Ken Goddard - Double blind

"You mean your invention works?"

The young special agent/pilot's head popped up in surprise.

"Hell yes, it works. What did you expect?" A pained expression flashed across Paxton's face. "You think I need an electronic genius like Mike to come up with something simple like this?"

"We always did before," Woeshack pointed out truthfully.

"Well, you can forget what happened before, 'cause from now on, things are gonna be different around here," the Bravo Team leader predicted as he worked his jury-rigged device into the crude hole drilled in the next aluminum terrarium cover. "Seeing as how I'm the boss around here, things are gonna go my way for a change."

Which, coincidentally, was exactly what Simon Whatley was thinking, too, until the phone next to his bed rang.

At 6:35 that Sunday evening, Keith Bennington handed a numbed and glassy-eyed Simon Whatley his suit bag, briefcase, airline tickets, and the pair of letters that he — Bennington — had picked up from the drop box at the Dogsfire Inn post office.

He then watched his boss toss the two letters into the briefcase, on top of what Bennington immediately recognized as the other packets and letters that he'd collected from the designated drop box over the past two days… all of which clearly appeared unopened.

Christ, the young Congressional aide thought, hasn't he even looked at that stuff yet?

Then, deciding that the contents of those drop-box messages definitely didn't concern him, Bennington hurried on with his briefing.

"Don't forget, sir, you transfer from the Horizon flight from here to the United flight in Portland which will take you to San Francisco, where you'll catch the American red-eye to Washington Dulles. They're getting ready to board now, so you better go through security."

Simon Whatley looked at the line disdainfully.

"Wait a minute. Why can't I check my luggage?" he demanded petulantly. "This damned suit bag's heavy. Christ, I'm only going for the day. Why did you pack so many clothes?"

"Sir…"

"And why the hell do I need to fly all the way to Portland in one of those damn little puddle-jumpers, and change planes and fly all the way back over Medford, to get to San Francisco? What happened to the goddamned 737 direct flight?" the congressional district office manager whined in a decidedly childlike tone of voice.

"Sir, I…"

"Why can't I fly direct into Washington National instead of landing all the way out in goddamned Dulles and spending a goddamned hour driving through the goddamned rush-hour traffic?" Whatley stopped, visibly out of breath and dangerously flushed.

"That's what I tried to tell you when I called earlier, sir," the aide explained patiently for the third time, hoping that his boss was more alert now that he'd had some time to recuperate in the car.

A frantic Keith Bennington had passed the brightly smiling, heart-achingly attractive, and all-too-familiar young woman from the Rene Bocal Agency at the door to Simon Whatley's expensive apartment. Trying not to think about what the young woman wearing the professional-looking business suit and carrying the executive briefcase had actually done in Whatley's apartment, Bennington had hurried inside and found his exhausted, bleary-eyed boss in the shower, trying with minimal success to wash off what looked like a great deal of lipstick and body oil from various parts of his pale, slender body.

For some incredible reason that defied logic — or at the very least, Keith Bennington's limited imagination regarding such sordid events — Whatley's hair lay in a mass of slippery, oil-soaked and soap-resistant tendrils atop his slightly pointed head. It took the congressional aide almost two hours to get his boss properly scrubbed, rinsed, dried, dressed, packed, into the staff car, and to the airport.

Like bathing a damned dog, he thought ruefully as he glanced down at his watch. Thank God I left early.

"The direct flight from Medford to San Francisco was canceled because of a mechanical problem," Bennington repeated for the third time. "I busted my butt to get you on this flight… which is boarding right now," he reminded Whatley firmly. "And as soon as you get off this plane, you've got to grab your luggage and run because even if you make it to Portland on time, you've only got twenty-three minutes to make your next flight. And don't forget, the United terminal's up that long ramp and way over on the far side of the terminal."

"Twenty-three minutes?!" Whatley squawked. "But that… that isn't even legal!"

"No sir, it's not." Bennington leaned forward and lowered his voice. "In fact, they didn't even want to issue me the tickets. I had to mention Congressman Smallsreed's name twice before they agreed to make an emergency exception. Even then, they wouldn't promise to hold the plane in Portland. That's why you can't check your luggage, sir, because if you do, it simply won't make the connection in Portland."

"But then why the hell do I have to fly on three goddamned different airlines?" Whatley continued raging hotly, resisting his congressional aide's firmly guiding hand and ignoring the other people in the small airport terminal who were now staring at them curiously.

"Because only these two flights can get you to San Francisco in time to make that flight. And if you don't get going right now, you will definitely miss the last commercial flight that can get you to Washington, DC, in time for your meeting tomorrow."

"But what about United or…"

"Sir" — Keith Bennington continued firmly to guide his boss toward the security checkpoint, knowing full well that if Whatley missed this flight, someone would pay dearly… and he could easily guess who that someone would be — "this time of year everyone's looking for cheap fares. If you're willing to travel first-class, I can easily get you on a later red-eye, and I can always get you on a special military flight," he reminded Whatley, having no clue why his boss suddenly rejected the standard congressional travel perks available to the members and staff seated on the right appropriation subcommittees. "But if you insist on traveling coach, this is it… and that was the final boarding call, sir. If you don't get going right now, sir, you're going to miss the goddamned plane!"

Either Bennington's use of profanity, or his amazingly loud and insistent voice when he said it, ignited some survival-oriented circuit in Simon Whatley's fevered brain and galvanized him into action.

Cursing to himself, Whatley hurled his luggage and briefcase into the gaping maw of the X-ray machine, bolted through the metal detector, screamed at the approaching security guard when the warning bell began to sound… then turned and ran back through the detector, frantically pulled his wallet, keys and coins out of his pocket, flung them between the metal detector and the X-ray machine — where they ricocheted off the equipment and nearly hit the security guard in the process — lunged back through the metal detector, scooped up his wallet and keys, snatched his waiting briefcase and carry-on bag, ran for the doorway, fumbled for his boarding pass, and then frantically raced across the tarmac toward his distant plane.

Gasping for breath, Whatley finally staggered up to small plane, handed his suit bag to the impatiently waiting baggage handler, and stumbled up the stairway… only to discover — as he hunched over to walk down the narrow, low-ceilinged aisle — that only the middle seat in the back row of the tiny plane remained unclaimed.

Only as he wedged himself into his seat between a very large man and his equally large wife who had claimed the two back window seats, strapped himself in, and stared wistfully up the narrow aisle toward the cockpit, did Simon Whatley realize there wouldn't be any flight attendants on this flight.