The Coffin Dancer (42 page)

“Go to oxygen. Increase cabin pressure to ten thousand feet.”

“Pressure to ten thousand,” he said. This at least would relieve some of the terrible pressure on the fragile hull.

“Good idea,” Brad said. “How’d you think of that?”

Monkey skills ...

“Dunno,” she responded. “Let’s cut power in number two. Throttle closed, autothrottle disengaged.”

“Closed, disengaged,” Brad echoed.

“Fuel pumps off, ignition off.”

“Pumps off, ignition off.”

She felt the slight swerve as their left side thrust vanished. Percey compensated for the yaw with a slight adjustment to the rudder trim tabs. It didn’t take much. Because the jets were mounted on the rear of the fuselage and not on the wings, losing one power plant didn’t affect the stability of the aircraft much.

Brad asked, “What do we do now?”

“I’m having a cup of coffee,” Percey said, climbing out of her seat like a tomboy jumping from a tree house. “Hey, Roland, how d’you like yours again?”

For a torturous forty minutes there was silence in Rhyme’s room. No one’s phone rang. No faxes came in. No computer voices reported, “You’ve got mail.”

Then, at last, Dellray’s phone brayed. He nodded as he spoke, but Rhyme could see the news wasn’t good. He clicked the phone off.

“Cumberland?”

Dellray nodded. “But it’s a bust. Kall hasn’t been there for years. Oh, the locals’re still talking about the time the boy tied his stepdaddy up ’n’ let the worms get him. Sorta a legend. But no family left in the area. And nobody knows nuthin’. Or’s willing to say.”

It was then that Sellitto’s phone chirped. The detective unfolded it and said, “Yeah?”

A lead, Rhyme prayed, please let it be a lead. He looked at the cop’s doughy, stoic face. He flipped the phone closed.

“That was Roland Bell,” he said. “He just wanted us to know. They’re outa gas.”

chapter thirty-four

Hour 38 of 45

Three different warning buzzers went off simultaneously.

Low fuel, low oil pressure, low engine temperature.

Percey tried adjusting the attitude of the aircraft slightly to see if she could trick some fuel into the lines, but the tanks were bone dry.

With a faint clatter, number one engine quit coughing and went silent.

And the cockpit went completely dark. Black as a closet.

Oh, no ...

She couldn’t see a single instrument, a single control lever or knob. The only thing that kept her from slipping into blind-flight vertigo was the faint band of light that was Denver—in the far distance in front of them.

“What’s this?” Brad asked.

“Jesus. I forgot the generators.”

The generators are run by the engines. No engines, no electricity.

“Drop the RAT,” she ordered.

Brad groped in the dark for the control and found it. He pulled the lever and the ram air turbine dropped out beneath the aircraft. It was a small propeller connected to a generator. The slipstream turned the prop, which powered the generator. It provided basic power for the controls and lights. But not the flaps, gear, speed brakes.

A moment later some of the lights returned.

Percey was staring at the vertical speed indicator. It showed a descent rate of thirty-five hundred feet per minute. Far faster than they’d planned on. They were dropping at close to fifty miles an hour.

Why? she wondered. Why was the calculation so far off?

Because of the rarified air here! She was calculating sink rate based on denser atmosphere. And now that she considered this she remembered that the air around Denver would be rarified too. She’d never flown a sailplane more than a mile up.

She pulled back on the yoke to arrest the descent. It dropped to twenty-one hundred feet per minute. But the airspeed dropped too, fast. In this thin air the stall speed was about three hundred knots. The shaker stick began to vibrate and the controls went mushy. There’d be no recovery from a powerless stall in an aircraft like this.

The coffin corner
...

Forward with the yoke. They dropped faster, but the airspeed picked up. For nearly fifty miles she played this game. Air Traffic Control told them where the headwinds were strongest and Percey tried to find the perfect combination of altitude and route—winds that were powerful enough to give the Lear optimal lift but not so fast that they slowed their ground speed too much.

Finally, Percey—her muscles aching from controlling the aircraft with brute force—wiped sweat from her face and said, “Give ’em a call, Brad.”

