Skyhammer (7 page)

Pate nodded, but did not turn to look at her. “Sure I will,” he said.

She laughed, but it sounded hollow, as if she, too, could see that Pate was in no mood to talk. “Well, I’m glad to know we’re
in good hands.” She looked at Boyd again. “Because guess who we’ve got aboard today?”

“Who?” Boyd said.

Pate turned, too.

“Does the name John Sanford ring a bell?”

“
Senator
John Sanford?” Boyd asked. Sanford was a big shot all right—the front-running candidate for the Republican nomination in
the next presidential race. Boyd had seen him on network news a lot lately. An imposing guy, Viet Nam War hero if he remembered
correctly.

Ponti nodded at both of them. “The same. He’ll be right here in first class if you want an autograph.”

Boyd smiled up at her. “I might just slide back if I get the chance. Give him my advice.”

Ponti managed a better smile this time. “I’m sure he needs it.”

The de-icing truck had arrived, its nozzle operator bundled against the cold in his basket atop the boom. Pate reached up
to the overhead panel and switched off both air conditioning packs to keep the acrid fumes from entering the cabin.

The de-icing operator began his application and they were quickly enveloped in the syrupy mist of warm glycol-water solution
pouring over the fuselage. The cockpit became even smaller, and silent except for the muted whirring of the instrument cooling
fans. They were finished with their preflight checks, and for a minute they both sat still. Then Boyd could feel Pate’s eyes
on him. He turned his head and looked into them, saw the cold anger he’d seen before.

“So you still don’t think I deserve this.” Boyd said, turning away again to stare at the distant edge of the airport. He would
call Pate out right now, he decided. If he had to. Better that than another trip like the last one.

“You’re right,” Pate said. “You don’t deserve it. Doesn’t matter, though.”

He was still looking at Boyd. Startled by the remark, Boyd stared back. Was Pate mad or not? The anger had vanished from his
eyes now. There was nothing in them, nothing at all.

“Coffee anyone?” Mariella was leaning through the entryway. “Coffee?”

Boyd looked away. “Sure,” he said, turning forward in his seat. “Just cream.”

“How about you, Emil?”

Pate had also turned to face forward. He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said quietly.

New World 555

16:24 GMT/11:24 EST

In the thirteen years she’d been a flight attendant, Mariella Ponti had flown with all kinds of pilots. There were those like
her husband Tony—decent guys who got along with everybody—and there were the ego-driven jerks who thought they were God’s
gift. Now there were the Boyds, too, the scabs, the strutting young captains, cocky and arrogant. Maybe it took that type
to do what they’d done. “Full of themselves,” as Tony had said, when they’d simply come too far too fast. It took all Ponti
had to be civil to them. Boyd didn’t even look like a pilot; he looked more like a yuppie executive—at the opposite end of
the spectrum from Emil Pate. Emil was a guy you’d immediately guess was a pilot. Something in the eyes, and in the way he
moved, spoke, acted when he was in the cockpit.

Ponti thought about it as she waited for the coffee to finish brewing. Scabs or not, there were more of Boyd’s kind these
days, fewer of Pate’s. At Westar there’d been a group of them—Tom Locke, Deke Keller, “Hug” Matthews (she’d never even known
Hug’s real name)—mostly ex–Air Force, Navy or Marines. They were proud, not arrogant. She’d never felt slighted by them, or
offended by their antics. They believed in working hard and playing hard, and on the ground they’d all been pretty crazy—Emil,
too, before he’d gotten married. He had been so different then, always smiling, laughing, always a story to tell. He’d pulled
stunts on layovers, and chased the girls—he’d chased her a little, in a polite sort of way, she remembered now with a smile.
But he was a pilot, completely professional. She’d always felt a little easier when someone like Emil was flying the plane.

Not today, though. It was so wrong, she thought as she slid the coffee carafe out of the machine. How could Jack Farraday
have done this to the ones who had stayed? He had to have known they’d end up crewed with the strikebreakers. It had to be
hurting Emil Pate terribly. Was that why he’d seemed so surprised to see her, though? She’d noted the look in his eyes. Maybe
something else was bothering him, besides Boyd.

Ponti poured coffee, added creamer, and dropped in a plastic stirstick. Then she pushed open the folding door to the cockpit
again and handed the coffee forward to Boyd.

