The Lion's Game by Nelson DeMille Read Free Book Online Page A

feet.”
    “Okay.”
    Stavros picked up the Red Phone again. He also hit the Control Tower emergency speaker, then transmitted, “Emergency Service, this is Tower, over.”
    A voice came over the speaker into the silent Tower Control room, “Tower, Emergency Service.”
    Stavros recognized Tintle’s voice.
    Tintle asked, “What’s up?”
    “What’s up is the status. It’s now a three-three.”
    There was a silence, then Tintle asked, “Based on what?”
    Stavros thought that Tintle sounded less cocky. Stavros replied, “Based on a near-miss with another aircraft.”
    “Damn.” Silence, then, “What do you think the problem is?”
    “No idea.”
    “Hijacking?”
    “A hijacking doesn’t make the pilot fly with his head up his ass.”
    “Yeah ... well—”
    “We have no time to speculate. The subject aircraft is on a fifteen-mile final for Runway Four-Right. Copy?”
    “Fifteen-mile final for Runway Four-Right.”
    “Affirmed,” Stavros said.
    “I’ll call out the rest of the unit for a three-three.”
    “Right.”
    “Confirm aircraft type,” Tintle said.
    “Still a 747, 700 series, as far as I know. I’ll call you when we have visual.”
    “Roger that.”
    Stavros signed off and raised his binoculars. He began to scan from the end of the runway and methodically out from there, but his thoughts were on the radio exchange he just had. He recalled meeting Tintle a few times at the Emergency Committee liaison meetings. He didn’t particularly like Tintle’s style, but he had the feeling that the guy was competent. As for the cowboys who called themselves Guns and Hoses, they mostly sat around the firehouse playing cards, watching TV, or talking about women. They also cleaned their trucks a lot—they loved shiny trucks.
    But Stavros had seen them in action a few times, and he was fairly sure they could handle anything from a crash to an onboard fire and even a hijacking. In any case, he wasn’t responsible for them or the situation after the aircraft came to a halt. He took a little pleasure out of the knowledge that this 3-3 scramble would come out of the Port Authority budget and not the FAA budget.
    Stavros lowered the binoculars, rubbed his eyes, then raised the binoculars and focused on Runway Four-Right.
    Both rescue units had rolled, and Stavros saw an impressive assortment of Emergency Service vehicles along the perimeter of the runway, their red beacons rotating and flashing. They were spaced far apart, a procedure designed to avoid having a monster aircraft like a 747 wiping them all out in a crash landing.
    Stavros counted two RIVs—Rapid Intercept Vehicles—and four big T2900 fire trucks. There was also one Heavy Rescue ESU truck, two ambulances, and six Port Authority police cars, plus the Mobile Command Post, which had every radio frequency of every affiliated agency in New York as well as a complete phone center. He also spotted the Hazmat—the Hazardous Material Truck—whose crew had been trained by the United States Army. Parked in the far distance was the mobile staircase truck, and the mobile hospital. The only thing missing was the mobile morgue. That wouldn’t roll unless it was needed, and there was no rush if it was.
    Ed Stavros contemplated the scene—a scene he had created simply by picking up his red telephone. One part of him didn’t want there to be a problem with the approaching aircraft. Another part of him ... he hadn’t called a 3-3 in two years, and he became concerned that he’d overreacted. But overreacting was better than underreacting.
    “Seven miles,” Hernandez called out.
    “Okay.” Stavros began another patterned search of the horizon where the Atlantic Ocean met the New York haze.
    “Six miles.”
    “I got him.” Even with the powerful binoculars, the 747 was hardly more than a glint against the blue sky. But with every passing second, the airliner was growing in size.
    “Five miles.”
    Stavros continued to stare at the incoming aircraft.