“Denver Center, this is Lear Six Niner Five
Foxtrot Bravo
, with you out of one nine thousand feet. We are twenty-one miles from the airport. Airspeed two hundred twenty knots. We’re in a no-power situation here and requesting vectoring to longest available runway consistent with our present heading of two five zero.”

“Roger,
Foxtrot Bravo.
We’ve been expecting you. Altimeter thirty point nine five. Turn left heading two four zero. We’re vectoring you to runway two eight left. You’ll have eleven thousand feet to play with.”

“Roger, Denver Center.”

Something was nagging at her. That ping in the gut again. Like she’d felt with the black van.

What was it? Just superstition?

Tragedies come in threes ...

Brad said, “Nineteen miles from touchdown. One six thousand feet.”

“
Foxtrot Bravo
, contact Denver Approach.” He gave them the radio frequency, then added, “They’ve been apprised of your situation. Good luck, ma’am. We’re all thinking of you.”

“Goodnight, Denver. Thanks.”

Brad clicked the radio to the new frequency.

What’s wrong? she wondered again. There’s something I haven’t thought of.

“Denver Approach, this is Lear Six Niner Five
Foxtrot Bravo.
With you at one three thousand feet, thirteen miles from touchdown.”

“We have you,
Foxtrot Bravo.
Come right heading two five zero. Understand you are power-free, is that correct?”

“We’re the biggest damn glider you ever saw, Denver.”

“You have flaps and gear?”

“No flaps. We’ll crank the gear down manually.”

“Roger. You want trucks?” Meaning emergency vehicles.

“We think we’ve got a bomb on board. We want everything you’ve got.”

“Roger that.”

Then, with a shudder of horror, it occurred to her: the atmospheric pressure!

“Denver Approach,” she asked, “what’s the altimeter?”

“Uhm, we have three oh point nine six,
Foxtrot Bravo.
”

It had gone up a hundredth of an inch of mercury in the last minute.

“It’s rising?”

“That’s affirmative,
Foxtrot Bravo
, Major high-pressure front moving in.”

No! That would increase the ambient pressure around the bomb, which would shrink the balloon, as if they were lower than they actually were.

“Shit on the street,” she muttered.

Brad looked at her.

She said to him, “What was the mercury at Mamaroneck?”

He looked it up in the log. “Twenty-nine point six.”

“Calculate five thousand feet altitude at that pressure reading compared with thirty-one point oh.”

“Thirty-one? That’s awful high.”

“That’s what we’re moving into.”

He stared at her. “But the bomb ...”

Percey nodded. “Calculate it.”

The young man punched numbers with a steady hand.

He sighed, his first visible display of emotion. “Five thousand feet at Mamaroneck translates to forty-eight five here.”

She called Bell forward again. “Here’s the situation. There’s a pressure front coming in. By the time we get to the runway, the bomb may be reading the atmosphere as below five thousand feet. It may blow when we’re fifty to a hundred feet above the ground.”

“Okay.” He nodded calmly. “Okay.”

“We don’t have flaps, so we’re going to be landing fast, close to two hundred miles an hour. If it blows we’ll lose control and crash. There won’t be much fire ’cause the tanks are dry. And depending on what’s in front of us, if we’re low enough we may skid a ways before we start tumbling. There’s nothing to do but keep the seat belts tight and keep your head down.”

“All right,” he said, nodding, looking out the window.

She glanced at his face. “Can I ask you something, Roland?”

“You bet.”

“This isn’t your first airplane flight, is it?”

He sighed. “You know, you live mosta your born days in North Carolina, you just don’t have much of a chance to travel. And coming to New York, well, those Amtraks’re nice and comfy.” He paused. “Fact is, I’ve never been higher than an elevator’ll take me.”

“They’re not all like this,” she said.

He squeezed her on the shoulder, whispered, “Don’t drop your candy.” He returned to his seat.

“Okay,” Percey said, looking over the
Airman’s Guide
information on Denver International. “Brad, this’ll be a nighttime visual approach to runway two eight left. I’ll have command of the aircraft. You’ll lower the gear manually and call out rate of descent, distance to runway, and altitude—give me true altitude above ground, not sea level—and airspeed.” She tried to think of something else. No power, no flaps, no speed brakes. There was nothing else to say; it was the shortest pre-landing briefing in the history of her flying career. She added, “One last thing. When we stop, just get the fuck out as fast as you can.”

