Authors: John J. Nance
There!
The lead F-16 suddenly bobbled, then stabilized. He could see the pilot looking down, one hand against his helmet in an involuntary response to a radio call.
Just as quickly, the two F-16s banked left, away from the 737, and plugged in their afterburners to streak off to the northwest toward Salt Lake City, some thirty miles distant.
What now, Ken? he thought.
He could imagine the frightened people behind him in the cabin, and the traumatized, angry flight attendants. He could imagine the kicked- over anthill AirBridge headquarters must have become. The word had probably been relayed as well to Tom Davidson back in Connecticut, and that triggered a significant pang of guilt. Davidson had found him the AirBridge job, helped him relocate, cared about his welfare--and this was his repayment?
Ken shook his head and refocused on the frenzy of activity ahead as the FBI tried to figure out how to foil the hijacker. He had to foresee their every move and block them, like a high-stakes chess game with a sudden death ending. He had to make this work for Melinda.
She would have been in junior high this year. She would have been blossoming into a young woman, with her whole life ahead! The same internal voice that never left him alone taunted him again, as it had every day since her murder.
Concentrate, dammit! Stay ahead of it, or they'll find a way around you! Ken pulled the throttles back and continued the descent, calculating the altitude loss necessary to bring the jet down to a thousand feet above the ground just before the Salt Lake International runways.
He'd kept the speed less than three hundred knots since Monument Valley, but now he slowed even more, noting that the fighters had already disappeared in the distance. They would be touching down within a few minutes, the pilots undoubtedly told to scramble out of their cockpits in accordance with the hijacker's instructions.
He thought about the preparations the FBI was rushing to make, and the nets they were preparing to ensnare him, from psychological games to wearying delays. So far, he'd been far too predictable, too busy issuing threats and flying to think ahead, think it through, figure out how to finish what he'd started.
The thought scared him suddenly, as if he'd already failed to anticipate some critical move against him. All the FBI had to do was get ready to hold the airplane on the ground and talk him into surrender.
They would have no incentive to expose Bostich nor to bring in the human garbage that had murdered Melinda. They'd be too busy plotting to storm the aircraft with guns.
Ken Wolfe looked ahead to the northeast at the line of mountains bordering Salt Lake's east flank, the Wasatch Range. The ridgeline north of Ogden was sharp and high, rising from the plains to snow- covered peaks. He calculated the altitude of the highest ridge and filed it away. It would do fine.
FBI "Command Post," Salt Lake City International Airport. 12:32 A.M.
Frank Bothell lowered the telephone handset and looked across the desk at Kat.
"The two F-sixteens are on the ground, Kat. The pilots are getting out."
She nodded. "Good. Where's Flight Ninety?"
"On final approach. All other air traffic is halted."
"We have media helicopters around?"
Frank spoke a few words into the phone, paused, then turned back to her with a nod.
"Two of them, both cooperating with Approach Control, and both hovering at a distance."
"But they're broadcasting TV pictures live to the world, right?"
"Like I warned you."
Kat turned to one of the airport officers. "I need to look out a window."
The officer inclined his head toward a distant office. "We've got CNN on in the other room, Agent Bronsky. They've got the picture live from one of the choppers. It's also on the local channels. That's your best bet, because you can't see that runway from this side of the airport."
Kat followed him down a hallway and into a well-furnished office.
"Our chief's," the officer explained. In the corner, a console television was showing the live shot of the AirBridge 737 as it approached the airport, less than a mile out, descending steadily toward the runway. At the same moment, the jetliner appeared to level off.
"What's he doing?" one of the airport officers asked.
"He's going to fly over the airport and check that the fighter pilots are out of their planes," Kat replied, her eyes glued to the screen.
From the helicopter's vantage point at least a thousand feet in the air, the 737 could be seen clearly crossing the threshold of the runway roughly five hundred feet above the surface, its landing gear still retracted.
The camera followed it steadily and began pulling back, showing the runway beneath as the jetliner flew above the three-mile ribbon of concrete. When the Boeing was past the halfway point, Kat could see the shape of the two grounded F-16s slide from right to left along the bottom of the picture.
The voice of the CNN anchor accompanied the fly-by with continuous narration.
"There are one hundred and thirty people aboard this jet, we are told, and as the FBI and other authorities wait for the captain to land, there is still no word on what individual or individuals may be responsible for what is, in legal terms, an act of air piracy."
Suddenly, the 737's nose pitched up as it crossed the departure end of the runway and began to gain altitude, still flying north.
"Is he going to turn back, or what?" Frank's voice rumbled gently in Kat's left ear. She jumped slightly. She hadn't seen him come in.
Kat looked back at the screen. "I'm sure the tower's cleared him to circle to land. He should turn in either direction pretty soon."
Still the 737 bored north, climbing steadily, as Kat straightened and watched with growing apprehension.
"He only needs to be fifteen hundred feet above the airport," she said, "and he should be there by now. Why isn't he turning?"
A phone rang in on the desk of the police chief as they watched the 737 climbing sharply now. Someone answered the phone and turned immediately toward the two FBI agents.
"Agent Bronsky? The captain's on the cell phone again and wants to talk to you."
Kat took the receiver as Frank moved to a second phone by the couch. She could hear the captain's voice even before she pressed it to her ear.
"You there, Bronsky?"
"Yes, Captain. Where are you going? The two F-sixteens are on the ground, just like you asked. The pilots are outside. Didn't you see them?"
"We saw them, Bronsky. We also saw the other vehicles lying in wait."
"What are you talking about? There are no vehicles lying in wait!