“Still okay, Emil?”

“Fine.” He didn’t turn his head.

She stepped back again but hesitated, watching Pate’s big, square, brown hand move to do something, then move again. His dark
hair was long on his neck, longer than that of most pilots. Suddenly, remembering her husband’s agonizing, his sleepless nights,
the whole awful year just past, she felt acutely sorry for Emil Pate, who was older and had probably lost a lot more. Maybe
in Phoenix there’d be an opportunity for them to talk.

“What are you doing for lunch?” she asked, touching Pate’s shoulder again.

Before Pate could answer, Boyd turned his head, smiling at her. “We’ve got an hour and a half. You girls got any ideas?” His
eyes leered at her smugly.

“No big plans,” she said, trying not to encourage him. We’re just thinking of going for a burrito at the Mexican place on
the A concourse.”

“Sure,” Boyd said. “Sounds good. All three of you going, right?”

“How about you, Emil?” she stepped forward again and touched his shoulder. “You interested?”

Pate turned his head the other way again, to look out the side window. “Yeah, maybe.”

Ponti stepped back, sorrier than ever. It seemed he didn’t want company. But she’d make him go with them, she decided. And
while Boyd was trying to start something with the others, she’d find out what was the matter. “Okay, guys,” she said.

“You need anything, just holler.”

“Okay,” Boyd said. “See you later.”

First class was booked to eight—about normal for an off Saturday. Senator Sanford and his aide were the only first-class passengers
yet to board. In 3B was a Mrs. Howard, who would be seventy-eight on Sunday and was going down to Scottsdale to spend her
birthday with her son. She was a little talkative but sweet. The other five, spread out in the remaining seats were all probably
frequent-flyer businessmen using upgrades from coach. They all showed the fatigue of broken routine, as if they’d finished
too late to get out the night before—so they’d probably try to work a little and then sleep through most of the trip.

Ponti got a notepad out of her apron pocket and stepped into the cabin to take predeparture drink orders. A couple of the
businessmen wanted Bloody Marys, the rest coffee. Mrs. Howard asked for orange juice, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Ponti chatted with her for a minute, asking about her son, a chiropractor, she learned. She told Mrs. Howard she’d heard Scottsdale
was a good place for chiropractors, and then she turned and found herself face to face with John Sanford, who was just coming
to his seat.

“Good morning,” she said quickly, catching her breath.

He smiled down at her. “Good morning.”

He was big, broad-shouldered, and as handsome as a movie star, his silvered hair billowing around his head. Definitely senatorial,
she decided, even though he’d already removed his gray suit jacket and loosened his tie. His aide, a balding, middle-aged
man wearing glasses, stood behind him, holding an overloaded briefcase.

“Can I get you something before we take off?” she asked.

He ordered black coffee. His aide asked for V-8.

She took their coats and hung them in the forward closet. As she might have guessed, less then ten seconds after she’d stepped
into the galley, Christy Jacobson, one of the other attendants, appeared.

“I just had to sneak a peek before we blocked out,” she whispered. “Wow, what a hunk!”

“How’s it look in coach, Christy?” Ponti tore the foil seal from the V-8 can.

“Packed.” Christy was still single. Always looking. Ponti smiled. Now Christy stood in the aisle to steal glances at the senator.
“Packed and ordinary. You still want to get Mexican for lunch in Phoenix?”

“Sure. I think the whole crew’s in on it.” Ponti glanced at her watch. “You’d better go on back and do your checks. We’ve
only got about four minutes.”

“Okay. I’ll come back up later.”

Shaking her head at Christy’s retreating back, Ponti finished preparing the rest of the drinks. She served the senator and
his aide first, then the business men, then Mrs. Howard, who asked for a blanket.

In the cockpit, Emil Pate adjusted his headset, repositioning its boom microphone closer to his mouth. They had just been
cleared to push back. For a moment he stared at the control yoke, the grips, where the black paint had been worn off, polished
away by countless palms. The ship was probably about eight or ten years old. The paint was worn from the edge of the glareshield,
too. He liked planes that showed use. He could connect himself to such a plane more easily, become part of its mechanism.

