The Last Hostage (40 page)

She described quickly the digitalized pornography found on Rudy Bostich's computer, the fact that she had not contaminated the evidence, and the apparent fact that the pictures had been downloaded over a phone line.

"Jesus Christ! I'm stunned, Kat, and I don't stun easily anymore."

"Frank, can I safely search the database on this computer for tracking information? If I could find an e-mail address or a World Wide Web site, something to track back, it could be the key, but I don't want to ruin the admissibility."

Ken was looking at her suddenly, looking surprised. "You're computer proficient?" he asked.

She nodded. "I could have broken that password even faster than you did, Ken. I'm well trained."

Frank's voice was in her ear. "I can't hear you, Kat. Speak up."

She moved the phone back to her mouth, rearranging the cord that connected it to the aircraft's communication system, and repeated the question.

"Kat, if what you find now is simply part of a trail that leads us somewhere else, I believe we're okay legally. You were right about the picture files. But now that we know about them, this is like finding part of a body on the backseat of a car in plain view. That's probable cause to continue the search. The pictures found by the captain are probable cause. Go to it."

"Great? she said.

"What can I do here?" he asked.

"The number one question, Frank, is how to connect Lumin and Bostich.

Could you dive into background checks, home towns, schools, proximity of residences, anything you can think of? Maybe Lumin worked for Bostich as a yardman or something. Maybe they did business with an unusual company and we could track the commonality through credit card records. Maybe the smut they're buying came from a source on the Web that takes credit cards. Do anything you can think of, while I surf his database and look for any thread to follow."

"You're convinced there's a direct connection?"

"Frank, you're the one who keeps pounding into me the reality that few coincidences really are. If this was a coincidence, it'd be a doozy."

"Understood. How do I call you back?"

She passed the number of the cell phone. "If that doesn't work,"

she added, "I'll call you back in fifteen minutes."

"Kat, since Captain Wolfe is listening, would he consider just shutting things down there and waiting for us to get this down? After all, if we find this connection, we may be able to show Bostich was lying whether he signs a confession or not. I mean, we're doing exactly what he's demanded and more."

Ken's voice cut in on the conversation, startling Kat.

"Look, Frank, I don't know your last name. This is Ken Wolfe. I'll be happy to wait if you can get rid of this damn C-130 that's trying to drop in here. I know they've got some sort of assault team on board, and I'm not going to tolerate any commando tricks while I wait for you people to catch Lumin."

The response from Salt Lake City was rapid. "I'm going to try, Captain, but you've got to keep those people safe and not harm anyone, even by accident."

"The only ones I want to harm are Lumin and Bostich," Ken replied.

"But remind them in Washington I'm one flick of a finger away from blowing this airplane off the map. Don't let them forget that for a moment."

Kat looked back at the forward panel, seeing nothing, her mind darting after a dozen possibilities at once.

"Another thing, Frank," she said into the phone. "Get that detective on the phone in Connecticut. Detective Matson. Tell him what I've found.

See if he can connect the dots somewhere."

"Will do, Kat. I'll try to hold off the Air Force plane. If I can't, however, please make the captain understand that no one's going to attack or try to disable the airplane unless he does something very rash."

"He doesn't believe that, Frank."

She disconnected as Ken finished taxiing the 737 to the east end of the runway.

"Where is he now?" Kat asked.

Ken's eyes were searching the far horizon. "He disappeared down the valley back west."

"Good. So he's probably out of here for a while."

Ken shook his head no. "I doubt it. He's probably looking for a wide spot to turn around in without my seeing him."

She reached behind the captain's seat and grabbed Bostich's computer as Ken turned the aircraft back toward the west once more.

"I probably shook him up, Kat, but if his orders say to land here--"

Ken stopped, straining forward, his eyes focused on the far end of the runway as she followed his gaze. Something was wavering just above the grass in the distance, something indistinct and undulating, but moving.

Suddenly the shape coalesced into a C-130 as the transport leapt above the edge of the mesa into full view.

"Dammit!" Ken's hand shot to the throttles and shoved them forward again as the C-130 bore down on the far end of the runway, its landing lights off this time.

"Where did he come from?" Kat asked.

"He made a tight turn down in the valley below the level of this runway and then popped over the ridge to catch me by surprise."

The 737 gained speed, and once more Ken reached up and snapped on the landing lights as the big Lockheed transport roared toward them at over a hundred and forty miles per hour.

"Airspeed!" Ken demanded once again.

"Ah... forty, fifty..."

"Call eighty."

"Okay, we're sixty."

"If he lands and reverses those props, we'll hit," Ken muttered to himself, the power still up as the 737 continued to accelerate.

The C-130 was flaring slightly, its wheels nearing the runway surface, the engine power pulled back as the pilot waited to slam on the runway in an assault landing.

"Eighty knots!" She looked at Ken's right hand, expecting him to yank the throttles back. Instead, he pushed the thrust levers forward even more, his eyes glancing to the center panel to check the maximum thrust readings.

"Ninety knots. Ken, this is awfully fast! We have enough room to stop?"

There was no answer.

The C-130 loomed frighteningly close, its wheels touching the runway in a puff of rubberized smoke, the large machine barreling toward them.

"One hundred knots! Ken, stop?

Her eyes left the airspeed indicator and snapped to the oncoming airplane in time to see it suddenly pitch up, its huge four-bladed propellers clawing the air as its pilot commanded an instant leap from the surface in the face of the onrushing 737.

