John Nance - Headwind

Campbell nodded. “Well, something as large as that airplane wouldn’t hit the water without leaving quite a bit of evidence.”

“It will take some time, especially since it’s dark out there.”

Stuart shook his head. “There’s nothing to be found, Henri. They’re wasting their time. Clever ploy, that, cancelling his instrument clearance first. He’ll feign radio failure and they can’t get his license.”

Renoux cocked his head slightly as he tried to decipher his senior partner’s meaning. “I… thought you just said…”

Stuart got to his feet and paced to the far end of the room, then turned.

“It’s a ruse, and a very effective one at that.”

“A ruse?”

“Too convenient, Henri. First an alleged hijacking yesterday that was anything but. Then a dress rehearsal for this trick when they panicked Rome Control going into that Sicilian Navy base. We obtained the warrant, and Mr. Reinhart suddenly discovers that his President may not actually be as pure as the driven snow, and now, suddenly, the aircraft carrying President Harris to a certain arrest seems to be falling into the water with perfectly timed convenience just before reaching British jurisdiction.”

“But… they were seen in an uncontrolled left spiral…”

“We don’t know that it was uncontrolled. Whatever it was, it was cleverly crafted by a very innovative airline captain to fool London Center, which is precisely what he’s done. This is a very smart adversary we’re dealing with in that cockpit. A good partner for Harris, I should think.”

“Forgive me, Stuart, but aren’t we ignoring the fact that the airplane hasn’t shown up anywhere?”

Campbell chuckled and turned to look out the window to the hallway. “No, I’m not ignoring that fact, Henri, and the reason is because John Harris and his chartered jet will show up at an airport somewhere.” He pointed to the map. “Let’s get some pilots in here with maps of the U.K. and Europe and figure out where he could be going.”

“Good heavens, Stuart, there are hundreds of airports in the radius of a few hundred miles from here.”

“But, not all of them can take a Boeing seven thirty-seven, can they? And the chap certainly hasn’t enough fuel in that model to make the States, or probably even Keflavík.”

Henri was already on his feet and moving toward the door.

“Oh,” Stuart added, “and get a direct line to London Center, Henri. Suggest the same scenario, and see if there were any shadowy radar traces moving away from the supposed crash site.”

“Okay.”

“And… we’ll need another team of people with phones, and rapidly so. We’ll need to call every usable airport in the U.K. and expand the calls outward to match the amount of time they would have been in the air.”

“You need Jean-Paul and Gina to be standing by with the Lear?”

Stuart nodded aggressively. “Yes. We might have to fly in any direction.” Campbell smiled at Renoux. “Don’t worry, Henri, we’ll find Harris and win this little chess game. This is simply an unexpected gambit by the opposing king. Just when I think I have the little bugger in check, he scoots out of reach of my queen.” He laughed openly. “An apt analogy, that, even if I do proclaim it so.”

“I don’t understand,” Henri said, still hesitating in the doorway with a slightly worried look.

“It’s a chess analogy, Henri. It’s amazing how often I find them useful in law.”

A shapely young woman in a tight-fitting little black dress appeared in the hallway, her jet-black hair bouncing luxuriantly and her face brightening at the sight of Stuart Campbell. She hurried in the office door.

“Sir William? There’s an urgent call for you in operations, just down the hall.”

“How very kind of you to come find me, my dear. Thank you,” Stuart said, turning on his brightest smile and watching her blush slightly under his penetrating gaze as she turned to leave. “Deirdre, wasn’t it?” he asked.

She looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “Yes, it is. Thanks for remembering.”

“How could I forget the lovely name of such a lovely lady,” Stuart said, crossing to the desk and watching in admiration as she flowed like a feminine wave around the corner.

He raised the receiver. “Stuart Campbell here.”

The voice on the other end was instantly recognizable.

“Mr. Prime Minister! I appreciate your calling back. We need to talk most urgently.”

The hard pull up required to level the 737 just above the surface of the English Channel had profoundly frightened Alastair.

“Good Lord, Craig!”

“There’s one hundred! I’m level. Easy, Alastair! I’m trained to do this.”

“Yes, in a blinking fighter! Not a seven thirty-seven! I thought we were dead.”

“Altitude?”

“Back to a hundred.”

“Heading?”

“Ah… zero six zero degrees.”

“Okay… look at the GPS display and give me headings that will keep us moving just about up the center of the channel and way clear of the coast, then north up the north sea. We’ll round the shoulder of Scotland and come in from seaside to Inverness. Keep your eyes on the radar altimeter. Not an inch under a hundred feet, and, unless we get into fog, keep an eye out for any ships that might be sporting a mast over that height.”

“Oh, too right! I can do all that! Do you have any idea what you’re planning? That’s hundreds of miles trying to evade radar!”

“What? I’m stressing you out, old buddy?”

The copilot sighed and shook his head, his expression deadly serious.

“You are bloody crazy, Dayton!”

“Maybe, but while I’m losing it, we need to get Reinhart on the phone,” Craig Dayton said as he took his right hand off the throttles long enough to rub his right eye. The task of holding the Boeing precisely one hundred feet above the water – a distance less than the wingspan of the jet – had already become tedious, making him seriously consider climbing back up a few hundred feet even if they did risk being seen by air traffic radar.

“This is very dangerous, Craig!” Alastair reminded him.

“When we’re another ten miles or so, we can come up a bit.”

“There are ships with superstructures taller than this, you know.”

“But we’ve got a cloud ceiling far enough above us to see ahead, Alastair. We spotted that other boat.”

“Still steady at one hundred,” Alastair said, his hand firmly on his copilot’s control yoke, shadowing Craig’s every movement.

“You think we’ve fooled them?” Craig asked.

“Probably. For a while. Until they find no wreckage. You know this is liable to reach our respective families with devastating results?”

“I know it. I figure you should call home as soon as we get on the ground,” Craig said.

“I’ll wager even at one hundred feet we’re being tracked by at least one military radar.”

“As long as Air Traffic Control can’t see us and we’re not streaking toward a British city…” Craig said.

“… we should be all right.” Alastair finished. “I ran a quick fuel calculation, and we’re okay at this fuel consumption rate to Inverness. We’ll land with an hour’s fuel remaining.”

Lights loomed in the distance directly ahead, seeming to close on them rapidly in the gloom.

“What’s that?” Craig asked, his eyes moving constantly from the attitude display to the radar altimeter to the vertical velocity indicator and back to the ADI with an occasional glance out of the windscreen ahead.

“Probably a ship.”

“I see a lot of lights,” President Harris chimed in, startling Alastair, who’d almost forgotten they had a guest on the cockpit jumpseat. “It’s tall, fellows, whatever it is.”