Below, a dark puff of diesel smoke shot from the stack of the heavy tug connected to their nose-gear, and with a subtle jolt
the plane began to move slowly back from the gate. The agent standing in the jetway waved goodbye as they cleared the structure.
Behind them, Pate heard Mariella slide the cockpit door closed, heard the locking mechanism engage.

By the time the tug had positioned them for taxi and the ground crew was disconnecting the tow bar, they had both engines
started. Pate radioed for taxi instructions.

“New World Five-fifty-five,” the controller answered, “taxi juliet–kilo–lima to Runway five-right.”

It was a standard clearance. Pate repeated the instructions. Boyd brought the throttles forward. As they came around the end
of New World’s concourse, a line of aircraft, moving slowly along the parallel taxiway, came into view. Pate counted nine.
The weather was already backing up departures. It would be a long taxi.

“Taxi checklist,” Boyd ordered.

In the rear of 555’s cabin, Lori Hawkinson, the third flight attendant, was reading the emergency procedures briefing while
Christy Jacobson and Mariella Ponti demonstrated how the seatbelts buckled and the procedure for putting on oxygen masks.

When they’d finished, Ponti made sure the compartments were all latched and her eight passengers belted in. She remembered
Mrs. Howard’s blanket, and looked for one in the first compartment, certain that she’d seen one stowed there, but all she
found was Emil Pate’s bag. There were no blankets in the other first class compartments either. She would have to walk to
the back. There was still plenty of time, though. She looked out and saw the number of planes on the taxiway.

Christy was right: coach was packed. A full coach was normal, though, ever since the summer’s price wars. Everybody flew now.
Luckily, winter travelers were far better than summer. Not nearly so many first-time flyers who’d done all their previous
traveling by bus. You name it, the “Clampetts” as some flight attendants called them, tried to bring it aboard as carry-on
luggage. They weren’t really all hillbillies, but they could be pretty rustic. Ponti had once opened an overhead to find a
bag swarming with ants, and inside the bag, fermenting peaches. She’d heard stories much worse, involving live animals—everything
from collies stuffed into garment bags to snakes smuggled under coats.

These people all looked fairly normal, however. Moms, dads, kids. Happy people mostly, looking forward to a trip to a warm,
sunny place. As she moved downthe aisle, out of habit, Ponti checked the passengers to make sure their seat backs were in
the full-upright position and that their belts were fastened. She also looked for those who weren’t typical—like the old guy
in 12A, with a head like an inverted tea kettle, and the very pretty little girl in row 14, who said, “I’m excited already,”
to the woman next to her as Ponti passed. In row 17 was a whole family of Asians—sarongs, turbans, the works—and in 20 was
a dark, handsome man with a ring in his ear. She stopped to check two young kids, who looked to be brother and sister, traveling
alone. “We’re going to play checkers,” the girl told her proudly, showing her the miniature board.

Ponti stopped again at row 24. The aisle seat was empty, but in the window seat was a young man, sandy-haired, dressed in
crisp slacks, a white shirt, and tie, his nose buried in a magazine. He looked more than familiar. She’d seen him recently.

“Don’t I know you?” she said, leaning over.

He looked up, startled. Then he smiled shyly. “I’m one of your new pilots. We flew together about a month ago.”

“That was it.”

He extended his hand. “David Crane.”

“Mariella Ponti. You a commuter?” Many of the airline’s crew members didn’t live where they were based, and commuted, sometimes
thousands of miles, to their jobs.

“No,” Crane said. “Just going to visit someone.”

“Ah! Girlfriend?” Ponti winked.

He nodded, a little embarrassed. “She’s in Phoenix. We’re engaged. I was at Williams—that’s how we met. I’m just out of the
air Force.”

“So when’s the wedding?”

This time he blushed. “May. She’s a teacher and can’t quit till then.”

“Bet you don’t care much for this long-distance relationship.”

“You can say that again.”

Captain Boyd’s departure announcement crackled over the PA system.

“Well, you have a good time,” Ponti said. “Nice to see you again.”

In the cockpit, Pate copied 555’s load figures onto the weight card as New World’s agent read them over the company radio.
His mind was clean now, the business of flying demanding his attention. And yet the thousands of times he’d done this ritual
enabled him to watch himself as he set the card at the base of the panel and entered the figures into the fuel totalizer.
As the computer added the weight of the plane and release fuel and displayed the total, he marveled at the precision, his
own and the machine’s.