"He's off! He's off? Kat cried, her eyes glued to the underbelly of the C-130 as it hung in front of them, slowly lifting out of the way like a reluctant whale.

But she realized with a hopeless feeling the 737's throttles were still full forward.

She glanced at the airspeed again.

Jesus! One hundred ten!

The end of the runway was visible beneath the hulking image of the C-130, the threshold much closer than she'd figured.

"Ken, he's already off. What are you doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

"We're too fast to stop, Kat," he said calmly.

The rumble and roar of the C-130 passing just above them sent vibrations of terror through her. She expected an impact with the 737's tail. The whole sky seemed to be filled with C-130. There was no way they could avoid a collision.

But as rapidly as it had smothered them with soul-rattling noise, the C-130 rumbled overhead and was gone without impact.

Now it was merely the end of the runway threatening them, hurtling at them.

Kat's eyes locked on the airspeed indicator.

"One hundred twenty-five knots. What do we need to fly?"

"One forty-eight is rotate speed," he said.

Less than a thousand feet of runway remained. She could see the red lights marking the western end of the runway and the grassy area beyond, a tiny overrun leading to the edge of the cliff. Even if he tried to stop now, they would slide over the cliff.

Time began to dilate, their speed seeming almost laconic, as her mind accelerated into an unreal dimension.

"One hundred thirty-five," she heard herself say. Fifteen knots less than flying speed, and only a little concrete left. She wondered if the 737's wheels would break the red lights when they rolled across them.

The control yoke was coming back in her lap as Ken pulled, the control column touching the edge of Bostich's computer, which she instantly moved out of the way.

The last of the runway disappeared in a heartbeat just as the Boeing's nose jumped up in response to Ken's commands, the deck angle of the 737 increasing rapidly, the yoke back in her stomach as he pulled, the distant roar of the engines sounding too puny to help them now.

We're off the end!

There was a shudder somewhere behind them and a sudden feeling of climbing, rising, but the fact that the main landing gear had lifted from the last few feet of the runway didn't sink in until Ken snapped a quick command in her direction.

"Gear up! Kat. The wheel-shaped lever. Pull it up."

Kat reached forward with her left hand and pulled the lever with the small wheel on it, snapping it to the up position, feeling the instant hydraulic response as the gear began its retraction sequence just as the terrain ahead disappeared and the control column in front of her began to vibrate furiously.

"What's that?" she asked, startled "Stall warning."

He pushed forward on the yoke, dropping the nose of the 737, and banked the jet slightly to the left as they soared above the edge of the mesa and out over a narrow valley, clawing for airspeed.

A highway was visible to the left, along with another huge mesa, and a cliff somewhat ahead of them.

The control columns were still being shaken by the stall warning system, the 737 on the ragged edge of a stall, its airspeed too little to sustain flight more than a few feet above a flat surface--the phenomenon called "ground effect," which disappeared with the mesa.

They were half-flying, half-falling. Kat felt herself get light in the copilot's seat as the Boeing dropped into the abyss, the passengers and crew of Flight 90 experiencing less than one half of normal gravity.

Ken was banking slightly to the left, trying to line up with the highway that snaked down the valley to the west, trading altitude for airspeed as the jet accelerated.

The vibrating stopped!

Just as quickly as it had started, the control columns stopped shaking, the tiny electronic mind of the stall warning system having declared that they were once again flying.

But they were also still descending, the highway looming large in the windscreen.

Kat felt a surrealistic calm as the hundred-thousand-pound jetliner dropped toward it at well over a hundred fifty miles per hour.

Ken's right hand snaked out and snapped the flap lever partially up to a detent labeled two degrees. He was banking back to the right, the jet aligned over the highway some one hundred feet below them, a cliff on the right, a mesa on the left, the surfaces of both soaring many hundreds of feet higher than they were flying.

He's going to follow the highway and gain speed down the middle of this little canyon.

She glanced at the airspeed. It was showing a hundred and eighty now and increasing steadily, the engines still pulsing a dull roar through the cockpit.

There were cars on the road below, and she imagined the shock of the drivers as they looked up to see the big jet flying at what would seem treetop level down the highway, an image at once undeniable and nonsensical.

Two hundred knots!

She felt gravity once again pressing her down in the right seat as Ken Wolfe leveled the 737 and began to climb. The walls of the mesas on either side began to sink, and suddenly fall away as the Boeing soared above the surface of the surrounding terrain, climbing smartly, the captain pulling back the throttles slightly and adjusting the engines to climb power.

Kat took inventory of her senses and found them abused but recovering. Her heart was pounding, her breathing rapid, but the increasing altitude and airspeed were a magical tonic and a wave of relief swept through her as she leaned back in the seat, cognizant of Ken's hand moving the flap lever to the full up position.

He glanced at her. "Thanks for the help. You did good."

"Thank you, I think."

"You've flown before, haven't you?"

Alarm bells went off in her head.

"I've been in a few cockpits before. You know, FBI aircraft and such.

Someday I'd like to learn to fly, but I doubt I can."

Ken searched the horizon before looking hard at her, searching her face, reading, she was sure, the telltale signs that she was lying through her teeth.

"You'd enjoy it," he said at last, looking back at the instruments. "I know I'm going to miss it terribly."

She let a few seconds of silence pass, her mind trying to grapple with the priorities she faced. Three minutes ago she had expected they would remain in Telluride. Suddenly they were airborne again, with a major mystery before her and little or no time to solve it for a disturbed man who wanted the impossible done immediately.