John Nance - Lockout

“This company is a private corporation, Ron. I, however, am also a component of the United States Secret Service, and this company is working under a Secret Service contract. We protect the president, and we go to great lengths to make sure that the bad guys can’t get close to him. Sometimes we even waste immense amounts of fuel flying Air Force One around empty while the president flies in a nondescript plane. So, you can see why we’d be working on an alternate flying White House that, among other things, couldn’t possibly be used by the president because it’s a French-built jet. One that never sees Andrews Air Force Base. One that’s not painted like Air Force One.”

Sharon Wallace had moved to Paul Wriggle’s side and leaned over to whisper something to him. The CEO nodded and turned back to Ron Barrett.

“Okay, Pangia wants to just fly the airplane back to us and get theirs. It’s in Tulsa at their maintenance base and hasn’t been placed into service yet, so no problem. They’re sending the approval right now to release their bird to us. You’re printing it, Sharon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So that should be it.”

The remainder of the transaction had taken less than twenty minutes, and despite Jaime Lopez’s reluctance to sign the multiple-page agreement without a thorough vetting and some legal research, Ron Barrett was determined to get ink on paper and one additional A330 in the air. It seemed an agonizing eternity watching the pilots preflight the Airbus while Wriggle and associates departed in the Gulfstream, but at last the big Airbus lifted into the desert sky to Ron Barrett’s audible relief, and Jaime Lopez’s consternation.

Jaime had taken Ron by the arm as they waited. “It’s not just us, you understand. This agreement muzzles everyone in our employ. We can’t even tell our people why they have to stay silent, just ‘Shut the hell up!’”

“Yeah, Jaime, I get that.”

“Yes, but what you probably don’t get, and why I was trying to at least read through everything, as your lawyer , and consider all the implications, is that if one of our guys speaks out of school in a bar or whispers something in a whorehouse at midnight, even if he’s only guessing and BS’ing, if that crosses their line and they find out, we’re done, man! Investment gone. Game over.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Jaime.”

Jaime Lopez released the contents of his lungs in a long and weary sigh. Ron Barrett was an energetic guy but thick as a rock sometimes, and his almost total lack of understanding of legal obligations was a constant trial.

Jaime studied his shoes and mentally calmed the growing need to explode before trying one more time to get across the staggering scope of what had just been promised.

“Okay… what I’m getting at, Ron, is that when it comes to anything that happened with their aircraft or even rumors thereof, you just promised to nursemaid, monitor, shadow, and control every single solitary employee, full-time or part-time, and their families and friends and kids and concubines, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, essentially forever!”

Aboard Gulfstream N266SD

Holding a relatively fresh cup of coffee in hand from the unattended galley, Air Force Lieutenant General Paul Wriggle eased himself back into the left seat of the business jet and glanced at Lieutenant Colonel Don Danniher in the right seat. There was no trace of a smile on either man’s face.

“That was quite an act we just put on, Don. Do you think they bought it?”

“You mean, that we’re on a mission for the Secret Service?”

“Yep. Will they comply and stay quiet? Did I tell them too much?”

“The Barrett guy’s an emotional moron, General. He’s terrified, and his lawyer… who’s a bright guy… will do his best to keep him and their entire operation quiet. Probably about now he’s explaining to Barrett the promise he just signed. And I think you had to tell them what you told them.”

“That’s good. Of course, we’re not using their storage services again in this life.”

“Amen,” Danniher replied. The two men sat in silence for a few seconds before Don Danniher glanced over at his boss, a thin smile on his face.

“Sir, may I speak frankly?”

“Certainly.”

“If I called Central Casting in Hollywood and ordered an actor to play a Secret Service agent, I would be upset if they sent you. Sir.”

“So, what are you saying, Don? That I’m a bad actor?”

“No sir, but you are far too authoritative to be a Secret Service agent. You look like and sound like and are, in fact, an air force general officer, sir. Not a weasel with a badge. Where’d you get that thing, anyway?”

“Directly from the president.”

“Really? The current one?”

“Can’t tell you, Don. But it is a real badge and a real commission directly from POTUS,” referring to the acronym for the president of the United States. “Only problem is, even the Secret Service doesn’t know about this little commission. And, by the way, our Secret Service guys are not weasels.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, Don… we’ve got some serious thinking to do,” Wriggle continued.

“I’m the one who agreed to park our bird with Mojave to get it away from prying eyes around Colorado Springs, but we’re going to face this need again very quickly. We’re not going to have the budget to resume testing for at least six months. So where can we fly it and store it in the meantime, so no one’s aware of it?”

“There are still hangars available at Groom Lake in Nevada, General, but we rejected that choice because of the intense satellite scrutiny. If the Russians and NSA aren’t watching every move there, a hundred civilian UFO hunters are.”

“Yeah, that’s all we need,” Wriggle snorted. “Big headlines: US government flying space aliens on strange Airbus A330… with the following tail number!”

The two men fell silent for a few minutes before Paul Wriggle shook his head again.

“Okay… let’s keep thinking,” Wriggle continued. “Provided we can make the swap with Pangia today, we’ll need a hiding place inside three days.”

“How high did Sharon have to go in Pangia’s management, General?”

“Not high at all, since she never called.”

Don Danniher looked startled.

“Really? When did you and Sharon arrange that?”

“Minutes before. I taught her a code phrase that, if she hears it, means to invert whatever I just said.”

“What is it?”

“You have no need to know, now do you, Colonel,” Paul answered, smiling at the copilot.

“I guess not.”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I know Rick Hastings, their CEO. He’s a fellow retired air force general, but I haven’t called him yet. Sharon found a civilian at one of the FBO’s in Tulsa who agreed to go over to the other side to check Pangia’s ramp and make sure our airplane hasn’t been painted yet… as well as check the fuel load. “

The cockpit door opened, and Major Sharon Wallace slid into the space between the two pilot seats without a word. Paul Wriggle looked at her and frowned.

“What’s the matter, Sharon? Did you get through?”

“Yes, sir. A line supervisor at one of the fixed base operators at Tulsa International. The fellow called me back and said he saw our airplane, November Three-Three-Romeo Mike, on hardstand eighteen in front of that giant hangar in Tulsa.”

“The old World War II aircraft factory?”

“Yes. He also said that hardstand twenty is open, so we can probably just slide our A330 into that spot, and they’ll send a fuel truck out to give us enough for the flight back to the Springs.”