At the mention of missiles, Alastair lost it, laughing quietly in the right seat as he covered his mouth and shook his head. Craig looked at him and almost lost control as well, holding his voice barely in check as he listened to the increasingly befuddled response from Frankfurt.
“That’s… what do you mean, shot down, Captain Dayton? Why would you think, for heaven’s sake, that anyone would be trying to shoot you down?” the operations manager sputtered as the chief pilot weighed in.
“Dayton,” the chief pilot snarled, “that is without a doubt the most delusional nonsense I’ve ever heard from an airline captain!”
“When you gentlemen hired me, you knowingly hired an experienced pilot with thousands of hours in top-of-the-line military fighter jets. In fact, Herr Wurtschmidt, I recall you yourself saying that was a very valuable commodity to this airline. As a veteran fighter pilot, I’m very sensitive to airborne threats that you may not even know exist, and if I overreacted here, then please explain to me who was chasing us and why.”
“Well… we do not know that yet… it’s still early…”
“Look,” Craig said, “you can fire me or give me an award for bravery later. Right now, let’s just get to the heart of what we need to do while we’ve got the crew duty time left to do it. Do we let these folks charter this aircraft or not? And before you answer, I’ve got a number for you to call in Washington, D.C.”
“What number?”
He passed the name and telephone number. “That’s the Chief of Staff of the White House. The call will be confidential. The United States Government is formally requesting our assistance.”
“But… but I thought you said this would be paid for by credit card or a wire transfer? Now the American government is trying to charter us?”
“No. President Harris’s staff is trying to charter us. Herr Walters, have you ever had experience in the world of intelligence operations or security matters?”
“No.”
“Then just trust me. There are reasons for paying for certain things by personal credit card or check or wire that are sometimes necessary for political and security reasons. Again, I can’t explain over a nonsecure line.”
More silence on the other end, and in the cockpit, except for the sound of the air-conditioning and the muffled chuckling from Alastair, which increased with the phrase “nonsecure line.”
“Well,” Walters said at last, “do you have any idea where they want to go?”
“Not yet. They may just want to stay here. Give them a price that covers everything.”
“Very well. We will call you back. This is very irregular.”
“Please, gentlemen. Call the White House first.”
“We will. Thank you, Captain. And… you’re correct. We want you to exercise your judgment for safety. We did not mean to imply we don’t. We will need to discuss this at length when you return, but… very well. We accept your explanation.”
“Thank you, sir,” Craig said, as deferentially as he could manage.
He disconnected the call and turned to the copilot with his eyebrows raised in feigned innocence as Alastair audibly exploded in laughter.
“That…” Alastair said, pointing to his captain, “was by far the funniest… dishing of basic bull I’ve… ever heard!”
“I beg your pardon?” Craig managed, a huge, involuntary smile on his face as he tried in vain to look offended. “What do you mean, ‘bull’?”
“A nonsecure line! HAH!” He wagged an index finger at Craig again. “Missiles? Blinking MISSILES, for Chrissakes? Good Lord, you’re a bloody bullshit champion, Dayton!”
“I’m a fighter pilot. The terms are synonymous.”
If President Harris couldn’t fly to the United States, Jay Reinhart had concluded, his lawyer would have to fly to him.
And fast.
No other plan made sense. There was only so much he could do by telephone from Wyoming and whatever battles lay ahead would have to be fought in person on the other side of the Atlantic. That meant another nauseating, close encounter with his least favorite activity: plummeting through the sky at insane speeds in an overcrowded aluminum tube otherwise known as a “jetliner.”
Okay, he told himself, I have to fly there. I’ll be okay. I have no choice.
Fear of flying was a phobia he’d tried to hide and conquer all his adult life with only limited success. He’d taken courses, used hypnosis, patches, pills, and platitudes, but ultimately it always came down to the same simple, barely controllable fear of engaging in the unnatural act of being supported by nothing but air.
I will fly to Europe. Or London. Or Paris. I won’t enjoy it, but I’ll do it.
Jay sighed, realizing he’d been drumming an increasingly frantic beat on the kitchen counter with the tip of his pen.
First things first! he cautioned himself. The prime problem was picking a place to send the President, if he could be extricated from Sigonella at all. Italy was not the best place to fight the battle. He didn’t speak Italian and the system was based on Napoleonic Civil Law: significantly different from British and American Common Law, enough to leave the average American lawyer or British solicitor feeling like a fish out of water in most of the Continent’s courtrooms. There were exceptions, of course. There were some British, Irish, Scottish, and even some American lawyers specifically schooled in civil law and admitted to practice in one or more of the European courts. And there were a few superstars of international practice such as Sir William Stuart Campbell. For the rest – even someone as expert in international legal matters as he – not being a member of the local bar meant having to hire the right local firm or local lawyer and possibly struggling to make sense of what he or she was doing.
He understood the law and the myriad variations of European practice, but he had never taken the time to attempt admission. Even in the U.K. he would need a local solicitor and barrister, though he wouldn’t be allowed to speak in open court.
I’ve got the priorities wrong, he decided. I’ve got to figure out how to get myself over there first.
In the few breaks between the vital transatlantic calls he’d been fielding, Jay had tried to find which nonstop flights left from Denver to European destinations. It had been a disjointed effort represented by wildly scribbled notes in the margins of the third legal pad as he raced back and forth to his computer to make the inquiries.
There was only one, a new daily United non-stop to London. All the others made at least one stop somewhere on the East Coast.
“Regardless of where you end up, John, I can get airline connections from London,” he had told the President during the last call, “but I’ll be partially out of contact for up to ten hours.”
“Book only first class for yourself, Jay,” the President had directed, “and only on an airline that has satellite phone service.”
“But… that’s thousands of dollars more,” Jay had replied, looking for excuses to stay in coach, which was considerably closer to the tail than any first class cabin. His stomach churned at the prospect of being in the very front of an airplane. Despite the impassioned pleas of an airline pilot friend that he was holding onto a groundless myth, Jay refused to believe a passenger wasn’t safer in the back.