There was a hesitation. “Oh. Okay.” Carmichael passed directions on how to find the so-called fixed-base operator, or “FBO,” at the airport where his plane would be waiting.
“I’ll… see you there, Professor.”
The thought of diving into a business suit without benefit of showering or shaving was anathema, but there was no time for anything else. The airspace in his bedroom was momentarily filled with socks and underwear and shirts as he tossed the minimum requisites into a suitcase and compressed his morning routine into ten minutes before racing out the door to the garage and into his car.
The image of his cell phone on the counter popped into his mind and he ran back to retrieve it, along with an extra battery and the charger, then returned to the car and opened the garage door on an overcast, gray sky – a reality he was trying hard to ignore.
David Carmichael had been a good student. He’d earned an A. Surely he was as good a pilot as he was a student. Surely he could find Denver in an overcast sky. Maybe they could fly low and follow the roads.
Carmichael was waiting for him at the door of the private terminal, a green headset in one hand and a small flight bag in the other. Jay forced himself to ignore the worried look on the young man’s face.
“They’re warming up the engine right now with a heat cart,” he announced.
“I don’t know what that means,” Jay said. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” Carmichael said. “But my plane’s been cold-soaked for the last week, so that’ll help get the engine started.”
“Okay. This is a jet?”
David Carmichael’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “A jet? I wish!”
“What then?”
“It’s a Cessna 172, Professor. A single-engine propeller driven four-seater. What’d you think?”
“I… don’t know much about private planes,” Jay managed, his stomach contracting to the size of a pea.
“Professor,” Carmichael began carefully, recognizing the panicked look on Jay Reinhart’s face as he placed a hand on his professor’s shoulder, “this is a great, stable airplane. In fact, the Cessna 172 is the only aircraft in history to ever successfully penetrate Soviet air defenses.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Jay managed.
Carmichael smiled slightly and shook his head. “Back in the eighties, some loon of a guy from Germany flew a 172 into Russia and landed in Red Square, and the entire Soviet Air Force couldn’t shoot him down.”
“Oh. Yeah. I think I remember,” Jay said, his eyes falling on the tiny high-wing aircraft he’d spotted just out front on the ramp. He suddenly realized it was the very one David Carmichael was referring to. It didn’t look big enough to carry a passenger, he thought. In fact, it didn’t look big enough to carry a pilot!
“Weather okay?” Jay managed.
“Well…” David Carmichael began. “We’ll have to go on an instrument flight plan. We’ll be in the clouds all the way, but I think we’ll be okay. No real icing predicted below twelve thousand, so, ah… as long as we don’t encounter any, the turbulence shouldn’t be too bad.”
“What do you mean, icing?”
“I can’t fly in known icing conditions. I don’t have any de-icing boots.”
“Boots?”
“Rubberized devices on the leading edge – the front edge – of the wings that inflate to break off ice.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll shoot an ILS to Denver.”
The acronym meant nothing but Jay nodded. “Okay.”
“It should take us about an hour.”
Jay checked his watch, anxious for something to do other than think of the flight ahead. “We’d better get moving.”
David Carmichael reached out and caught his arm. “Professor, this is really vital, right? There’s no time to drive and no alternate flight you could take?”
Jay shook his head. There was a warning tone in Carmichael’s voice, but Jay forced himself to ignore it, fearful he might change his mind. The image of Stuart Campbell closing in on John Harris loomed larger than his fear of flight. Surely David Carmichael was just reacting to the pasty look on his face. A pilot wouldn’t fly unless it was safe.
David Carmichael sighed and glanced toward the airplane, then back at his passenger. “Professor, you might want to make a quick bathroom stop first.”
Jay looked at him suspiciously, trying to form a coherent question as wild images flashed in his head.
“Why?” he managed.
“Because,” Carmichael began carefully, “there’s no bathroom aboard.”
“Oh.”
“The plane’s too small.”
“Of course,” Jay heard himself say. “I’ll… be right back.”
“It’s over there, sir,” Carmichael prompted, pointing to the men’s room.
The call on the satellite phone had come as a complete surprise, and for a second, Craig wasn’t sure how to react.
“What was that?” Alastair asked as Craig replaced the receiver.
“One of the Navy security guys telling me Captain Swanson is on his way back here with that lawyer, Campbell.”
“To our airplane?”
“That’s… the impression I got.”
“Oh, jeez! I’ll tell them,” Alastair said, scrambling out of the right seat and opening the door as Matt Ward was bringing General Glueck through the forward entry door.
“Agent Ward, we’ve got a problem,” he said, inclining his head toward the older gentleman with a questioning look.
Ward glanced at the general and back to Alastair Chadwick, quickly introducing the retired flag officer and the fact that he wanted to help. “What’s the problem?” Ward asked.
Alastair relayed the phone call, watching Ward’s eyes get large as he turned and bolted to the first-class cabin, leaving the General in the entryway. He was back in a few seconds.
“Okay, we have to assume Swanson’s being forced to bring Campbell aboard to see if the President is here.”
“If that’s true,” Alastair said, “he’ll want to check the entire plane and the restrooms.”
“Any place to hide a man on board?” Ward asked, already aware of the answer.
“Yes. No. Not on board up here, but… if we could do it without anyone seeing, and if the President could scrunch up, we could get him in the electronics compartment aft of the nosewheel.”
“How big is it?”
Craig had left the cockpit and joined them, listening to the intense exchange.
“Cramped, but he could do it,” Alastair said. “We’ll have to move fast, though. He’ll be very visible climbing in there, but once the hatch is closed, no one will find him.”
“General? Stay here, please,” Matt Ward directed as he moved back toward the President, giving Craig a rapid introduction to Glueck.
John Harris listened to the plan and shook his head. “No. I’m not going to do that.”
“What? Sir, look,” Matt Ward protested. “I’m here to protect you, but you’ve got to cooperate.”
“Haven’t we had this discussion a few times, Matt?”
“Yes, Mr. President, we have. But seconds are ticking away and that lawyer is on his way here.”
“And I am not going to be seen scurrying like a rat into a hole in the belly of this aircraft,” Harris said, his voice firm and determined.
“Sir,” Sherry began, but he held up a hand to stop her. “No! If Campbell comes aboard, I’ll meet him head on. Does he have the Italian authorities with him?”
“We don’t know, Mr. President,” Ward answered. “Look, will you at least go stand in one of the aft restrooms or something? Please don’t make it easy for him.”
John Harris thought it over. “I’m going to the rear galley to make a cup of coffee, Matt. If the man wants to inspect the airplane, I’ll greet him back there. I’m not going to hide and cower.”