,” Searing insisted, though he felt defeated now. “He knows what you’re trying
to do.”

“However—” L’Hommedieu smiled at him this time. “We
are
departing from Strategy. Farraday is the object of Pate’s aggression. Pate knows we wouldn’t want to allow him direct contact.
Yet we’ve offered Farraday to him. This is something he hadn’t considered. He’ll be suspicious, yes, but also confused, and
intrigued by the idea. And finally he’ll give in to it. He’ll think, Why not? What have I got to lose? And maybe, just maybe
if we can actually get Farraday on the line, Pate will clean out his pipes, vent the pent-up rage. And then ...” L’Hommedieu
paused, was about to speak again, when Penny Lofton swiveled her chair around.

“I’ve got Pate’s chief pilot. Line two. Charles Overstreet.”

L’Hommedieu put his hand on Searing’s forearm. “Let’s give Pate another twenty minutes, okay?”

Searing agreed, but he didn’t like it. He yanked station 7’s handset from its cradle, thinking something still didn’t seem
right. “Let’s see what Overstreet can tell us,” he said.

They had already decided that Searing would begin the interview so that L’Hommedieu could be available in the event Pate called
back. L’Hommedieu would listen in on the other phone, take notes. Searing liked this arrangement. It was better that the chief
pilot did not know the FBI was involved, at least not immediately. If necessary, though, if Overstreet were evasive, L’Hommedieu
would jump in and change the complexion of the call from interview to interrogation.

Overstreet seemed friendly at first, but wary. No, he said, he’d not been told the reason for Searing’s call. Then he corrected
himself. “Not specifically. An emergency was all I was told,” he said.

Unlikely, Searing thought. He checked L’Hommedieu’s reaction—which indicated he thought the same—then said, “We’re needing
a little information on one of your pilots. “Emil Pate. Know him?”

After a moment, Overstreet said, “Yes. What’s happened to him?”

“I can’t say at this time, Mr. Overstreet.” Searing made sure L’Hommedieu agreed with that. “But we’re wondering what you
can tell us about him.”

“Let me get his file.” Overstreet said. There was a sharp click as the phone was placed down on a hard surface. A few seconds
later, Searing heard a file drawer slide shut with a bang.

L’Hommedieu covered his mouthpiece. “Get him right to the psychological profile,” he said. “His own opinion.”

Then Overstreet was back on. “Well,” he said, “There’s nothing unusual in Pate’s record. Except for outstanding performances
on all his checkrides.”

“Actually, we’re more interested in his state of mind,” Searing said. “Some sort of psychological profile.”

“Ah,” Overstreet said. “You have to understand, we’ve got over six hundred pilots at this base. I remember Pate, but I can’t
be expected to keep a close watch on all of them, you understand. It’s not really my job, Mr. Searing.”

L’Hommedieu was shaking his head. Overstreet was smokescreening.

“Didn’t you have to counsel him a couple of months ago?”

“A couple of months ago?” Overstreet cleared his throat. “Yeah, here it is. No big deal, as I recall. I mean he was a striker
who came back to work for us. He was carrying that seniority-integration grudge. You know, being bumped back to the right-hand
seat. But he seemed stable to me. Very stable.”

“Sounds like you remember him pretty well,” Searing said.

“No, it’s not that,” Overstreet answered too quickly. Now he waited too long to continue.” I just mean I would remember him
if he hadn’t seemed normal. If you see what I mean.”

L’Hommedieu covered his mouthpiece again. “I’m going to jump in.”

“Would you hold a moment, Mr. Overstreet?” Searing covered his mouthpiece. L’Hommedieu was right. The guy needed an arm twist.
“You want me to tell him who you are?”

L’Hommedieu shook his head. “I’ll do it.”

The agent introduced himself, speaking quickly in a flat, voice that carried a trace of threat. “I’m a special agent with
the FBI, Mr. Overstreet. And I can tell from your equivocation that Emil Pate does stand out in your memory. So, please, start
telling us what you really know about the man. Right now.”

Searing heard Overstreet exhale, then silence. “Okay,” he said quietly. “But what’s Pate done? I think I have a right to know
that.”

“Understandable request,” L’Hommedieu answered. “However, we can’t tell you at this time. You’ll just have to accept that.
Now tell me, please, what’s your personal opinion of Emil Pate? In a nutshell.”

“In a nutshell?” For a dozen seconds Overstreet was silent. Then he said, “Well, he’s a tough one to get a handle on.”

I’ve seen his employment record,” L’Hommedieu said. “He doesn’t fit the typical commercial pilot profile.”

“No,” Overstreet agreed, “he’s not college educated for one thing. But what I mean is, he’s his own man. Though he cares what
people think of him, in my opinion anyway. Or at least he cares what his own clique thinks.”

“Many friends? Or do most pilots dislike him?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. You don’t dislike him. He’s not mean. Actually, I think he was very popular—at Westar. I’m sure
he’s still close to a number of those pilots. There used to be a pack of them at Westar, a dozen maybe. A bunch of ex—Viet
Nam fliers. Called the ‘Wild Bunch’.”

“Why were they called that?” L’Hommedieu asked. “Were they reckless?”

“No,” Overstreet said. “Not in the cockpit, no. They’re all excellent pilots, those I know of—some of them are with us now,
I think. But on the ground—again this is hearsay— apparently they’d use their layovers ‘to maximum benefit’ as we’d say.”

“Meaning?”

Overstreet cleared his throat again. “Chase women. Get rowdy.”

“I thought Pate was married.”

“I’m talking about ten years ago,” Overstreet said. “Make that fifteen. Before regulation. Right after Viet Nam. Most of those
guys were fighter pilots. Fairly big egos. See, that’s their whole problem—but I suppose one needs a healthy ego to command
a jetliner, too.”

“And Pate was a captain at Westar,” L’Hommedieu said, “but now he’s a copilot again, and so he’s more than a little upset
about the seniority integration.”

“Yeah,” Overstreet said firmly. “I think you could say that.”

“Incensed?”

“That’d be a good word to use, yes. Okay, to be honest, he unloaded on me, right here in the office. But it wasn’t just rage.
The guy was ashamed of himself for losing it. That’s why I thought it had gotten out of his system, that all he needed was
to blow off steam. Apparently that’s not—”

“Why do you think he in particular was so mad? Were you having as much trouble with the other Westar pilots who stayed?”

“No,” Overstreet said firmly. “No, most of them understand the situation, I think. Some have grudges. You have to expect that.
But Pate sort of wears his uniform all the time. If you read his file, you know what I mean. Big ego. Mr. Pilot all the way.”

L’Hommedieu nodded. “He identified strongly with the role of captain?”

“I’d say completely. You have to understand how much authority the captain has—New World captains anyway.”

“So Pate felt a loss of status.”

“Bingo,” Overstreet said.

“Did you work for Westar?”

“Me?” Overstreet sounded surprised. He was quiet for a minute, then said, “Eight years.”

“Did you cross the line during or after the strike?”

“Wait a minute,” Overstreet said. “Are you suggesting something?”

L’Hommedieu made a note his pad. “Mr. Overstreet, just one more question. This isn’t an accusation, and what you say is confidential
as of the moment I say so. Okay? So what I want to know is, why—if Pate flew into a violent rage—why didn’t you take him off
the flight roster?”

Again Overstreet was quiet. Then he said, “Okay, I want to know what’s going on. What’s Pate done?”

“I’m asking the questions,” L’Hommedieu answered. “Your failing to answer them truthfully could be obstruction of justice.
Why did you leave him on the roster?”