Free The Lion's Game by Nelson DeMille

flight landed, that there might be a problem.
    Supervisor Ed Stavros in the FAA Control Tower continued to watch the scene being played out on Runway Four-Right through his binoculars. He said to the controllers around him, “They’re not foaming. They’re moving away from the aircraft ... one of the Emergency Service guys is hand-signaling to the pilot ...”
    Controller Roberto Hernandez was talking on a telephone and said to Stavros, “Boss, the radar room wants to know how long before they can use Four-Left and when we can have Four-Right available to them again.” Hernandez added, “They have some inbounds that don’t have much holding fuel.”
    Stavros felt his stomach knotting. He took a deep breath and replied, “I don’t know. Tell radar ... I’ll get back to them.”
    Hernandez didn’t reply, nor did he pass on his supervisor’s non-answer.
    Stavros finally grabbed the phone from Hernandez and said, “This is Stavros. We have ... a NO-RAD—yeah, I know you know that, but that’s all I know—look, if it was a fire, you’d have to divert anyway and you wouldn’t be bugging me—” He listened, then replied tersely, “So tell them the President’s getting a haircut on Four-Right and they have to divert to Philly.” He hung up and was immediately sorry he’d said that, though he was aware that the guys around him were laughing approvingly. He felt better for half a second, then his stomach knotted again. He said to Hernandez, “Give the flight another call. Use the Tower and Ground Control frequencies. If they don’t answer, we can assume they haven’t had any luck with their radio problems.”
    Hernandez picked up a console microphone and tried to raise the aircraft on both frequencies.
    Stavros focused the binoculars and scanned the scene again. Nothing had changed. The giant Boeing sat stoically, and he could see the exhaust heat and fumes behind each of the power plants. The various Emergency Service vehicles and the police cars held their positions. In the far distance, a similarly composed team sat well away from the runway, burning fuel and doing what everyone else was doing—nothing. Whoever it was that had been trying to get the pilot’s attention—probably McGill—had given up and was standing there with his hands on his hips looking very stupid, Stavros thought, as though he were pissed off at the 747.
    What didn’t make sense to Stavros was the pilot’s inaction. No matter what the problem was, a pilot’s first inclination would be to clear an active runway at the earliest opportunity. Yet, the Boeing 747 just sat there.
    Hernandez gave up on the radio and said to Stavros, “Should I call someone?”
    “There’s no one left to call, Roberto. Who are we supposed to call? The people who are supposed to get the fucking aircraft out of there are standing around with their fingers up their nose. Who should I call next? My mother? She wanted me to be a lawyer—” Stavros realized he was losing it and calmed himself down. He took another long breath and said to Hernandez, “Call those clowns down there.” He pointed toward the situation at the end of Four-Right. “Call Guns and Hoses. McGill.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Hernandez got on the radiophone and called Unit One, the lead Emergency Service vehicle. Sorentino answered and Hernandez asked, “Situation report.” He hit the speaker phone button, and Sorentino’s voice came up into the silent room. Sorentino said, “I don’t know what’s happening.”
    Stavros grabbed the radiophone and, trying to control his anxiety and annoyance, said, “If you don’t know, how am I supposed to know? You’re there. I’m here. What is going on? Talk to me.”
    There was a few seconds of silence, then Sorentino said, “There’s no sign of a mechanical problem ... except—”
    “Except
what?”
    “The pilot came in without reverse thrust. You understand?”
    “Yes, I fucking well understand what reverse thrust is.”
    “Yeah, so