Skyhammer (23 page)

L’Hommedieu covered his handset again. “You want me to talk to him?”

Searing covered his. “We’re not negotiating, we’re ordering.”

The agent nodded.

“Mr. Farraday?” Searing paced to the edge of the platform and turned. “We believe the opposite is true. We believe a refusal
from you will make him even more—”

“Will you hold, please?” Farraday covered the phone.

L’Hommedieu covered his. “Play up to him just a little. He’s just going through the ritual. Guy’s got an ego.”

“I know that,” Searing snapped. L’Hommedieu looked rebuffed.

Then Farraday was on again. “This man hasn’t made his ransom demand yet?”

“Yet?” Searing sat down on the edge of his station, feeling abruptly tired. Where in the hell had Farraday gotten this idea
that Pate was in it for money? “There won’t be any ransom demand,” he said patiently. “You’re all he wants. He’s going to
crash the plane to get even with you.”

There was silence on the other end. L’Hommedieu sat on the edge of the horseshoe, and they looked at each other, listening.
There was muffled conversation now.

“Mr. Searing,” Farraday said, coming back on. “I’m not a negotiator—just a minute, please.” Again he covered the phone. Then
he was back. “I understand Corbett Rodgers has been called in. When will he be there?”

Now Searing’s anger returned full force. He fought to control it—delay it anyway. He’d let it out when he discovered who was
feeding Farraday information. “Rodgers won’t be here in time,” he said through his teeth. “He’s down in Annapolis. So you’ll
just have to deal with me. Anyway, this isn’t a request, It’s an order, sir.”

“I see,” Farraday answered. “Your order? And you are the acting principal?”

“Tell you what,” Searing said. “Let
me
talk to someone else. You got a lawyer handy?”

Once more the phone was covered. Searing waited, pacing back and forth as far as the cord would let him.

“Use your authority,” L’Hommedieu said. “Don’t use your anger.”

Searing nodded, understanding what he meant. But it wasn’t easy. Another minute passed. Then a new voice was on the line.

“Mr. Searing? I’m Edgar Boyce, Mr. Farraday’s chief legal counsel, and I must first tell you that, having looked at the hijacker’s
record, we’re fully convinced he is rational, that this act is rational.”

Searing sat down in his chair and took a deep breath. “We’ve seen his record too,” he said quietly. “But we’ve also talked
to him, and he doesn’t want money. Now you can help me by making it clear to your boss that we are not
asking
him to go out to the Albuquerque control center, we are ordering it. I am authorized by the Director of the U.S. Department
of Transportation, under Article 1872, section N-7250 of the Federal Aviation Administration Code governing air piracy situation
strategy. As a lawyer you know what it will mean if you resist my authority. If Farraday doesn’t comply, he’ll have hell to
pay. Impress him with that.”

Boyce covered the phone now, and there was silence. L’Hommedieu said, “I think I know what’s going on here. They’re trying
to build an alternative story.”

“Covering their goddamn asses is what they’re up to,” Searing said. “Even I’m starting to get on Pate’s side of this.” He
halfway meant that, he realized. Farraday reminded him of the falsely liberal, white shopowners he’d known in the South—cool-talking
to your face but mean-spirited, self-serving little racist bastards behind your back.

Boyce came on the line again. “Mr. Searing, of course Mr. Farraday is very concerned and wants to do what’s right. He merely
wants to make sure—”

“Listen,” Searing said. “You tell him the next time we hear from him he’d better be sitting in front of a situation display
at Albuquerque center.”

“All right, Mr. Searing,” Boyce said quietly. “But you must understand that whatever transpires from this will be the liability
of the FAA, not New World Airlines.”

“Fine. Say whatever you need to say. Just do it.” Searing reached for another tissue. “And keep this line open, please, and
let us know as soon as Farraday’s on his way.”

“Certainly,” Boyce said.

After he’d switched the line to mute, Searing used the tissue to wipe the sweat from his face. “Jesus, what a slippery bastard,”
he said to L’Hommedieu.

The agent agreed. “He’s going to be a problem.”

“Sorry about barking at you a minute ago.”

L’Hommedieu smiled at him. “How did you manage to remember the specific FAA article?”

