John Nance - Headwind

Most of the clouds overhead were gone, leaving the stark blackness of the sky as an inky canvas for the stellar work of art above, the spiral arm of the earth’s own Milky Way galaxy spread above in spectacular profusion, diminished only mildly by the filtered glow of the sodium vapor lights bathing the ramp.

Sherry took a deep breath and exhaled, her mind still whirling from the intensity of the past few hours. There was a window of opportunity now to take control of the situation and, depending on Britain’s attitudes, perhaps quash the warrant within a few days. Thanks to the Italian leaders, they could safely wait until tomorrow before leaving, with no concern that the enemy was going to reappear.

She thought about the C-17 out there somewhere in the darkness thousands of miles distant as it hung in the sky over the Atlantic, moving ever closer to American shores – an utterly wasted flight without John Harris aboard. She wondered what the crew was thinking. Military men and women felt the ache of an unsuccessful mission far more than civilians could ever understand, their entire purpose for being called into question by any political override of a military operation.

The Vietnam syndrome never leaves us, she thought, suppressing a flash of anger.

The warning the President had given her just twenty minutes ago replayed in her head: his could be a long stay in Britain, and she should be thinking about other career plans. “Nonsense,” she’d told him. “I’m sticking with you, regardless of where you are, and I’ll be there for you as long as you need me.”

“Need you? Are you kidding?” John Harris had replied. “I certainly can’t imagine handling things without you, Sherry.”

She smiled at the memory and the fact of being needed, the smile quickly fading with the reality that he was about to surrender to an uncertain fate and become a gold-plated pawn in an international tug-of-war.

Sherry remembered the mission of the call she’d just received from Jay Reinhart and turned to hurry back into the 737 to brief the President.

“Jay was just boarding his commercial flight in Denver,” she explained. “He said he had about two hours of research to do before giving us the green light for London. He’ll call from the plane.”

“Okay,” John Harris nodded.

“His voice sounded strange. I got the impression something happened on the flight to Denver, but he wouldn’t tell me what. He sounded really spooked.”

“Jay hates flying. He’d take Amtrak to London if they served the market.”

“I got that impression.”

“Where are General Glueck and his folks?”

“Inside, sir. Captain Swanson’s having a dinner catered for them in the terminal, and sending food out to us, too.”

“Did you see what those fellows did, Sherry?”

She nodded. “I did. I didn’t hear everything that went on…”

“I mean, you talk about something to make you humble, that level of…of…”

“Honor?”

“Just love of country, Sherry. General Glueck talked all of them into turning down that charter back to Rome.”

“Sir, they’re having fun with this in a manner of speaking. I imagine it’s been a long time since some of them have felt really needed.”

He nodded slowly. “Good insight. That’s something I have to consider. I was concerned about their wanting to come with us.”

Sherry looked startled. “Wait a minute. They’re coming with us ?”

“Their next stop was Rome, but, according to Glueck, the whole group… including their tour director, Annie Ford… want to stay with us. They even had their baggage put back on the plane when the others left. You… have a problem with that?”

She smiled. “Your call, sir, but I would rethink that. Once we leave here, I really don’t think they can help.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, I’m honored to have them along if they want to go, and if it makes sense. Yeah, I’ll reconsider. What I do have a problem with is why we need to wait here until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Jay Reinhart’s insisting he needs to get to London ahead of us and make arrangements.”

“But what arrangements?” the President asked. “Campbell will have already presented the warrant to a judge somewhere in London. There’s almost no question they’ll be waiting wherever we touch down.”

She shook her head. “He just wants to get there first, and that’s eleven hours from now.”

“How long for us to fly to London?” he asked.

“An hour and a half, about,” she replied. “He said he expects we should take off about four P.M. tomorrow. That will give him most of the day to get things arranged.”

“To surrender to the British authorities?”

“That’s… what he’s thinking.”

“It’s always possible,” John Harris began, tapping his fingers on the side of his face, “that the British Foreign Office may decide to find a way to slow Stuart down just long enough for us to gas up and go.”

“Yes, sir, but where do we go?” Sherry asked, easing into the seat next to him. “Captain Dayton tells me we can make Iceland or maybe Canada, but we can’t make it all the way home from London without refueling, because this model seven thirty-seven doesn’t have long-range fuel tanks. Campbell would surely know that. One of his henchmen will be waiting in Iceland too, and London’s probably a far better place to battle this.”

“Words of wisdom, Sherry,” he said, falling silent for a few moments. “Unless Jay has some fantastic brainstorm to pluck us out of here, London it is.”

“The British PM would never send you to Lima, right?”

“I knew Maggie Thatcher, John Major, and even Tony Blair. I don’t know the current occupant. So I can’t be sure. All we can depend on is that the fight would take at least as long as Pinochet’s battle, which was more than a year. Hell, I’ll probably turn as senile as Pinochet before they get to that point.”

David Carmichael stood in the doorway of the Signature Flight Service private terminal and watched a United Airlines 777 begin its takeoff roll on runway 17R. It accelerated slowly, pulled by two giant engines straining against the considerable weight of a planeload of passengers and baggage and a fuel load sufficient to power them through the 4,700 nautical miles separating Denver and London.

He glanced at his little Cessna 172, safely chocked in front of the private terminal, the ice now gone from its wings and windshield. He thought of the incredible difference in weight between the two metallic birds. The one approaching liftoff would leave the ground at a hundred fifty knots, weighing nearly three quarters of a million pounds. The 172 could barely hit a hundred fifty knots in cruise flight or lift more than twelve hundred pounds.

The triple seven’s nose rose majestically, the bulk of the aircraft lifting effortlessly into the air and almost immediately disappearing into the fog as the muted sound of the engines rolled over him.

He knew it was Professor Reinhart’s flight. He’d checked and monitored the tower’s takeoff clearance on his portable aviation scanner once his rubber legs had stopped shaking long enough to walk.

David turned and reentered the lounge.

I need another few minutes to wind down, he told himself. Then he’d ask for a ride to the nearby hotel he’d called and get a much needed night of sleep. Tomorrow he’d rent a car to get back to Laramie, unless the sky was crystal clear.

He looked back at his bird, feeling a strong determination to ferret out all he’d done wrong and make certain it never happened again.

And he would undoubtedly hear from the FAA, if they weren’t already on their way to talk to him.