not John Corey’s middle name, and I said to George Foster, “I’m again requesting permission to go out to the tarmac.”
Foster seemed indecisive as usual, so Kate said to me, “Okay, John, you have permission to go down to the tarmac. No further.”
“I promise,” I said.
Ms. Del Vecchio turned and punched in a code on the door’s keypad. The door opened, and I walked through it, down the long jetway, and descended the service stairs of the jetway to the tarmac.
The convoy that was to take us to Federal Plaza was grouped close to the terminal building. I moved quickly to one of the Port Authority police cars, flashed my tin, and said to the uniformed officer, “The subject aircraft is stalled at the end of the runway. I need to get to it now.” I got into the passenger side, deeply regretting my lie to Kate.
The young PA cop said, “I thought the Emergency Service guys were bringing your passenger here.”
“Change of plans.”
“Okay ...” He started driving slowly, and at the same time called Tower Control to get permission to cross the runways.
I was aware of someone running alongside the car and by the looks of him, he had to be FBI agent Jim Lindley. He called out, “Stop.”
The Port Authority cop stopped the car.
Lindley identified himself and said to me, “Who are you?”
“Corey.”
“Oh ... where you going?”
“Out to the aircraft.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Who authorized—”
All of a sudden, Kate came up to the car and said, “It’s okay, Jim. We’re just going to check it out.” She jumped in the back seat.
I said to the driver, “Let’s go.”
The driver said, “I’m waiting for permission to cross—”
A guy’s voice came over the speaker and said, “Who’s asking for permission to cross the runways and why?”
I grabbed the microphone and said, “This is ...” Who was I? “This is the FBI. We need to get out to the aircraft. Who is this?”
“This is Mr. Stavros, Tower Control Supervisor. Look, you can’t cross—”
“It’s an emergency.”
“I
know
there’s an emergency. But why do you have to cross—”
I said, “Thank you.” I told the Port Authority cop, “Cleared for take-off.”
The PA cop protested, “He didn’t—”
“Lights and siren. I really need you to do this for me.”
The cop shrugged, and the car moved off the tarmac toward the taxiway, its flashers and siren going.
The Tower Control guy, Stavros, came on the speaker again, and I turned down the volume.
Kate spoke for the first time and said to me, “You lied to me.”
“Sorry.”
The PA cop cocked his thumb over his shoulder and asked me, “Who’s that?”
“That’s Kate. I’m John. Who are you?”
“Al. Al Simpson.” He turned onto the grass and followed the taxiway east. The car bumped badly. He said, “Best to stay off the taxiways and runways.”
“You’re the boss,” I informed him.
“What kind of emergency?”
“Sorry, I can’t say.” Actually, I had no idea.
Within a minute, we could see a big 747 silhouetted on the horizon.
Simpson turned and crossed over a taxiway, then headed across more grass, avoiding all kinds of signs and lights, and headed toward a big runway. He said to me, “I really need to call Tower Control.”
“No, you don’t.”
“FAA regulations. You can’t cross—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep an eye out for airplanes.”
Simpson crossed the wide runway.
Kate said to me again, “If you’re trying to get fired, you’re doing a good job.”
The 747 didn’t look as though it were too far away, but it was an optical illusion and the silhouette didn’t get much bigger as we traveled cross-country toward it. “Step on it,” I said.
The patrol car bounced badly over a patch of rough terrain.
Kate asked me, “Do you have a theory you’d like to share with me?”
“No.”
“No, you don’t have a theory, or no, you don’t want to share?”
“Both.”
“Why are we doing
Foster seemed indecisive as usual, so Kate said to me, “Okay, John, you have permission to go down to the tarmac. No further.”
“I promise,” I said.
Ms. Del Vecchio turned and punched in a code on the door’s keypad. The door opened, and I walked through it, down the long jetway, and descended the service stairs of the jetway to the tarmac.
The convoy that was to take us to Federal Plaza was grouped close to the terminal building. I moved quickly to one of the Port Authority police cars, flashed my tin, and said to the uniformed officer, “The subject aircraft is stalled at the end of the runway. I need to get to it now.” I got into the passenger side, deeply regretting my lie to Kate.
The young PA cop said, “I thought the Emergency Service guys were bringing your passenger here.”
“Change of plans.”
“Okay ...” He started driving slowly, and at the same time called Tower Control to get permission to cross the runways.
I was aware of someone running alongside the car and by the looks of him, he had to be FBI agent Jim Lindley. He called out, “Stop.”
The Port Authority cop stopped the car.
Lindley identified himself and said to me, “Who are you?”
“Corey.”
“Oh ... where you going?”
“Out to the aircraft.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Who authorized—”
All of a sudden, Kate came up to the car and said, “It’s okay, Jim. We’re just going to check it out.” She jumped in the back seat.
I said to the driver, “Let’s go.”
The driver said, “I’m waiting for permission to cross—”
A guy’s voice came over the speaker and said, “Who’s asking for permission to cross the runways and why?”
I grabbed the microphone and said, “This is ...” Who was I? “This is the FBI. We need to get out to the aircraft. Who is this?”
“This is Mr. Stavros, Tower Control Supervisor. Look, you can’t cross—”
“It’s an emergency.”
“I
know
there’s an emergency. But why do you have to cross—”
I said, “Thank you.” I told the Port Authority cop, “Cleared for take-off.”
The PA cop protested, “He didn’t—”
“Lights and siren. I really need you to do this for me.”
The cop shrugged, and the car moved off the tarmac toward the taxiway, its flashers and siren going.
The Tower Control guy, Stavros, came on the speaker again, and I turned down the volume.
Kate spoke for the first time and said to me, “You lied to me.”
“Sorry.”
The PA cop cocked his thumb over his shoulder and asked me, “Who’s that?”
“That’s Kate. I’m John. Who are you?”
“Al. Al Simpson.” He turned onto the grass and followed the taxiway east. The car bumped badly. He said, “Best to stay off the taxiways and runways.”
“You’re the boss,” I informed him.
“What kind of emergency?”
“Sorry, I can’t say.” Actually, I had no idea.
Within a minute, we could see a big 747 silhouetted on the horizon.
Simpson turned and crossed over a taxiway, then headed across more grass, avoiding all kinds of signs and lights, and headed toward a big runway. He said to me, “I really need to call Tower Control.”
“No, you don’t.”
“FAA regulations. You can’t cross—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep an eye out for airplanes.”
Simpson crossed the wide runway.
Kate said to me again, “If you’re trying to get fired, you’re doing a good job.”
The 747 didn’t look as though it were too far away, but it was an optical illusion and the silhouette didn’t get much bigger as we traveled cross-country toward it. “Step on it,” I said.
The patrol car bounced badly over a patch of rough terrain.
Kate asked me, “Do you have a theory you’d like to share with me?”
“No.”
“No, you don’t have a theory, or no, you don’t want to share?”
“Both.”
“Why are we doing
Similar Books
