Ken Goddard - Double blind

Which meant no comforting and numbing booze either.

At 6:55 that Sunday afternoon, as a truly distressed Simon Whatley contemplated the cruelty of fate, Larry Paxton was on a roll.

Working at a feverish pitch, the Bravo Team leader frantically drilled hole after hole in the wooden sides of the shipping crates and the tops of the aluminum terrarium covers, sending slivers of wood and aluminum flying as he urged Woeshack — his ever-loyal and faithful Eskimo special agent/pilot assistant — to move faster between temporarily plugging up the holes in the sides of the crates, connecting sections of clear-plastic tubing between the holed crates and terrariums, filling small plastic boxes with crickets, and securing the aluminum covers to the filled terrariums with long strips of duct tape.

In fact, only after the two Special Agents taped the sixteenth terrarium cover to the sixteenth filled terrarium did it occur to Paxton to ask a relevant question.

"Thomas, how are we doing on duct tape?" he inquired as he wrapped his chilled and slightly trembling hands around the blissfully warm drill.

"No problem." The diminutive agent smiled cheerfully. "I bought sixty-two rolls — every one left in town, far as I could tell."

"Sixty-two, huh?" The nearly exhausted Bravo Team leader surveyed the warehouse, noting uneasily that in addition to approximately fifty duct-taped terrariums now lining the three-tiered shelf, sticky clumps of the easily tangled adhesive now covered a good portion of the warehouse floor. "How many have we got left?"

"Uh… just a second." Woeshack disappeared behind a pile of crates, then popped back up a few moments later. "Looks like at least forty or so."

Paxton smiled.

"Thomas, my man," he announced cheerfully, "in my humble opinion, I believe the crucial elements of this insane operation are finally starting to come together."

Thanks to a slight head wind, the pilot of the bumpy flight from Medford to Portland touched down on the long PDX runway four minutes behind schedule.

It was all that Simon Whatley — who had frantically checked and re-checked his watch every fifteen seconds throughout the entire flight — could do to keep from unbuckling his safety belt, running down the aisle, ripping open the flimsy barrier to the cockpit, and screaming at the pilot and copilot who, from Whatley's fevered and biased viewpoint, barely looked old enough to qualify for a driver's license.

Christ Almighty, the congressional district office manager raged to himself, whatever happened to the idea of taking a goddamned plane to get somewhere faster?

Simon Whatley continued checking his watch every ten seconds or so as the pilot taxied toward the terminal, knowing full well he was hopelessly trapped by the sixteen people in the eight rows of seats in front of him, who undoubtedly would use those few first deplaning minutes to dawdle or suddenly decide to share photos of their latest grandchild with a perfect stranger. Suddenly, the idea of unbuckling his safety belt and running down the aisle seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

Accordingly, Whatley waited until the plane almost reached the gate, quickly released his seat belt, and lunged down the aisle… unfortunately at the precise moment the pilot braked suddenly to avoid hitting an errant baggage carrier.

The sudden forward acceleration caused his flailing arms and legs to slam into the backs and armrests of four separate seats, triggering a series of startled screams and angered curses in his wake as his head, knees, chest, and elbows bore the brunt of his headfirst slide along the rough carpet… until finally, thanks to the effects of abrasive friction and the amazingly sturdy cockpit barrier, he came to a sudden halt.

Stunned and bleeding, Whatley managed to regain his feet and brace himself against the low ceiling, ignore the glares and mutterings of his fellow passengers and the perplexed look of the youthful copilot, who struggled to open the combination door and collapsible stairway, stagger down the stairs of the small plane, snatch his briefcase and suit bag from a baggage handler, and run for the terminal building.

Once inside the terminal, Whatley continued running — elbowing his way through the densely populated Horizon boarding area, charging down the hallway and up the seemingly endless ramp, then sprinting across the main terminal, plunging through another security checkpoint and bolting down another long hallway — to the United gate where, seventeen minutes later, red-faced, wheezing, oozing blood from his knees and elbows, and barely able to hold his briefcase and suit bag in his cramped and fatigued hands, much less stand upright on his wobbly legs, he learned that the flight to San Francisco would be delayed.

It was probably just as well for all concerned — the airline representative at the gate, the nearby security guard who was scrutinizing Whatley carefully, and Whatley's fellow passengers, not to mention his as-yet-unblemished rap sheet — that it took the senior congressional staffer another ten minutes to regain his breath, color, and strength… which, in turn, gave him a fighting chance to regain what amounted to a very tenuous grip on his composure.

Only then did that sorely abused congressional district office manager finally comprehend that he couldn't check his suit bag in, right here, at the Portland gate — for automatic transfer to the American Airlines red¬eye flight — because the anticipated delay would give him, at most, only a very few minutes to make his connecting flight at San Francisco International Airport.

"So we can't check your luggage, sir," the polite airline representative explained in a professionally patient voice. "Because even if you manage to make your connection in San Francisco, any luggage you check here definitely will not."

With understandable amazement, then, at 11:55 that Sunday evening, Simon Whatley — bandaged, exhausted, sweat-soaked, aching, and thoroughly numbed by the six drinks he'd consumed at the Portland Airport and on the United flight — finally stuffed his suit bag, briefcase, and coat into the overhead compartment of the American Airlines 757 red-eye flight to Washington Dulles, and collapsed into his rearmost aisle seat adjacent to two of the plane's three toilets.

Understandably, too, any plans to review the messages from Lt. Colonel John Rustman's rogue hunter-killer recon team prior to his next meeting with Regis J. Smallsreed, Sam Tisbury, and the harrowing presence in the shadows of Smallsreed's congressional office, immediately evaporated when Simon Whatley fell into a deep and exhausted sleep.

At precisely seven minutes after midnight Monday morning — just as the American Airlines 757 jetliner bearing the unconscious body of Simon Whatley arced into the night, and just as Bravo Team leader Larry Paxton taped the next-to-last aluminum cover to the next-to-last giant-tarantula-filled terrarium with hands that definitely trembled with exhaustion and the surrounding cold — special agent/pilot Thomas Woeshack made a relevant discovery.

"Hey, Larry," he called, holding up a box filled with a fifty-fifty mix of long red and purple light tubes, "weren't we supposed to put these IR and UV lights back in those terrarium lids you drilled before we taped them shut?"

The impact of the 757 jetliner's wheels against a solid surface jarred Simon Whatley out of a deep sleep.

Christ, what was that? Did we hit something?

Whatley's eyes snapped wide open just as the spinning rear wheels struck the runway for the second time, whereupon he became aware — once again — of the stench of the nearby chemical toilets, and the noise of the rear cabin, where at least a half dozen small children now yowled from the effects of the sudden change in cabin pressure.