“Ten miles to runway,” he called. “Speed two hundred knots. Altitude nine thousand feet. We need to slow descent.”

She pulled up on the yoke slightly and the speed dropped dramatically. The shaker stick vibrated again. Stall now and they died.

Forward again.

Nine miles ... Eight ...

Sweating like a rainstorm. She wiped her face. Blisters on the soft skin between her thumbs and index fingers.

Seven ... Six ...

“Five miles from touchdown, forty-five hundred feet. Airspeed two hundred ten knots.”

“Gear down,” Percey commanded.

Brad spun the wheel that manually lowered the heavy gear. He had gravity helping him, but it was nonetheless a major effort. Still, he kept his eyes glued to the instruments and recited, calm as an accountant reading a balance sheet, “Four miles from touchdown, thirty-nine hundred feet ...”

She fought the buffeting of the lower altitude and the harsh winds.

“Gear down,” Brad called, panting, “three green.”

The airspeed dropped to one hundred eighty knots—about two hundred miles an hour. It was too fast. Way too fast. Without their reverse thrusters they’d burn up even the longest runway in a streak.

“Denver Approach, what’s the altimeter?”

“Three oh nine eight,” the unflappable ATC controller said.

Rising. Higher and higher.

She took a deep breath. According to the bomb, the runway was slightly less than five thousand feet above sea level. How accurate had the Coffin Dancer been when he’d made the detonator?

“The gear’s dragging. Sink rate’s twenty-six hundred.”

Which meant a vertical speed of about thirty-eight miles per hour. “We’re dropping too fast, Percey,” Brad called. “We’ll hit in front of the approach lights. A hundred yards short. Two, maybe.”

ATC’s voice had noticed this too: “
Foxtrot Bravo
, you have to get some altitude. You’re coming in too low.”

Back on the stick. The speed dropped. Stall warning. Forward on the stick.

“Two and a half miles from touchdown, altitude nineteen hundred feet.”

“Too low,
Foxtrot Bravo!”
the ATC controller warned again.

She looked out over the silver nose. There were all the lights—the strobes of the approach lights beckoning them forward, the blue dots of the taxiway, the orange-red of the runway ... And lights that Percey’d never seen before on approach. Hundreds of flashing lights. White and red. All the emergency vehicles.

Lights everywhere.

All the stars of evening
...

“Still low,” Brad called. “We’re going to impact two hundred yards short.”

Hands sweating, straining forward, Percey thought again of Lincoln Rhyme, strapped to his seat, himself leaning forward, examining something in the computer screen.

“Too low,
Foxtrot Bravo
,”
ATC repeated. “I’m moving emergency vehicles to the field in front of the runway.”

“Negative that,” Percey said adamantly.

Brad called, “Altitude thirteen hundred feet. One and a half miles from touchdown.”

We’ve got thirty seconds! What do I do?

Ed? Tell me? Brit? Somebody ...

Come on, monkey skills ... What the hell do I do?

She looked out the cockpit window. In the light of the moon she could see suburbs and towns and some farmland but also, to the left, large patches of desert.

Colorado’s a desert state ... Of course!

Suddenly she banked sharply to the left.

Brad, without a clue as to what she was doing, called out, “Rate of descent thirty-two hundred, altitude one thousand feet, nine hundred feet, eight five ...”

Banking a powerless aircraft sheds altitude in a hurry.

ATC called, “
Foxtrot Bravo
, do
not
turn. Repeat, do not turn! You don’t have enough altitude as is.”

She leveled out over the patch of desert.

Brad gave a fast laugh. “Altitude steady ... Altitude rising, we’re at nine hundred feet, one thousand feet, twelve hundred feet. Thirteen hundred feet ... I don’t get it.”

“A thermal,” she said. “Desert soaks up heat during the day and releases it all night.”

ATC had figured it out too. “Good,
Foxtrot Bravo!
Good. You just bought yourself about three hundred yards. Come right two nine oh ... good, now left two eight oh. Good. On course. Listen,
Foxtrot Bravo
, you want to take out those approach lights, you go right ahead.”

“Thanks for the offer, Denver, but I think I’ll set her down a thousand past the numbers.”

“That’s all right too, ma’am.”