Skyjacked Page 5

  General Christine Landry spit the coffee into the cup. “Skim milk,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Michelle said.

  “I take my milk full strength, Ms. Okolo.” The general didn’t seem at all upset, yet she wasn’t thrilled either.

  “Sorry, ma’am. I, I’m—”

  “This is a game of nerves, Ms. Okolo,” the general said. “Breathe, fix the problem, move on.”

  Michelle made the coffee the right way and brought it to the general, who drank as she watched the Big Board.

  Michelle headed back to her cubicle, which was practically next to the command deck and very much in the general’s peripheral vision. She forced herself not to crawl under her desk. She stole looks at the general’s assistant, who was as cool as General Landry. The woman was young, just out of the academy maybe. She would’ve had to graduate best of her class to land this job, working directly with the general as adjutant. If she did two years in that spot and did well, she could write her own ticket for her next assignment. Michelle wanted to be her, to be that cool under pressure, not the kind of person who messed up something as simple as coffee.

  Michelle looked at the clock: 10:35 p.m., thirty-five minutes past when she was supposed to punch out. She grabbed her backpack and headed for the exit. Nobody noticed her leaving. Her goodbye cake had been left on a side table. A few people had managed to cut out a half-dozen slices or so in the rush to mobilize for the code red. They’d left their dirty paper plates on the table. Michelle was cleaning up the mess when somebody yelled out, “I got the call sign. It was Flight 21 out of Hollow Brim, a B550 SE-11 registered to Ando Chemical Inc.”

  “How long ago did that bird go offline?” the general said. “Thirty-four minutes ago? I think we’re safe in saying it’s still in the air, then.”

  That got a chuckle out of everybody. Michelle needed a second to figure out what was so funny. Yes, if the plane had crashed, NATIC would have known about it by now. No plane takes thirty-four minutes to fall to earth, even if it was flying at fifty-three thousand feet.

  “Let’s paint a little noise into the RFD.”

  Landry was telling radio control to send out a general broadcast to the runaway plane’s frequency. You didn’t have to know where the plane was to reach it by radio.

  Major Serrano ordered her logistics team to track a probable course for the runaway plane, using its LKP, or last known position.

  “We have any idea who’s on that plane yet?” General Landry said.

  “We’re getting passenger and crew lists from Hollow Brim momentarily.”

  Major Serrano called out to one of her techs, “How we doing on potential coordinates?”

  A junior airman hurried past Michelle but turned back. “Michelle, do me a favor and get me a regular, two creams?”

  She was happy to. She had to see how this one ended.

  TIM

  7:37 p.m. PT

  In the B550, somewhere over Washington State, heading northwest toward Seattle

  Cassie was having a hard time breathing, and Tim noticed he was breathing shallowly too.

  He had never seen somebody die before. He didn’t think he could handle it. Last year, he’d driven his helmet into this kid’s chest during a playoff game, knocked him flat. It was a tight game, and that tackle probably won it for Hartwell. Everybody was slapping Tim’s helmet. They screamed so loud he couldn’t hear what they were saying. They lifted him up on their shoulders and cheered. But the kid he’d hit wasn’t getting up, wasn’t moving. The medic brought out an oxygen setup, the kind where you squeeze a bag to force air into the person’s lungs. The kid’s chest rose and fell each time the medic squeezed the bag. Tim nearly stopped breathing. Had he killed the kid? He asked if he could ride in the ambulance with him, but the EMT said no. He found out later he’d fractured the kid’s rib cage, and the kid’s lung had collapsed. He’d heal, but for sure he’d never play football again, and maybe never breathe the same way either. Tim felt bad that night and for many nights after, too guilty to take a deep breath as he settled into bed, seeing that poor kid over and over again, laid out on the field, not breathing.

  And now Cassie.

  She lay on the floor. Reeva fed her oxygen through a mask. “Is your throat better or worse?”

  “Same,” Cassie said, but she sounded more hoarse.

  Brandon took off Cassie’s sneakers. Her feet were swollen, the skin about to split. “Let’s roll her on her side,” Brand said.

  “Why?” Tim said.

