We verbally rehearsed the walk through the terminal, to the gate, down the jetway service stairs, to the aircraft parking ramp. We'd put Khalil, Gorman, and Hundry into an unmarked van with Kevlar armor inside, then, with one Port Authority police car in the lead, and one as a trail vehicle, we would head back to our private club here. The Port Authority police cars had ground control radios, which, according to the rules, we needed in the ramp area and in all aeronautical areas.
Back at the Conquistador Club, we'd call an Immigration guy to get Khalil processed. The only organization that seemed to be missing today was the Parking Violations Bureau. But rules are rules, and everyone has their turf to protect.
At some point, we'd get back in the van, and with our escorts, we'd take a circuitous route to Manhattan, cleverly avoiding Muslim neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Meanwhile, a paddy wagon with a marked car would act as decoy. With luck, I'd be done for the day by six and in my car, heading out to Long Island for a rendezvous with Beth Penrose.
Meanwhile, back at the Conquistador Club, Nancy stuck her head in the room and said, 'The van is here.'
Foster stood and announced, 'Time to roll.'
At the last minute, Foster said to Nick and me, 'Why don't one of you stay here, in case we get an official call?'
Nick said, 'I'll stay.'
Foster jotted down his cell phone number and gave it to Nick. 'We'll keep in touch. Call me if anyone calls here.'
'Right.'
I glanced at the TV monitor on my way out. Twenty minutes until scheduled landing.
I've often wondered what the outcome would have been if I'd stayed behind instead of Nick.
CHAPTER 4
Ed Stavros, the Kennedy International Airport Control Tower Supervisor, held the phone to his ear and listened to Bob Esching, the New York Center Air Traffic Control Shift Supervisor. Stavros wasn't sure if Esching was concerned or not concerned, but just the fact that Esching was calling was a little out of the ordinary.
Stavros' eyes unconsciously moved toward the huge tinted windows of the control tower, and he watched a big Lufthansa A-340 coming in. He realized that Esching's voice had stopped. Stavros tried to think of something to say that would sound right when and if the tape was ever played back to a roomful of grim-looking Monday morning quarterbacks. Stavros cleared his throat and asked, 'Have you called Trans-Continental?'
Esching replied, 'That's my next call.'
'Okay… good… I'll alert the Port Authority Police Emergency Service unit… was that a 700 series?'
'Right,' said Esching.
Stavros nodded to himself. The Emergency Service guys theoretically had every known type of aircraft committed to memory in regard to doorways, escape hatches, general seating plans, and so forth. 'Good… okay…'
Esching added, 'I'm not declaring an emergency. I'm just-'
'Yeah, I understand. But we'll go by the book here, and I'll call it in as a three-two condition. You know? That's potential trouble. Okay?'
'Yeah… I mean, it could be…'
'What?'
'Well, I'm not going to speculate, Mr. Stavros.'
'I'm not asking you to speculate, Mr. Esching. Should I make it a three-three?'
'That's your call. Not mine.' He added, 'We have a NO-RAD for over two hours and no other indication of a problem. You should have this guy on your screen in a minute or two. Watch him closely.'
'Okay. Anything else?'
'That's it,' said Bob Esching.
'Thanks,' said Ed Stavros and hung up.
Stavros picked up his black direct-line phone to Port Authority Communications Center, and after three rings, a voice said, 'Guns and Hoses at your service.'
Stavros did not appreciate the humor of the Port Authority police officers who doubled as firemen and Emergency Service personnel. Stavros said, 'I have an incoming NO-RAD. Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven- Five, Boeing 747, 700 series.'
'Roger, Tower. Which runway?'
'We're still using Four-Right, but how do I know what he'll use if we can't talk to him?'
'Good point. What's his ETA?'
'Scheduled arrival time is sixteen-twenty-three.'
'Roger. Do you want a three-two or a three-three?'
'Well… let's start with a standard three-two, and we can upgrade or downgrade as the situation develops.'
'Or we can stay the same.'
Stavros definitely did not like the cocky attitude of these guys-and they were mostly all guys, even the women. Whoever had the bright idea of taking three macho occupations-Emergency Service, firemen, and cops-and rolling them all into one, must have been crazy. Stavros said, 'Who is this? Bruce Willis?'
'Sergeant Tintle, at your service. To whom am I speaking?'
'Mr. Stavros.'
'Well, Mr. Stavros, come on down to the firehouse, and we'll put you in a nice fireproof suit and give you a crash ax, and if the plane blows, you can be among the first to get on board.'
Stavros replied, 'The subject aircraft is a NO-RAD, not a mechanical, Sergeant. Don't get overly excited.'
'I love it when you get angry.'
Stavros said to Tintle, 'Okay, let's get this on the record. I'm going to the Red Phone.' Stavros hung up and picked up the Red Phone and hit a button, which again connected him to Sergeant Tintle, who this time answered, 'Port Authority-Emergency Service.' This call was official and every word was recorded, so Stavros stuck to procedure and said, 'This is Tower Control. I'm calling in a three-two on a Trans-Continental 747-700, landing Runway Four-Right, ETA approximately twenty minutes. Winds are zero-three-zero at ten knots. Three hundred ten souls on board.' Stavros always wondered why the passengers and crew were called souls. It sounded as though they were dead.
Sergeant Tintle repeated the call and added, 'I'll dispatch the units.'
'Thank you, Sergeant.'
'Thank you for calling, sir. We appreciate the business.'
Stavros hung up and rubbed his temples. 'Idiots.'
He stood and looked around the huge Tower Control room. A few intense men and women sat staring at their screens, or talking into their headsets, or now and then glancing out the windows. Tower Control was not as stressful a job as that of the actual air traffic controllers sitting in a win-dowless radar room below him, but this was a close second. He remembered the time two of his men had caused the collision of two airliners on the runway. It had been his day off, which was why he was still employed.
Stavros walked toward the big window. From his height of over three hundred feet-the equivalent of a thirty- story building-the panoramic view of the entire airport, bay, and Atlantic Ocean was spectacular, especially with clear skies and the late afternoon sun behind him. He looked at his watch and saw it was almost 4:00 P.M. He would have been out of here in a few minutes, but that was not to be.
He was supposed to be home for dinner with his wife at seven, with another couple. He felt fairly confident that he could make it, or at least be no more than fashionably late. Even later would be okay when he arrived armed with a good story about what had delayed him. People thought he had a glamorous job, and he played it up when he'd had a few cocktails.
He made a mental note to call home after the Trans-Continental landed. Then he'd have to speak to the
