Stephen Cannell - The Plan

"Unless what?"

"Unless we create a reason Henderson and Pudge can't use it."

"What kind of reason?"

"What were you planning to do with Anita?"

"Anita has decided to take a long trip. She's going to be leaving the country. She may come back after the nomination is secured; she may not. It's gonna be up to her. Right now, she's thinking about it."

"What if Anita meets with tragic circumstances?" A. J. blurted out.

"You been watching too much television."

"What if she was chartering a plane and flying to meet Haze in Ohio where we're doing a press conference tonight. The plane could have problems. . " He stopped, unable to finish the thought because Mickey was smiling at him.

"Jesus, you're not who I thought you were at all."

A. J. looked away and tried to finish. "Haze will cry on national TV. We'll stretch it out. . we'll make it play for a month, maybe longer. The funeral is the cover of Time magazine. Haze will do the eulogy. He'll talk about a thirty-year love affair. He'll make trips to her grave and the nation will mourn with him."

"How does that keep them from parading these whores?"

`They can't. Pudge will look like an asshole if he starts to attack a man who is grieving for his wife. I promise you. It'll hurt him worse than Haze."

They were quiet for a minute; then A. J. went on. "It cleans up two problems at the same time. Anita goes away and so does her divorce threat. Also, our internal poll shows the public finds Haze a little distant. This will create sympathy for him and warm up his image," A. J. said, using the logic Ryan had given him in the bar back in Iowa. "Pudge won't dare throw his bimbo grenades," A.]. concluded, suddenly feeling trapped in the motor home, wanting to escape the stuffy environment.

"Okay, rent a plane. We'll rig something that won't look like sabotage."

"What about the pilots?"

"Not even remotely important, Albert. People are meat machines. Sometime they have fiscal or emotional value. If they don't have either, they don't count." He pointed his finger at A. J. and pulled an imaginary trigger. "Bang," he said. "No venue, no value."

"Shit," A. J. said, softly.

Mickey dropped A. J. back at the gas station. The wonk stood next to his car as Mickey looked at him from the steps of the motor home. "Rent the plane with campaign funds. Have it standing by at the executive terminal at the Providence airfield at six-thirty tonight. I'll take care of everything else." Mickey smiled at him. 'This bothers you, doesn't it?"

A. J. pulled his coat around him and nodded.

"Lemme give you something to comfort you," Mickey continued. "Right this second, approximately five hundred people are stepping off the planet. . Some of them are dying in car wrecks, some are having coronaries, some are committing suicide. Dipshit passengers on the train to glory. While they're leaving, the maternity bus is pulling up, letting off a thousand new idiots. They're screaming and sucking in their first breaths, shifting their first loads. Net gain: Five hundred people. Ninety percent of them will turn out to be worthless assholes. One less here or there won't make a bit of difference."

"You're a sociopath. . "

"Welcome to the dark side of the planet, Albert." Mickey closed the door of the motor home and drove off.

A. J. stood in the gas station, feeling cold and alone.

Milo Duleo had seen more than his share of death. He'd learned to fly in the Navy. He'd had the dangerous but important job of monitoring the Russian-Afghanistan war in his supersonic high-flying Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird. He would streak off at stratospheric heights, the wing cameras whirring as he took surveillance photos along the Afghanistan border. He had been shot at dozens of times but had finally gone down when he got jumped by a squadron of Yakovlev 38s. He'd been taking an adrenaline ride against orders, streaking low through narrow valleys, the huge rock outcroppings racing past on both sides. Before he knew it, he was dodging ASM rockets and, finally, took one up the tailpipe and had to eject over hostile territory. He'd been lucky and run into a Mujahedin scout patrol, and was returned after two months to his carrier. He'd been asked to stand for a naval review and was found to have lost his aircraft unnecessarily. The decision ended his gonzo years. He found a home in commercial aviation, but grew bored with it and took a job flying Joseph Alo's Lear-55. With the Alos, he was occasionally asked to do some dick-puckering work, and he lived for those jobs. . Like the time they'd grabbed a black drug dealer with the unlikely name of Napoleon Outlaw and pushed the sorry son of a bitch out of the Lear without a parachute, forty miles out over the Atlantic Ocean … Not exactly the same as dodging MiG-29 Foxbat missiles, but at least with the Alos, he still had a chance to pump a little joy juice.

Milo was looking forward to tonight's flight as he packed his jump chute and prized Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine gun with the retractable stock and rotating rear sight cylinder. He loaded his gear into his black Range Rover and took off for the Providence executive terminal, where Pulacarpo Depaulo and Anita Farrington Richards were scheduled to arrive just after dark. The only tricky part was getting aboard unobserved. He had asked Mickey to rent a Lear-55 because he was familiar with the avionics, and if it was locked, he could access the cabin through the rear luggage compartment. The plane would be parked at the terminal, and because of the cold weather, he figured the pilots would be in the lounge drinking coffee. He should be able to scale the fence and get to the plane without difficulty.

It worked pretty much the way he figured. Milo jumped the six-foot fence and moved quickly across the tarmac and opened the rear luggage compartment. He unscrewed the panel that accessed the toilet. Within minutes, he was in the back of the plane. He shinnied into the small head, sat on the toilet seat and replaced the panel. Once it was secure, he remained there with his parachute and backpack duffel on his knees.

At nine-fifteen, he heard the door of the plane being lowered and the two pilots talking.

"What's wrong with her?" one of them asked.

'Then Milo heard the thick Italian accent that he recognized as Pulacarpo's.

"She's a' got too much'a to drink. I'm'a bring da car out so we get her in'a plane much bets' a"

Sitting in the small rest room Milo pulled the machine gun out of the top of his bag.

"Did you see her out there in the car? What the hell's wrong with her?" one pilot asked.

"If she's sick and gets in trouble while we're flying, we're gonna have an insurance claim, sure as shit. You better call the office and find out what they want us to do.

Milo opened the door and stepped out into the cabin with the H amp;K MP-5 on his hip. The two pilots turned and saw him standing behind them. Their expressions registered shock.

"Why don't you two sky kings go on up and start the preflight, okay? Anybody gets loopy, I'm gonna take him out," Milo said softly, his adrenaline giving him a rush.

"You shoot that in here, you break this bird's skin; we'll never get off the ground," the taller one said to him.

"Bullshit. . Guess what, Sky, I'm qualified in this equipment."

He herded them into the cockpit but kept his distance so there was no chance they could spin and grab him.

"Put the seat belts on, fellas, just so nobody'll be pop-pin' up, unannounced."

Both put on three-point belts; then Milo unplugged the two headset mikes and took them out of the cockpit. He sat on the jump seat with the machine gun on his knees and waited until the limo pulled onto the tarmac. He saw Pulacarpo leading Anita out of the limo. Her hands were tied and she looked drugged. Pulacarpo helped her to the plane and Milo grabbed her arms to steady her as she came aboard.