John Nance - Headwind

The conversation ran back and forth through his mind, both ends and the middle all at once, yielding the captain’s words of caution: “… but it’s kind of risky.” He felt a cold chill.

“I suspected you were calling the President,” Byer was saying. “You said you’d tell me the details of the call later. This is a pretty good time.”

Jay tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry as cotton. “I… ah, told him, Mr. Secretary, that they shouldn’t land in London.”

The statement hung in midair between them as the Secretary stared at him in silence, then nodded. “I understand. Let’s pray things are not as they appear out there.”

“Amen,” Jay said, slowly fighting back from the sudden doubt that they were still airborne. Maybe something had happened, but maybe not. What had Dayton meant? “What are you planning to do, Mr. Secretary?” Jay asked.

“Well, go back to the hotel and wait for word. I see nothing to be gained by staying out here. May I give you a lift back?”

Jay nodded, thinking of his roll-on bag in the Savoy. “I’d appreciate that, but I’d better not leave just yet. I have some urgent phone calls to make back to the States.”

Jay could see the questioning look return to Byer’s face.

“The President’s family,” Jay added.

Byer nodded. “Oh, of course.” He shook Jay’s hand and turned toward the door.

Jay walked over to a refreshment tray and poured himself a cup of coffee, aware that his hand was shaking, and acutely aware that Stuart Campbell and his entourage were working somewhere in the building. He waited until Byer’s car pulled away before walking outside into the night, conscious of the cool temperature, but needing to think. They were still airborne, of course. He refused to consider any alternative. He had to focus on what had to be done.

When the connection with Jay Reinhart’s GSM phone was lost, Craig Dayton turned to Alastair and studied his face for a few seconds.

“What?” Alastair asked.

“Ready to risk a crash?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Craig took a deep breath. “For God and country, Alastair.”

“I don’t want to bloody well know what you’re talking about, do I?”

“Stand by to turn off the transponder.”

“Talk to me, Craig. I do want to know.”

Craig quickly explained the plan: drop to the surface, stay under radar, and fly north up the English Channel to the North Sea and then to an airport in Scotland. “Probably Inverness.”

“Oh. The old tried and true Grinder maneuver. Very well. I’ll go along… with one proviso,” Alastair said.

“What’s that?”

“We cancel our instrument flight clearance so that any conclusions they make about our fate are their responsibility. Otherwise, our licenses will never survive the ruse.”

“You got it.”

Craig notified everyone in back to buckle up for some unusual maneuvers, then disconnected the autopilot and rolled the 737 into a tight left descending turn as Alastair triggered the transmitter.

“London, EuroAir Ten-Ten, please cancel our IFR flight clearance and our Heathrow arrival slot at this time. We’re descending now in visual conditions to work out a problem.”

The controller’s voice betrayed surprise. “Ah, EuroAir Ten-Ten, roger, IFR cancelled. May we be of assistance, sir?”

The altimeter showed they were halfway between thirteen and fourteen thousand feet over the English Channel, and the Global Positioning Satellite equipment had the small symbol representing their aircraft less than ten miles from shore in the deepening twilight.

Craig hit the transmit button on his yoke, adopting a tense, strained tone of voice.

“Ah… London… Ten-Ten, EuroAir… we’re… we’re going…” He released the transmitter, waiting for the inevitable reply as he tightened his left turn and let the descent rate increase to four thousand feet per minute.

“Say again, please, EuroAir Ten-Ten.”

They had already turned ninety degrees to the original course as he pulled the thrust levers back.

“Don’t answer him, Alastair! And call out my altitude in thousand-foot increments.”

“Roger. Ten thousand, down five thousand feet per minute,” Alastair reported, his voice calm and steady, but the size of his eyes betraying concern.

Craig glanced at him and grinned, then glanced back at an ashen-faced John Harris.

“Hang on.”

“Nine thousand, down six thousand per minute. Don’t increase that descent rate!” Alastair warned.

“I won’t,” Craig replied, carefully watching the instruments as he came through the first three-hundred-sixty-degree point.

“EuroAir Ten-Ten, London, observe your turn and altitude loss, sir! Are you in distress?”

“Descending through eight thousand, Craig.”

“Any oil platforms or other structures out here in the channel, Alastair?” Craig asked.

“I doubt it, but I wouldn’t bet our lives on my memory, or the idea that we’ll be safe under five hundred feet.”

“We’ll need lower than that.”

“Seven thousand, down six thousand per minute.”

“Roger.”

“EuroAir Ten-Ten, London. Are you in distress, sir?”

“Don’t touch that button, Alastair. I know you’re tempted.”

Alastair nodded and swallowed hard. “Six thousand, Craig. Of course I’m tempted! The poor bloke’s heart is in his throat.”

“Altitude?”

“Coming through five thousand three hundred.”

“Stand by to cut the transponder and all our external lights on my command.”

“Don’t… overdo it, fellows,” John Harris managed to say, his eyes huge as well.

The voice of the London air traffic controller took on a more urgent tone as he continued to call.

“I hate to do this to him!” Craig said. “He’s watching our data block plunging out of control.”

“Okay, Craig, we’re through three thousand, still descending at six thousand a minute. Better shallow the descent.”

“Speed?”

“Two hundred eighty.”

“Good. Plenty of energy. I’ll take it to one thousand before shallowing.”

“That’s awfully low, Craig! Give yourself enough room to level off or we could fly into the water.”

“Altitude?”

“Coming through two thousand, Craig! It’s getting too dark to see the water clearly.”

“Call me at one thousand.”

“Very well… fifteen hundred… thirteen hundred… twelve… eleven… ONE THOUSAND!”

Craig began pulling on the control column, far too slowly in Alastair’s view. The Boeing responded sluggishly as the vertical velocity began backing off the peg.

“Craig! Pull!”

“I am. Kill the transponder and the lights.”

“Done!” Alastair said, his fingers flipping switches he had already identified. “You’re too low, Craig! Dear God…”

Stuart Campbell had taken temporary refuge in one of the smaller waiting lounges provided for the well-heeled users of private jets. Two of his associates had cell phones plastered to their ears just outside in the hallway, as Campbell sat back and focused his thoughts.

“Stuart?” one of the men said as he leaned in the door, breaking Campbell’s concentration.

“Yes?” Campbell sat forward, pulling himself back to the moment. “Come in.”

Henri Renoux took a chair opposite Campbell’s, his voice urgent: “They’ve got helicopters on the scene right now.”

“There is, in fact, a ‘scene’?” Campbell asked, looking startled.

Henri shook his head. “I’m sorry. Poor choice of words. They are in the area where the aircraft is presumed to have gone down about fifteen kilometers off Dover. Several boats are in the vicinity as well. They’ve found nothing so far.”