  “Because she’s going to throw up. She’ll choke on her vomit.”

  They rolled Cass onto her side as she threw up foam, not a lot, but pink with blood.

  “Can’t you text them again, Reeva?” Em said.

  “I did.”

  “Same thing? Stand by?”

  Reeva nodded.

  “Stand by,” Tim said. “How are we supposed to do that, to do nothing, to just watch Cassie choke?”

  “Tim,” Em said, “shh. You’re freaking everybody out.”

  “I’m just saying what everybody else is thinking, Em.”

  “Then just think it, okay? No need to share every thought that comes to mind. Get yourself together. The last thing we need is a panic attack from you.”

  “Why are you being so mean to me?”

  Cassie grabbed his fingers, then Em’s, and made them hold hands. “Shh,” she said. The oxygen mask clouded up with her breath.

  CASSIE

  7:40 p.m. PT

  In the B550

  Cassie was past the point where she could keep pretending that somehow everything was going to be okay. When Brandon asked if her throat felt tight, she’d said it was just a little itchy. She’d lied. It felt bad, like the time she learned she was allergic to penicillin.

  She had been eight years old and had taken the antibiotic for strep throat. The allergic reaction happened so slowly, over an hour that felt like forever, the fear stretched out but didn’t thin. She kept telling herself she would feel better in a minute or two, then a minute or two after that. Then she was out of time.

  She ran to her parents’ room to wake them up. Her windpipe had narrowed. Her breath was a screechy whistle when she exhaled. Her lungs filled with what sounded like bubbling water.

  Now, on the floor of the plane, she knew this reaction was going to be worse than the one seven years earlier. Cactus needles jabbed her skin, muscles, lungs. Her skin was so cold it was beginning to feel numb, but inside, deep in her gut, she was burning up. The doctor warned her that each time the body is exposed to something it doesn’t like, it reacts more strongly, as if to say, I told you I don’t want this inside me.

  She used to wear a necklace that said she was allergic to penicillin, in case she passed out or was knocked out in a gymnastics fall maybe, but then the necklace broke. She never replaced it. The part of her that thrilled at taking risks had won out.

  She didn’t want to be that person anymore, Crazy Cass the daredevil who infuriated everyone with her insane tricks, the one who pretended she wasn’t scared. She was scared all right. She was losing control of her body, of her ability to move, to breathe.

  “Don’t cry, Cass,” Em said, crying.

  She wanted Reeva’s phone, to text her parents. She would have written, Thank you for having me. I loved being here, most of the time.

  She wasn’t able to ask for the phone, to form the words.

  “We can’t wait anymore,” Em said. “We have to storm the cockpit and either get Sofia to land the plane or land it ourselves.”

  “Easy now, Emily,” Reeva said. “Let’s all take a deep breath here.”

  Except I can’t, Cassie thought.

  Brandon took Cassie’s pulse. His fingertips were warm on her wrist, soft, and she shivered.

  “Raiding the cockpit isn’t possible,” Reeva said. “You’ll never get through the door. It’s made of steel.”

  “Yes,” Brandon said, “but the wall between the cockpit and the rest of the plane is fiberboard. I checked it. I dug the edge of my phone into the plastic coating and scratched into it. It’s heavy-duty, but it’s still wood. Tim’s a pile driver. He’ll hit the door so hard the hinges will pull away from the wall.”

  “Brand, you can’t be serious,” Tim said.

  “It’ll take a lot more than one run at it,” Reeva said. “Tim’s shoulder would break first.”

  “See?” Tim said.

  Reeva continued, “After Sofia hears that first hit, she’ll know we’re trying to breach the cockpit, and she’ll put us into a dive. We have to sit tight and wait for the ransom situation to play out. That’s our best chance.”

  “Not for Cassie,” Brand said. “There’s a keyhole on the outside of the door.”

  “And the key to open it is in the cockpit,” Reeva said.

  “But what if you shoot the lock out, Reeva? How many shots would it take? Two, maybe three?”

  “Are you kidding?” Reeva said. “One.”

  “Then we could get in there fast enough to overwhelm Sofia before she dumps the plane.”