We've kept our word."
"Has the vermin near Denver been arrested?"
Kat looked at Frank and cupped her hand over the receiver as she repeated the question. He shook his head no.
She turned back to the phone. "Captain, they're working on it. We only agreed to do that some twenty minutes ago. We've got to have some time."
Aboard AirBridge Flight 90. 12:36 P.M.
As the 737 climbed away from Salt Lake City International Airport, the terror gripping the heart of Rudolph Bostich blocked out all memory of the cell phone in his lap- until Amnete sat down heavily beside him.
"Have you gotten through on the phone yet?" Her tone was tense and urgent, and he raised himself up from his semibrace position to look at her closely.
"No, I... frankly, forgot. Where are we?"
"Getting too close to the mountains and flying north. Why, I don't know. Try the phone now, please. Ken's not talking to me."
"Who should we call now?"
"The FBI, same as before. Wouldn't they be handling things down there?"
Rudy Bostich nodded and fumbled with the phone as he pushed the operator button. He asked for emergency connection with the nearest FBI office as soon as a voice came on the line.
FBI "Command Post," Salt Lake City International Airport. 12:36 P.M.
The news that the FBI was working on making the demanded arrest in Colorado had not been received well in the cockpit of Flight 90, and Kat braced for what she assumed would be a renewed round of threats.
Kat had asked for more time, and the captain's voice had come back on frequency anguished and demanding.
"I know this routine, Agent. Stall, stall, and stall again. I expected that, but this time it won't work. The penalty for not doing precisely as he dictates will be the loss of everyone on board. Do you understand that, Bronsky? Every man, woman, and child on this aircraft-including me-is going to die in just a few minutes unless he has the assurance of the Attorney General of the United States that the murderer he told you to capture will be arrested, indicted, and tried. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, DAMMIT? HELP ME UP HERE!"
"Yes, Captain, we understand. Stand by."
Kat could hear Frank punching in a number as she held the receiver in silence, trying to imagine the scene in the cockpit of Flight 90, thinking about every word he'd said. Her suspicions had to be right. They were shadow boxing, talking around the real issues, getting nowhere, and Wolfe was getting dangerously frantic. If she had any hope of getting to the heart and soul of what was behind it all, the pretense had to be dropped.
Kat glanced at Frank and grimaced.
"What, Kat?" he asked softly.
She covered the mouthpiece. "I have no choice, Frank. While you're trying to get the A.G., I've got to challenge him."
He moved closer to her with a receiver in his hand and a worried expression on his face. "What do you mean? What are you considering?''
"I've got to call his hand. I've got to stop the playacting."
"You mean, who the hijacker is?"
She nodded, and saw Frank swallow hard.
"Your show, Kat," he said at last. "We teach you the procedures, but we hired you for your intellect and instincts."
She smiled at him. "Please remember that at my disciplinary hearing."
Kat adjusted the phone in her hand and pressed it against her mouth, letting her eyes focus on the desktop. "Okay, Captain, let's drop the facade. You're holding all the cards and I know it. I need to know what you really want and why."
Wolfe's voice shot back immediately. "Why are you aiming that at me, Bronsky? It's not what I want, it's what he wants. You heard him."
"No, Captain Wolfe, I heard you. Only you."
There was a long pause.
"What does that mean?"
"Captain, you're alone in that cockpit and we both know it. I've been talking to the hijacker all along, haven't I? You had to know I was going to figure it out eventually."
Kat held her breath. She could hear the cockpit sounds in the background as his hand fidgeted with the small cell phone, but there was no voice.
Finally, a long sigh broke the silence.
"How'd you know, Bronsky?"
Kat felt her heart skip a beat. She'd suspected. She'd gambled. But to hear the cold, brutal confirmation was a profound shock.
"I... was dealing with too many pieces that didn't fit, Captain. But now that we both know what's happening and who's in control, we can really talk."
She heard a snort on the other end.
"Talk about what, Bronsky? So I'm unmasked. So what? It's over for me, anyway."
"What do you want, Captain? What's the bottom line?"
Thirty seconds of silence ticked by like some form of slow torture.
"I already told you," he said at last. "Have you arrested that scum in Denver yet? You sang that jolly song about having to hear the hijacker before complying, and you heard the hijacker."
There was a snarl in his voice. Pure, unmitigated rage and pain.
She could feel it as well as hear it, and the barrier it raised against her was substantial.
"I did hear the skyjacker, or hijacker, or whatever we want to call the mythical individual you created. But the truth is, I'm not stalling down here. We're truly bending heaven and earth to comply with what you want, but it takes time."
"Sure you are. Sure you're working on it! The Easter Bunny's here, too, along with Elvis. Wanna talk to Elvis?"
"Captain, cut it out. Please come back here to Salt Lake and land so we can solve this."
"Why, Bronsky? You'll just shoot out my tires and storm the airplane, or try to bore me into surrender."
"Call me Kat, please. All my friends call me Kat, which is short for Katherine."
"So I'm your friend now? Step number fifteen--am I right, Agent Bronsky?" He adopted an overly officious voice. "Above all else, the hostage negotiator must try to build a personal relationship with the hostage taker. This relationship will eventually work to the advantage of law enforcement authorities trying to regain control. Did I get it right?"
A cold feeling of pure fear began to crawl up her middle. He had, indeed, paraphrased one of the manuals correctly, and she realized with a sinking feeling that the game had changed drastically. No longer was this an ally in the common quest of fighting a hijacker, he was someone fully trained in the same techniques of handling hijackings that Kat had just learned at the FBI Academy.