Searing shook his head, smiled back, and shrugged. “One number’s as good as another.”

Luke Air Force Base

Glendale, Arizona

19:24 GMT/12:13 MST

The 461st Fighter Squadron’s dayroom was the kind of environment often found in the military. The once-sterile and official
decor had, over time, become dilapidated and personalized. On the wall behind the steel-legged, government-issue tables and
chrome-and-tan vinyl recliners and sofas was a picture of a Canadian lake, and suspended from the low acoustic-panel ceiling,
an array of plastic airplane models—from World War Two vintage to the present.

There was a television set, too, an old console that had probably anchored someone’s family room for a decade before being
donated to the squadron. Today, a half dozen flight-suited pilots were watching it in rapt silence, which was unusual, especially
on a fall football Saturday. But the football game had been interrupted by a news bulletin.

“It has just been confirmed,” the news reporter was saying, “that Arizona Senator John Sanford is among the passengers on
Flight Five-five-five. Senator Sanford is the chairman of the Armed Forces Committee and has been one of the president’s chief
opponents on the B-2 Stealth program. When we come back, we’ll take you to our correspondent at FAA headquarters in Washington.”

On the screen appeared a picture of a New World MD-80 with the headline: MUTINY IN THE AIR: THE FLIGHT OF NEW WORLD 555. There
was a rising murmur of conversation. Captain Larry O’Brien was just turning to comment to his weapons systems officer, 1st
Lt. John Nesbitt, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned further and looked up into the eyes of the 461st’s Commander,
Lt. Col. Everett Baxter. Baxter’s other hand was on Nesbitt’s shoulder. His eyes were puffy and swollen, O’Brien noticed.
He wasn’t smiling.

“You two, come with me.”

The two men followed him down the east hall. Baxter pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his flight suit, honked into
it, and turned into his office. The room was furnished in typical military modern: a gray metal desk, U.S. and Air Force flags
behind it, the Air Education and Training Command emblem on the wall flanked by photos of McDonnell-Douglas F-4 and F-15 fighter
aircraft. Baxter went around behind the desk and took a seat, dabbing at his nose.

“Remain standing, gentlemen. This won’t take long.” He seemed determinedly grim as he took a folded paper out of the top drawer
of his desk. He glanced at it, then folded it again and began smacking it softly into the palm of his other hand.

“Your cross-country is canceled,” he announced suddenly, looking at each of them in turn. “You’ve been reassigned—a special
mission.” He tossed the folded paper across the desk.

The two flyers stepped closer. O’Brien unfolded the order and held the teletyped message so that Nesbitt could also read.
It was addressed to the commander, 525 FIS. “By order of the President of the United States,” it began. The officers needed
only seconds to read the instructions. They exchanged glances with each other, then both looked back at Baxter.

“I picked you two,” he told them matter-of-factly, “because you’re the best I’ve got. Normally I, or the Executive Officer
would fly something like this, but he’s halfway to Bergstrom and I’m nursing this goddamn cold. So it’s fallen to you.”

Baxter turned away, looked out through the window. Beyond were ramps, airplanes, and runways, then desert and in the far distance,
the low, blunted peaks of the White Tank Mountains. “Thank god we’re flying two-seaters,” he said, his voice gone softer.
“I can’t imagine a lone man on this mission.” And then he was facing them again, his eyes hard on theirs. “Your aircraft is
number six-nineteen,” he said. “It’s being uploaded with two Sidewinders, two Sparrows, and an external tank. You’re to be
airborne ASAP. Albuquerque center will provide vectors—strictly UHF communications. You’re to intercept and await further
instructions. Any questions?”

The men glanced at each other again. Then O’Brien quietly said, “No, sir.”

“A truck is waiting outside the equipment room. Godspeed, gentlemen.”

“Thank you, sir,” O’Brien answered automatically. The three men snapped off the requisite salutes without another word, O’Brien
and Nesbitt about-faced and left the office, walking briskly down the long hall to the personal-equipment room, where the
unit’s oxygen masks, helmets and g-suits were stored.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

19:07 GMT/12:07 MST

Katherine Winslow had talked to her father on the telephone that morning. He’d called just after nine her time, as he usually
did on Saturdays. As he had for the past three months, he had sent her a check for two hundred dollars and wanted to know
if she had gotten it. What he really wanted to know was if she had cashed it.

