John Nance - Lockout

“Breem?”

“Who else?”

“Jerry, this probably isn’t the book answer, but don’t we have enough trouble as it is?”

Jerry Tollefson nodded aggressively, the hint of a smile on his face as he glanced over. “Probably the first thing we’ve agreed on all evening.”

Mojave Aircraft Storage, Mojave, California (2:00 p.m. PST / 2200 Zulu)

As the owner of Mojave Aircraft Storage, Ron Barrett was already profoundly frightened by the possible liability of turning over a $200 million jet to the wrong people, but the fact that the principles of the mysterious Colorado Springs leasing company had responded to the news by immediately flying their private jet to Mojave made him even more nervous.

Within minutes of arrival, Ron and Jaime Lopez were climbing aboard the Gulfstream and taking the proffered seats across from the CEO of Air Lease Solutions, a distinguished looking man in his fifties identified as Paul Wriggle. Wriggle’s two corporate assistants, Sharon Wallace and Don Danniher, were also introduced but stood quietly aside.

Paul Wriggle seemed the perfect physical specimen of a buttoned down, serenely confident corporate leader, Ron thought—all the attributes he wished he had. Trim, athletic, chiseled features, and sharply dressed in a monogramed shirt complete with cuff links, Wriggle was obviously a man in complete control, and if not wealthy, then at least well off.

Wriggle outlined the basic facts surrounding their missing, misdelivered Airbus A330 and the need to solve the problem as quickly and amicably as possible. “We recognize this was an honest mistake, gentlemen. It’s fixing it quickly that’s important. What we need to know right now is where our airplane is at this moment, when we can get her back, and what are the model characteristics of the one you should have sent to Pangia Airways?”

“Sorry… why do you need to know about Pangia’s?” Ron Barrett asked, regretting the challenge immediately. “I mean… certainly we’ll give you everything we’ve got in terms of info, but… I guess I’m not following the logic.”

Wriggle leaned forward. “Well, if the two aircraft are essentially identical in equipment, configuration, engine type, and flight hours, we might as well just call up Pangia and propose an even swap.”

“Just like that?”

“Simple solution, don’t you think? You know any reason to suspect the A330 that’s sitting out there right now is any different? You already said it was three serial numbers different from ours?”

“No reason” Ron replied, feeling the proximity of potential deliverance.

“So, a quick solution would be to have our pilots take Pangia’s bird back to Colorado Springs with us today, and we’ll just take care of the rest.”

Ron Barrett knew he must have a confused look on his face, but two new concepts had flashed by and he was having trouble keeping up.

“You… have two more pilots aboard here somewhere?”

“No… my guys up front are A330 qualified.”

“But… how do you…”

“Get this aircraft back?” He gestured to Don Danniher. “Don and I are Gulfstream IV type rated. We’ll fly this ship back. Is Pangia’s A330 ready to fly, by the way?”

“Ron looked at Jaime who was nodding. “We went ahead and de-pickled her just in case. We just need a fuel order.”

“Excellent.”

“But, excuse me, Mr. Wriggle,” Jaime Lopez continued. “We’re legally responsible for Pangia’s aircraft and they’d have to release her formally and with the appropriate paperwork before we could, ah…”

“Let us fly away? Understood. So happens Pangia’s CEO is a good friend of mine, and I have no doubt we can work a deal in a matter of minutes to accept the aircraft pending resolution of the problem.”

“We would need signed paperwork, sir,” Jaime continued.

“We can do that electronically,” Wriggle shifted around to catch his assistant’s eye. “Can’t we, Sharon?”

“Yes, sir.”

Something about the crispness of the reply caught Ron Barrett’s attention. In fact, he thought, this entire team had an almost military sharpness about them, and their professional deference to their boss was startlingly sharp, like electricity crackling through the air.

Wriggle had pulled out an old model flip phone and was tossing it to his assistant, who caught it deftly.

“Sharon? Find Rick Hastings’s number on my list there and get him on the line post haste. Tell him what we need.” Wriggle turned back to Ron. “As you probably know, Rick Hastings is Pangia’s CEO.”

“Right,” Ron replied, having had virtually no idea who filled that role.

The woman named Sharon moved toward the back of the Gulfstream’s cabin as she worked with the keypad on his phone.

“Mr. Wriggle, may I ask…” Ron began. “Are you guys CIA?”

The partial explosion of a belly laugh from their host caught even Wriggle’s staff off guard, although they briefly laughed as well.

“Nothing… whoa…” Paul Wriggle said, wiping his eyes, “…nothing so dramatic, Ron. Oh that’s funny!”

“Sorry, I…”

“No, no, no, that’s fine! It’s just a hoot for me to ever think of myself as involved in the intelligence community. No, you see, you correctly discerned that we’re not your average aviation lease company, but since I’m sure you’ve discovered that we just have one A330, which would be unusual, it would be logical to ask what the heck we’re up to. So I’ll tell you, in the strictest confidence. In a nutshell, we’re working on a special government project to provide and maintain a clandestine alternate to Air Force One.”

“Really?”

“Really. Which is why I have to impress on you the extreme need to treat anything and everything you know or think you know regarding our missing A330 as the equivalent of a top military secret.”

“We… can certainly keep quiet,” Ron managed.

“No, it’s more profoundly important than that. We have to make sure that we thoroughly understand each other on this, Ron. You’ve created some heavyweight liability for yourselves, so aside from just appealing to your patriotism, which I don’t question, we’ve also more or less got you by the short hairs legally. As long as you agree to keep this as an unbreakable top secret, we will agree not to sue you into penury and destroy your business. Sound like the makings of a deal?”

Ron was nodding as he watched Jaime doing the same thing. He returned his focus to Wriggle. “I… yes, that’s a deal.”

“Good. I’ve got some paperwork to give it teeth, but I didn’t anticipate a problem getting you to understand. Break the promise of absolute silence for any reason, we come after you with all guns blazing, and, as you realize, you have no defense.”

“Mr. Wriggle, why is your airplane so special, or different, that this kind of secrecy is needed?” Ron asked. “Has it already been modified?”

“It was going to be extensively modified, but we were just in the design stages, which is why we just needed a place to park it for now. Frankly, it was too conspicuous around the Colorado Springs airport where we were keeping it, so we chose your facility because it could blend in with the other A330s… which it, of course, did all too well. No, it’s a garden variety A330.”

“So… I guess I shouldn’t ask this but… you’re a private company working for the air force unit that flies the president?”

Sharon had moved slightly closer, still standing, as if anticipating something, but Ron’s attention was on Wriggle’s hand as he pulled a small leather case from a back pocket and opened it to reveal a gold badge.

“What’s that?” Ron asked.