He tried to ignore the bodies around him. At least there were fewer of them up here, and none of them were children or babies. But no matter where he was on this aircraft, he thought, he was the only living, breathing soul aboard.

This wasn't precisely true, but Andy McGill didn't know he had company.

Tony Sorentino watched the Trans-Continental tug vehicle drive up to the nose wheels. The vehicle was a sort of big platform with a driver's cab at each end so that the driver could pull up to the nose wheel and not have to back up and chance causing damage. When the hookup was made, the driver would change cabs and drive off.

Sorentino thought this was clever, and he was fascinated by the vehicle. He wondered why Guns and Hoses didn't have one of these, then remembered that someone told him it had to do with insurance. Each airline had its own tugs and if they snapped off the nose wheel of a hundred-fifty-million-dollar aircraft, it was their problem. Made sense. Still, Guns and Hoses should have at least one tug. The more toys the better.

He watched as the Trans-Continental driver hooked a fork-like towbar to each side of the nose wheel assembly. Sorentino walked over to him and said, "Need a hand?"

"Nope. Don't touch nothing."

"Hey, I'm insured."

"Not for this you're not."

The hitch was complete, and the driver said, "Where we headed?"

"The hijack area," Sorentino said, using the more dramatic but still correct name for the security area.

The driver's eyes darted to Sorentino, as Sorentino knew they would. The driver glanced up at the huge aircraft towering above them, then back to Sorentino. "What's up?"

"Well, what's up is your insurance rates, pal."

"Whadda ya mean?"

"You got a big, expensive hearse here, buddy. They're all dead. Toxic fumes."

"Jesus Christ Almighty."

"Right. Let's get rolling. As fast as you can. I lead, you follow. I have a vehicle in trail. Don't stop until you're in the security pen."

The driver moved to the front cab as if he were in a daze. He climbed in, engaged the huge diesel, and began moving off.

Sorentino got into the cab of his RIV and moved off ahead of the tug vehicle, leading it to a taxiway that in turn led to the security area, not far from Runway Four-Right.

Sorentino could hear all kinds of chatter on his radio frequencies. No one sounded very happy. He broadcast, "Unit One moving, tug and aircraft in tow, Unit Four in trail."

Sorentino maintained a fifteen-mile-per-hour speed, which was all that the tug could do pulling a 750,000-pound aircraft behind it. He checked his sideview mirrors to make sure he wasn't too close or too far from the aircraft. The view in his mirrors was very strange, he thought. He was being followed by a weird vehicle that didn't know its ass from its dick, and behind the vehicle was this monster silver aircraft, being pulled along like a string toy. Jesus, what a day this turned out to be.

Inaction is 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 this?"

"I got tired of Foster and Nash."

"I think you're showing off."

"We'll see when we get to the plane."

"You like to throw the dice, don't you?"

"No, I don't like to throw the dice. I have to throw the dice."

Officer Simpson was listening to Kate and me, but offered no insights and took no sides.

We drove on in silence, and the 747 still seemed out of reach, like a desert mirage.

Finally, Kate said, "Maybe I'll try to back you up."

"Thanks, partner." This, I guess, is what passes as unconditional loyalty amongst the Feds.

I looked at the 747 again, and this time it definitely hadn't gotten any bigger. I said, "I think it's moving."

Simpson peered out the window. "Yeah… but… I think they're towing it."

"Why would they tow it?"

"Well… I know they shut down the engines, so sometimes it's easier to get a tow instead of restarting them."

"You mean you don't just turn a key?"

Simpson laughed.