This was a ritual. Her father would insist that she use the money, not mess up his monthly accounting by leaving the check
pinned under a magnet on the refrigerator door—which was what she had done with the previous checks he had sent.

Once this issue was out of the way, he would spend a sentence or two telling her about the drought. Her parents had moved
back to California when her father retired, to get away from the deadly dry summers of northern Idaho. But now they had been
through three straight summers just as dry, and so he always talked rain, the chance of it, anyway.

Then he would steer the conversation back to her and the girls. She had not realized until just a few years ago how devoted
he was to her, how saddened by the events of her life. She and her father had fought often during her high-school years. She
had resented the move to Idaho, resented being the principal’s daughter. She knew now that the marriage to her first husband,
Donald Weeghas, had been an attempt to get even. Her father had never liked Donald, the Lapwai football team’s star quarterback,
a handsome full-blood Nez Perce who’d had aspirations of playing college ball at Idaho State. His wish had evaporated soon
after their wedding, and with it his ambition to be anything. She was actually surprised sometimes that they had stayed married
long enough to have two children, except that Donald had always been a good soul at bottom, not mean.

A dangerous one, though, her father had told her the night she came home to say she was marrying him. Dangerous because he
didn’t care enough to make anything of himself. He would fail and then try to keep her from succeeding.

Her father had been right. She’d dropped out of college because of Donald. After the divorce, though, her father had never
mentioned his prediction. He had instead taken her and the girls in, then given them the house in Lapwai and helped to pay
for the rest of her college education. Perhaps in marrying Emil Pate she had been trying to make up for the grief she had
caused both her parents, while at the same time keeping a measure of pride. For her father had not given Emil much credit
either, not when Emil had been a student of his, and yet Emil had succeeded—made something of himself. And her father had
immediately liked the Emil Pate she had brought home after their wedding. A mature, self-possessed man, kind to her and gentle
with the girls.

There had been something hidden in him, though, which she had sensed from the start—not irresponsibility but rather the opposite.
Everything mattered to him. He cared too much. And yet he had always seemed such a genial person. His determination had made
him appealing, admirable, but ultimately dangerous, too, because he couldn’t let go, accept defeat—he could only pretend to.
And Farraday, the takeover of Westar, the merger, had turned him into a puzzle, silent one minute, raging the next. She hated
to think of him like that now, but it was true. She had lost him to the willful stubbornness that had made him leave her.
To save her from his ugliness, he had said, but in those first days after he’d gone, she’d felt as though her life had crumbled
again. That she’d made another mistake after all. Maybe her father thought so, too. He would stand by her again, though, would
keep on sending checks, at least until she got through graduate school. And he would keep on calling so that they could play
the little game that allowed her to save face.

She had spent too long talking to him that morning. It was after eleven before she could leave the house to look for a garden
hose at the hardware store. In the backyard of the house she had rented there were two neglected apricot trees, which she
wanted to bring back to health if she could, although she knew she would move as soon as possible. The house was underneath
the approach to the airport and so was subjected day and night to the downwhine of jetliners coming in for landings, every
one reminding her of Emil. The sound of the late-night flights especially made her heart ache with loneliness. But in the
meantime the trees needed water, and so she needed a hose.

After stopping at the hardware store, she drove to the Rio Rico Motel, where she worked as bookkeeper. This morning she would
finish a renovation spreadsheet she had promised to have ready Monday morning for the new owner, Stan Fife.

She parked her station wagon next to the office and got her bundle of laundry out of the back. Stan was letting her use the
motel laundry until she could buy her own machines. His pickup was parked at the far end of the complex, and he was standing
down in the old swimming pool. He waved to her. She liked Stan Fife, more and more all the time. He was a big, gentle, good-natured
man. Smart, too. And no penny-pincher. He had planned more than just a facelift for the Rio Rico. Having been a contractor
most of his life, he knew that new plumbing and wiring were as necessary as new stucco. He had hired an architect and requested
good quality materials and finishes. Stan also understood what she was going through. He had lost his wife to Leukemia ten
years ago.