Skyhammer by Richard Hilton

instrument panel, on the center console, where
     Boyd could see it. Then he radioed New World’s maintenance controller and requested aircraft de-icing. The snowshowers had
     started again, so they would need it.
    “Let’s get the checklist,” Boyd said.
    Pate pulled the card from its pocket atop the glareshield and flipped it over to the “Before Start” checklist. Immediately
     he began reading each item aloud, waiting for a response from Boyd before continuing to the next.
    By the time they had finished, the passengers were beginning to board. Pate glanced at his watch again. Boyd checked his.
     Just over fifteen minutes remained until scheduled blockout.
    A minute later, one of the flight attendants leaned into the cockpit. “Captain Pate,” she said.
    Pate turned to look at her, as if alarmed, it seemed to Boyd. Then he faced forward quickly again. “Ain’t a captain no more,
     Mariella,” he said.
    “Sure you are, Emil.” She gave Boyd a forced smile. “I’m your number one. Mariella Ponti.” She was late thirties, pretty,
     with short dark hair, blunt cut with bangs, and sharp brown, care-worn eyes. She had flown with Emil Pate plenty of times,
     she told Boyd. “At Westar,” she added, briefly watching Boyd for a reaction. Another tough case, Boyd thought, but he didn’t
     care. She was too old for him anyway, and married—he’d noted the ring on her left hand.
    “Anyway, Emil,” she said now, tapping Pate’s shoulder. “You’re just out of your seat. You’ll get it back.”
    Pate nodded, but did not turn to look at her. “Sure I will,” he said.
    She laughed, but it sounded hollow, as if she, too, could see that Pate was in no mood to talk. “Well, I’m glad to know we’re
     in good hands.” She looked at Boyd again. “Because guess who we’ve got aboard today?”
    “Who?” Boyd said.
    Pate turned, too.
    “Does the name John Sanford ring a bell?”
    “
Senator
John Sanford?” Boyd asked. Sanford was a big shot all right—the front-running candidate for the Republican nomination in
     the next presidential race. Boyd had seen him on network news a lot lately. An imposing guy, Viet Nam War hero if he remembered
     correctly.
    Ponti nodded at both of them. “The same. He’ll be right here in first class if you want an autograph.”
    Boyd smiled up at her. “I might just slide back if I get the chance. Give him my advice.”
    Ponti managed a better smile this time. “I’m sure he needs it.”
    The de-icing truck had arrived, its nozzle operator bundled against the cold in his basket atop the boom. Pate reached up
     to the overhead panel and switched off both air conditioning packs to keep the acrid fumes from entering the cabin.
    The de-icing operator began his application and they were quickly enveloped in the syrupy mist of warm glycol-water solution
     pouring over the fuselage. The cockpit became even smaller, and silent except for the muted whirring of the instrument cooling
     fans. They were finished with their preflight checks, and for a minute they both sat still. Then Boyd could feel Pate’s eyes
     on him. He turned his head and looked into them, saw the cold anger he’d seen before.
    “So you still don’t think I deserve this.” Boyd said, turning away again to stare at the distant edge of the airport. He would
     call Pate out right now, he decided. If he had to. Better that than another trip like the last one.
    “You’re right,” Pate said. “You don’t deserve it. Doesn’t matter, though.”
    He was still looking at Boyd. Startled by the remark, Boyd stared back. Was Pate mad or not? The anger had vanished from his
     eyes now. There was nothing in them, nothing at all.
    “Coffee anyone?” Mariella was leaning through the entryway. “Coffee?”
    Boyd looked away. “Sure,” he said, turning forward in his seat. “Just cream.”
    “How about you, Emil?”
    Pate had also turned to face forward. He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said quietly.

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