  “You’re forgetting I can’t get my gun out of the safe without Tony’s combination.”

  “But does Sofia know that?” Brandon said. “What if we tell her you have your gun and you’re going to shoot out the lock?”

  “Bluff, you mean,” Jay said.

  “It won’t work,” Reeva said.

  “Why are you so set on trying to keep us from getting into the cockpit?” Em said.

  Cassie would have asked the same thing if she had been able to find enough breath to speak.

  “Sofia didn’t get this far without knowing the protocols, that the gun gets locked up,” Reeva said.

  Brandon took that in and nodded. “And if we really did have the gun, we wouldn’t give her a warning. We’d shoot out the lock and take her by surprise.”

  “Cass, don’t close your eyes,” Em said. “Guys, what about the ice cream machine? For a battering ram, I mean.”

  “Not heavy enough.”

  “The refrigerator,” Jay said. “The one under the kitchen counter. I saw it when Reeva and I got the oxygen tank for Cassie. It’s on wheels. They’re held in place with spring locks. You know, like in the cafeteria? At least they had them in my school. Those things are heavy-duty metal boxes. We could get that fridge moving pretty fast with some solid weight behind it.”

  “Guys, say we actually manage to get in there,” Tim said. “What then? Who flies the plane?”

  “Tony,” Em said.

  “Tony’s dead for sure,” Tim said.

  Cassie had been thinking that all along but hearing someone say it out loud suddenly made it real. In all the years she’d known Tony, she’d never once seen him upset. He was always smiling, always happy to teach Cassie about the plane. He was like that uncle who tells you you’re his favorite, just don’t tell anybody else.

  “So who lands the plane?” Tim said.

  “Air traffic control will help us,” Em said.

  “That only happens in the movies,” Tim said. “Reeva’s right. We wait and hope this is a ransom situation. That’s our best shot at seeing our parents again. Meanwhile we make Cassie as comfortable as we can.”

  Emily grimaced. “How can you give up on her like this, Tim? You’ve known her since kindergarten.”

  Cassie would have hushed Em, but she couldn’t get her lips to make a Shh. Tim was right. The best bet for everybody was to wait this out—everybody but Cassie.

  “No, we live or die together,” Brand said. “That’s my vote. Jay?”

  “I’m with you,” Jay said.

  “Thank you,” Em said, and the way she said it, Cassie knew that if Em wasn’t in love with Jay already, she was in love with him now and forever. Cassie would have smiled if she didn’t feel the invisible hand around her throat clamp down a little tighter with every bit of breath she struggled to take in.

  “The plane will be easier to land on the water anyway,” Brandon said.

  “What water?” Tim said. Seeing him this way, more terrified than confused, Cassie felt a dull ache in her chest. Tim had completely let down his guard, at long last. All his bravado was gone, and what was left was the real Tim, the sweet lost boy she’d come to know eleven years ago, the one who held her hand a little too tightly as they walked to kindergarten together, happy to let Cassie lead the way.

  Brandon pointed out the window.

  “It’s beautiful,” Em said. “The Pacific, Cass. It’s not too far away. Hang in, okay? For me, please. You can do this.”

  Cassie nodded, but the air seemed filled with millions of bubbles, popping and reforming, everything turning grainy and dark.

  MICHELLE

  10:45 p.m. ET (7:45 p.m. PT)

  Coltsville, Virginia, NATIC

  The plane had entered the restricted, radar-free flight deck in NW6 and vanished from the Big Board three quarters of an hour ago. Michelle knew that at some point it would have to reappear on the grid, either by flying out of the area’s perimeter or by descending into commercial airspace. It was going to come down one way or another, either by choice or because it was running out of fuel.

  There was one other possibility.

  Michelle knew the general had to be thinking about it: that she would have to shoot down the plane if it seemed headed for an office tower or a hospital, or any heavily populated area. At minimum the death toll in a shoot-down would be five high school students, their chaperone, and two pilots—and maybe only one of the pilots was a bad guy.

  Maybe neither was.

