Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

"Yes."

He reached behind him and placed the black bag on his lap.

She fastened her harness and told him to do the same. He managed to fasten his belt with the bag still on his lap.

She said, "You want to keep that bag on your lap?"

"Just until we are in the air."

"You need a pill or something?"

I need to be close to my weapons until we are safely out of here. "The vases are delicate. May I ask you-do we need to file a flight plan? Or has it been filed?"

She pointed out the window and said, "Chamber of Commerce blue skies. Don't need a flight plan."

She handed him a headset with a boom microphone, and he put it on. She put hers on and said, "Calling Demitrious. How do you hear me, Demitrious?"

He cleared his throat and said, "I can hear you."

"Same. This is better than screaming over the engine noise. Hey, can I call you Demitrious?"

"Yes."

"I'm Stacy."

"Yes."

She put on her sunglasses, started the engine, and they began to taxi out. She said, "We're using Runway Fourteen today. Blue skies all the way to Daytona Beach, no turbulence reported by anyone, good southerly wind, and the best damned pilot in Florida at the controls." He nodded.

She stopped at the end of Runway Fourteen, reached across him to close and lock the door, did an engine check, then broadcast, "Piper One-Five Whiskey, ready for takeoff."

The Control Tower broadcast, "Cleared for take-off, One-Five Whiskey."

Stacy Moll ran up the engine, released the brake, and they began rolling down the runway. Within twenty seconds, the aircraft lifted off and climbed out.

She turned the Piper thirty degrees to the right to a heading of one hundred seventy degrees, almost due south, then punched some buttons on the panel, explaining to Khalil, "This is the Global Positioning Satellite Navigation radio. You know how that works?"

"Yes. I have one in my automobile. In Greece."

She laughed. "Good. You're in charge of the GPS, Demitrious."

"Yes?"

"Just kidding. Hey, do you want me to shut up, or do you want company?"

He found himself saying, "I would enjoy company."

"Good. But tell me if I'm talking too much, and I'll shut up."

He nodded.

She said, "Our flight time to Daytona Beach Airport is forty to fifty minutes. Maybe less."

He replied, "It is not actually to Daytona Beach Airport that I wish to go."

She glanced at him and asked, "Where exactly do you wish to go?"

"It is a place called Spruce Creek. Do you know it?"

"Sure. Pishy-poshy fly-in community. I'll reprogram." She hit some buttons on the console.

He said, "I am sorry if there was confusion."

"No problem. This is easier than the big airport, especially on a perfect day like this."

"Good."

She settled back in her seat, scanned her control panel, and said, "Eighty-four nautical miles, flight time forty-one minutes, expected fuel burn nine and a half gallons. Piece of cake."

"No, thank you."

She looked at him, then laughed. "No, I mean… it's like slang. Piece of cake. Means, like, no problem."

He nodded.

"I'll keep the slang down to a minimum. If you can't understand me, say, 'Stacy, talk English.'"

"Yes."

"Okay, we're climbing through twenty-five hundred feet, passing due east of Jacksonville Naval Air Station. You can see it down there. Take a look. The other air field to the west was called Cecil Field, also Navy, but that's been decommissioned. Do you see any jet fighters out here? They're doing some practice crap on most days. Keep a lookout. Last thing I need is some jet-jockey up my ass-pardon my French."

"French?"

"Forget it." She said, "Hey, none of my business, but why are you going to Spruce Creek?"

"I have a business appointment there. A collector of Greek antiquities."

"Okay. About an hour on the ground?"

"Perhaps less. No more."

"Take as long as you need. I'm free all day."

"It will not take long."

"You know where you need to go when we hit the ground?"

"Yes. I have the information."

"You ever been there? Spruce Creek?"

"No."

"Pishy-poshy. That means people with too much money. Well, they don't all have big bucks, but lots of them have their noses in the air. You know? Lots of doctors, lawyers, and businessmen who think they know how to fly. But you've also got lots of commercial airline pilots-active and retired. They know how to fly the big stuff, but sometimes they get themselves killed in their little sports planes. Sorry, I'm not supposed to talk about crashing to the customers." She laughed again.

Khalil smiled.

She continued, "Anyway, at Spruce Creek you also got some retired military guys. Real 'Right Stuff kind of macho types. You know? I mean, they think they're God's gift to women. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Hey, the guy you're going to see wouldn't be named Jim Marcus, would he?"

"No."

"Whew! Good. I used to date that idiot. Former Navy, now a US Airways pilot. My father was a military jet pilot. Told me never to date a pilot. Good advice. Hey, what's the difference between a pig and a pilot? Give up? A pig won't stay up all night to screw a pilot." She laughed. "Sorry. You didn't get it anyway. Right? Anyway, if I never see that SOB again, it will be too soon. Okay, enough of my problems. Down there on the left-you can't see it now, but on the way back you can-is Saint Augustine. Oldest settlement in America. I mean, European settlement. The Indians were here first. Right? Gotta remember my PC."

Khalil asked, "Do retired military pilots in America have much money?"

"Well… depends. They get a good pension if they have enough time in service, and enough rank. Like maybe a colonel-in the Navy, that would be a captain. They do okay if they saved a little and didn't piss away all of their pay. A lot of them go into some kind of related business. You know? Like working for a private company that makes parts or weapons for military aircraft. They got connections, and they talk the talk. Some of them do some corporate jet flying. Big shots like to hire ex-military guys. Macho male crap. Old boys network. The CEOs want somebody who dropped bombs on some poor bastards. They tell all their friends-like, my pilot is Colonel Smith, who bombed the crap out of the Yugos, or the Iraquis. You know?"

"Or the Libyans."

"We never bombed the Libyans. Did we?"

"I think so. Many years ago."

"Yeah? I don't remember that one. We gotta stop doing that. Pisses people off."

"Yes."

The Piper continued south.

Stacy Moll said, "We just passed Palatka. Okay, if you look out to your right, you'll see the Navy bombing range. See that big wasted area down there? We can't get any closer because it's restricted airspace. But you can see the target areas. Hey! They're bombing today. Did you see that guy swoop in, then climb straight up? Wow! Haven't seen that in about a year. Keep an eye out for these hotshots. They usually come in high, and they release way up there, but sometimes they practice low run-ins-like they do when they're ducking under enemy radar. You know? Then you have to watch out. Hey-look! See that? That's another guy making a low run. Wow. You see any aircraft?"

Asad Khalil's heart was beating heavily in his chest. He closed his eyes and through the blackness he saw the burning red plume of the attack jet coming toward him, the indistinct blur of the aircraft itself, backlighted by the glow of Tripoli. The jet fighter was not more than an arm's length from his face, or perhaps that was how he recalled it with the passage of time. The fighter had suddenly risen straight up into the air, and seconds later, four ear-splitting explosions erupted, and the world around him was destroyed.

"Demitrious? Demitrious? You okay?"

He was aware that his hands were covering his face, and sweat was pouring from his skin. The woman was shaking his shoulder.