He punched in the number of the University’s registrar and begged for David Carmichael’s number using the first excuse that came to mind.
“Good enough for me, Professor,” the lady on the other end said, reading him two numbers.
The first didn’t answer. The second one caught the graduate student between classes on his cell phone. Jay explained the situation and his desperation.
“Ah, I don’t know, Professor Reinhart, the weather’s kind of gamey today.”
“It’s too bad to fly?”
“Well… probably not, but I’ve also got a class.”
“How about if I get you out of it? I can’t tell you how important this is, David. This literally involves the life of a U.S. President.”
“You said that. Wow. Well, uh, as long as the forecast isn’t too bad…”
“You do still own your own plane?”
“Yes, I do. And it’s instrument equipped, and I’m an instrument pilot, but you still want to be careful, y’know?”
“Absolutely. Look, I hate to push, but I have no other way to get to Denver fast enough. So can you do it for me?”
“I think I’m legal for passengers… I haven’t flown for a few weeks, but I can probably be ready in about an hour.”
“How about forty minutes? I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”
“I can’t accept money, sir, except to pay for gas. I’m only a private pilot, not a commercial pilot.”
“All right. But is forty minutes okay?”
“You want to go to Denver International?”
“Yes.”
“I’d better get moving, then. I have to check the weather and file a flight plan. Where can I call you back, Professor?”
“Let’s just meet out there, David.”
There was a hesitation. “Oh. Okay.” Carmichael passed directions on how to find the so-called fixed-base operator, or “FBO,” at the airport where his plane would be waiting.
“I’ll… see you there, Professor.”
The thought of diving into a business suit without benefit of showering or shaving was anathema, but there was no time for anything else. The airspace in his bedroom was momentarily filled with socks and underwear and shirts as he tossed the minimum requisites into a suitcase and compressed his morning routine into ten minutes before racing out the door to the garage and into his car.
The image of his cell phone on the counter popped into his mind and he ran back to retrieve it, along with an extra battery and the charger, then returned to the car and opened the garage door on an overcast, gray sky – a reality he was trying hard to ignore.
David Carmichael had been a good student. He’d earned an A. Surely he was as good a pilot as he was a student. Surely he could find Denver in an overcast sky. Maybe they could fly low and follow the roads.
Carmichael was waiting for him at the door of the private terminal, a green headset in one hand and a small flight bag in the other. Jay forced himself to ignore the worried look on the young man’s face.
“They’re warming up the engine right now with a heat cart,” he announced.
“I don’t know what that means,” Jay said. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” Carmichael said. “But my plane’s been cold-soaked for the last week, so that’ll help get the engine started.”
“Okay. This is a jet?”
David Carmichael’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “A jet ? I wish!”
“What then?”
“It’s a Cessna 172, Professor. A single-engine propeller driven four-seater. What’d you think?”
“I… don’t know much about private planes,” Jay managed, his stomach contracting to the size of a pea.
“Professor,” Carmichael began carefully, recognizing the panicked look on Jay Reinhart’s face as he placed a hand on his professor’s shoulder, “this is a great, stable airplane. In fact, the Cessna 172 is the only aircraft in history to ever successfully penetrate Soviet air defenses.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Jay managed.
Carmichael smiled slightly and shook his head. “Back in the eighties, some loon of a guy from Germany flew a 172 into Russia and landed in Red Square, and the entire Soviet Air Force couldn’t shoot him down.”
“Oh. Yeah. I think I remember,” Jay said, his eyes falling on the tiny high-wing aircraft he’d spotted just out front on the ramp. He suddenly realized it was the very one David Carmichael was referring to. It didn’t look big enough to carry a passenger, he thought. In fact, it didn’t look big enough to carry a pilot!
“Weather okay?” Jay managed.
“Well…” David Carmichael began. “We’ll have to go on an instrument flight plan. We’ll be in the clouds all the way, but I think we’ll be okay. No real icing predicted below twelve thousand, so, ah… as long as we don’t encounter any, the turbulence shouldn’t be too bad.”
“What do you mean, icing?”
“I can’t fly in known icing conditions. I don’t have any de-icing boots.”
“Boots?”
“Rubberized devices on the leading edge – the front edge – of the wings that inflate to break off ice.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll shoot an ILS to Denver.”
The acronym meant nothing but Jay nodded. “Okay.”
“It should take us about an hour.”
Jay checked his watch, anxious for something to do other than think of the flight ahead. “We’d better get moving.”
David Carmichael reached out and caught his arm. “Professor, this is really vital, right? There’s no time to drive and no alternate flight you could take?”
Jay shook his head. There was a warning tone in Carmichael’s voice, but Jay forced himself to ignore it, fearful he might change his mind. The image of Stuart Campbell closing in on John Harris loomed larger than his fear of flight. Surely David Carmichael was just reacting to the pasty look on his face. A pilot wouldn’t fly unless it was safe.
David Carmichael sighed and glanced toward the airplane, then back at his passenger. “Professor, you might want to make a quick bathroom stop first.”
Jay looked at him suspiciously, trying to form a coherent question as wild images flashed in his head.
“Why?” he managed.
“Because,” Carmichael began carefully, “there’s no bathroom aboard.”
“Oh.”
“The plane’s too small.”
“Of course,” Jay heard himself say. “I’ll… be right back.”
“It’s over there, sir,” Carmichael prompted, pointing to the men’s room.
Aboard EuroAir Flight 42, on the Ground,
Sigonella Naval Air Station, Sicily
The call on the satellite phone had come as a complete surprise, and for a second, Craig wasn’t sure how to react.
“What was that?” Alastair asked as Craig replaced the receiver.
“One of the Navy security guys telling me Captain Swanson is on his way back here with that lawyer, Campbell.”
“To our airplane ?”
“That’s… the impression I got.”
“Oh, jeez! I’ll tell them,” Alastair said, scrambling out of the right seat and opening the door as Matt Ward was bringing General Glueck through the forward entry door.
“Agent Ward, we’ve got a problem,” he said, inclining his head toward the older gentleman with a questioning look.
Ward glanced at the general and back to Alastair Chadwick, quickly introducing the retired flag officer and the fact that he wanted to help. “What’s the problem?” Ward asked.
Alastair relayed the phone call, watching Ward’s eyes get large as he turned and bolted to the first-class cabin, leaving the General in the entryway. He was back in a few seconds.
“Okay, we have to assume Swanson’s being forced to bring Campbell aboard to see if the President is here.”
“If that’s true,” Alastair said, “he’ll want to check the entire plane and the restrooms.”
Читать дальше