  What if a terrorist had infiltrated the ground crew and rigged a device to leak carbon monoxide into the cockpit, and both pilots were unconscious, the plane flying blind into the restricted flight deck? What if the terrorist was still on the plane, had hidden in the cockpit or maybe the bathroom?

  The what ifs kept coming as Michelle’s laptop screen updated with information on the crew.

  The captain, Tony Blake, fifty-one, had been the Ando family’s personal pilot for eight years. Before that he flew for the family’s corporation, Ando Chemical Inc. for a year, and before that he worked for a commercial airline. All his reports were stellar. The only bad mark on his chart was a misdemeanor for driving a car while his blood alcohol level was just over the legal limit. Blake had pled guilty and paid a sixteen-hundred-dollar fine. Because he hadn’t caused any bodily harm, he was cleared to fly after attending mandatory alcohol abuse counseling sessions.

  Next: Nick Sokolov, thirty-six, Tony Blake’s usual copilot. He’d graduated top of his class from flight school with outstanding references. His record was perfect, not one bad mark. He too had been with the Andos for a good bit of his career—six years. A father of two, he coached soccer and had made the headlines in his community newspaper at least twice for volunteer counseling work at a local halfway house.

  But he didn’t report for duty the day his plane became a runaway.

  Why?

  The FBI was looking for him. He hadn’t checked out of his hotel back near Hollow Brim, Idaho, where the AWOL flight originated, but his clothes were still there, his bag half-packed, as if he’d abandoned the room in a hurry.

  Then there was Sofia Palma, the last-minute replacement copilot filling in for Sokolov. She had no known family. Her parents were killed when a car bomb exploded in an open-air market in San Salvador. She had been sixteen at the time. Now at the age of twenty-three she had almost no experience flying private jets. She had gone into flight training directly from junior college and finished first in her class. Over the next three years she logged fifteen thousand hours of flying time. She was in the air more than she was on the ground. Crummy assignments too, overnight copilot jobs for cut-rate shipping companies. She must have been in a hurry to move over to private jet flight, logging so many hours so quickly. Once a pilot logged fifteen thousand hours, she was considered a strong hire.

  Executive Air Staffing Inc. of Rosemont, Idaho, had snapped Palma right up. Her evaluations all said the same thing: She was professional and meticulous. Three evaluators described her as “very quiet.”

  So Palma had no family of her own and no connection to the Ando family. Of the three pilots, she had the least to lose.

  It occurred to Michelle that all the researchers were doing the same thing she was, and almost certainly doing it better: looking into the pilots. But what about the kids?

  Could one of them be in on whatever was going on up there in NW6?

  Not likely. Bio workups on them wouldn’t be of much interest to the general. Why, then, were Michelle’s fingers tapping up Cassie Ando’s Instagram?

  She went through the most recently posted pictures, from a camping trip Cassie and her friends had just taken in Idaho.

  Cassie and Emily Alarcón, arms over each other’s shoulders after a swim in the lake. Cassie: big smile.

  Cassie and Emily again, laughing as they made a mess of the s’mores they were cooking over the fire pit.

  Cassie and Brandon Singh on a raft, and there it was again, that lopsided grin. Michelle saw herself in Cassie Ando, but how could that be? They were from different worlds. Michelle was a public school kid from a military family and Cassie went to a private school where the tuition was more than Michelle’s dad had been making as a top-ranked air force pilot.

  Michelle zoomed in on Cassie’s face, and now she saw it, the thing that she and Cassie had in common. The look in Cassie’s eyes, open a little too wide.

  She was covering.

  Was she depressed?

  Why?

  Had she lost something, or someone?

  Even as she was the life of the party, was she lonely in a crowd?

  Michelle pulled up Cassie’s Facebook friends to see what they had to say about her.

  She was a phenomenal athlete, captain of the gymnastics team, consistently medaled on the balance beam. Those pictures were posted by Emily, the team’s manager. Hartwell Academy was for the ultra-rich, all right. What school can field a nationally competitive gymnastics team on its own? Michelle didn’t know anybody who took gymnastics lessons. She was curious, stunned by all this wealth and privilege she was seeing as she clicked through Cassie’s life.