Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

Chapter 54

For what seemed like an eternity the three of them could only wait as Noah watched the now-vacant jet taxi very slowly toward the main terminal. The pilot was apparently doing what he could to buy them time as he was escorted all the way, hemmed in on every side by a small fleet of security vehicles.

The only cover they had was a low runway marker they were huddled behind; that, and the driving rain and midday gloom the lingering storm had brought in with it.

When it seemed safe enough, he and Molly and Ellen left their hiding spot and ran. They had no destination in mind and no goal but to work their way farther and farther from the lights of the airport, sprinting and stopping again from one bit of cover to the next. They crawled down a series of shallow ditches and then through a buried drainage duct with churning water rising up to their chins. They stumbled across a runway through the swirling wake turbulence of a landing jumbo jet. They ran into the open when they had no other choice, certain as they did so that they must be standing out starkly against the flat and deserted terrain toward the outskirts of the huge property.

After scaling a chain-link fence at the end of what seemed like an hour of muddy, grueling struggles, they managed to reach the shoulder of a multilane road that was packed bumper to bumper with slow-moving traffic. Noah held out his thumb in the universal sign that they needed a ride. A number of drivers went out of their way to ignore them but at last a man in an SUV stopped and motioned for the three to walk over and get aboard.

As they climbed into the rear seats and closed the door, the driver smiled and said, “Having some trouble?”

“Don’t get me started,” Noah replied.

Their driver had a few fresh towels in a gym bag and he cranked the heater to such a level that it must have been uncomfortably toasty for him. While nothing was going to dry them completely, the steady blast of warm air began to beat down the chill.

Talk radio was playing as they settled in; the driver was intent on the broadcast discussion, so there was only a little light conversation with his new riders. Thankfully he didn’t ask any probing questions, though early on he did inquire as to where they were bound. Noah simply answered that they’d been stranded on their trip across the country and were trying to reach a friend to stay the night. This did nothing to explain the condition in which he’d found them on the side of the road, but their rescuer only nodded and left it at that.

Traffic continued to be stop-and-go until it finally eased to the point that they could begin to make some real headway. They’d hardly traveled thirty miles, though, when everything ground to a halt again. The cause of the snarl was just barely visible far ahead. At first Noah thought it was an accident, but no; there appeared to be a highway patrol roadblock extending across all lanes in both directions.

“Could you take this exit right here?” he asked, keeping his tone as casual and unconcerned as he could.

“Here? Nobody’s going to be flying tonight—”

“I know, it’s okay, this is where you can leave us. You’ve been very kind but we don’t want to wear out our welcome.”

The driver flipped on his signal and eased his way across two jammed lanes of unhappy motorists to take the off-ramp for Centennial Airport.

As they rode Noah leaned down to Molly’s ear and described what he was seeing. Centennial was a major hub in its own right, high security and all, so walking into the main terminal was out. They drove on down the access road with Noah reading her the signs as he looked for any promising place where they could just hole up for a while and take a breath so they could plan.

“That’s the one,” Molly said. “Let’s go there.”

From near the bottom of a list of far-flung airport facilities on the very last sign, he’d just read her the name of Blue Sky Air Charters. It seemed as good a choice as any and Noah let the driver know.

Down the side road the whole area appeared to be under construction or major renovation. When they’d been let out, the three of them took shelter under the awning of an unmanned security booth outside the long, wide Blue Sky hangar. The lit interior of this giant enclosure seemed like a semi-organized flea market of aircraft parts with a single, partially disassembled vintage plane being worked on at its center.

Soon they noticed that an elderly man in coveralls was gesturing for them to come in out of the rain. There was no other nearby option; as they approached the man he wiped his oil-smudged hands with a rag and then held out his right for Noah to shake, which he did.

“I’m Bill McCord,” the man said. “Goodness, you three look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet. Are you lost?”

“A little bit,” Noah said, smoothly bypassing his own introduction. “We need ground transportation. If we could make a call from here it would be an enormous help.”

Mr. McCord nodded thoughtfully, and then he gave all three of them the once-over, first Noah, and then Ellen Davenport, and then Molly.

“I think I know that pretty face,” he said.

Chapter 55

Mr. William McCord was not really the aged grease monkey that his first impression had suggested. He was a war veteran of distinguished service, in fact, though he spoke of this humbly. He was also a man so full of stories that he seemed to have a very hard time containing them all.

The plane under restoration was being prepared for the air-show circuit and he’d been brought in to oversee the final detail work. It was an old Lockheed Lodestar C-60, a relatively rare item, and once finished it would duplicate the very craft that Mr. McCord had flown as a command transport pilot through the end of World War II. The first official flight was coming up soon; it was to be a ceremonial trip to ferry a few of the most decorated surviving American aces to the war memorial in Washington, D.C.

Though long retired, he was one of a fast-dying breed and the last of his kind who’d actually served aboard this particular plane while it was active in the U.S. fleet. He was at Blue Sky only as a consultant, he’d said—some worsening health problems had ended his barnstorming career—but the owners of the C-60 were kindly allowing him to putter around the old girl on his own time as the real work proceeded by day.

It was a beauty all right, though one had to look past the missing engine housings, the half-finished paint job, and the many leaning ladders and gaping access panels to really get a feel for what the final result might be.

They’d been scheduled to run up the rebuilt engines that afternoon but the bad weather had put a stop to that. When everyone else had gone home and called it a day, Mr. McCord had stayed behind, leaving the hangar open in front so he could watch the advance of the oncoming storm.

This chatty old gentleman had managed to cover all these and other subjects on the short walk as he brought them inside. When they’d nearly reached the twin tail of the parked aircraft, Molly stopped and held out her hand for him.

“Mr. McCord?” she said.

“Yes, dear.”

“You’d said you know who I am, is that right?”

“I do, Ms. Ross.”

“Then I think it’s important that we sit down for a few minutes and have a serious talk.”

“Why, that would be my great pleasure. And hey, later on let me show you all around my baby here.” He patted the side of the plane. “We finished the inside first; out here it still doesn’t look like much to write home about, but she’s gonna be a peach. You know, I flew MacArthur all over Japan in a bird just like this one. That was 1946, when I was just barely old enough to buy myself a beer.”