“No one’s calling it cowering, sir. This is false vanity.”
“Matt! That’s entirely enough!” the President snapped. “It’s your job to provide the opportunity for my protection, but my job to make the decisions on what to accept. Mine alone. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” a voice said from behind. Ward, Dayton and Chadwick turned to see the aging general who had been listening to the rapid debate. He extended his hand and the President took it.
“Yes?”
General Glueck introduced himself quickly. “I’ve got twenty-three fellow American veterans of World War Two out there in that terminal, sir, who are ready to block this bastard you’re talking about. I’ve already got them organized. If someone will order the young guard to open that terminal door, I guarantee you no one will be removing you from this airplane.”
“That’s all of your tour group, General?”
“Not all of us, sir. We’re traveling with wives, lovers, sons, and daughters, too. But I’ve got my men organized and ready to stay with you wherever you decide to go. I figured this was coming.”
“Thank you, General.”
“No thanks needed, sir. Protection of the President is our duty, and in my view, once you’ve held the office, your security is still our responsibility.”
“Well, I appreciate it.”
Matt Ward turned and hurried toward the door with General Glueck behind as the President got to his feet and moved toward the rear of the 737.
TWENTY-TWO
Word that EuroAir was agreeing to charter the Boeing 737 to John Harris’s staff came by cell phone as Jay Reinhart left the men’s room at the Laramie airport, his mind and stomach still rebelling at the idea of flying in David Carmichael’s small plane. He made the requisite call to transfer forty thousand dollars from the President’s account to EuroAir as Sherry had directed, then called Sherry’s cell phone.
“They’ve also chartered another jet to take the other passengers back to Rome,” he reported when she answered, “and they’re charging fifteen thousand for that.”
“How soon?”
“The plane is already at Sigonella, they told me, so they can make the transfer almost immediately.”
“Good. And what’s your status, Jay?”
Several acerbic phrases about the inevitability of death by airplane flickered through Jay’s mind, but he didn’t feel humorous enough to use them.
“I’m just getting ready to take off for Denver, and I’ll connect with a direct United flight to London. Now listen, Sherry. I’ve been thinking as fast as I can. I think I want you to head for London, but wait until I get to Denver and on the international flight. I’ll decide by then and call you.”
“Why London?” she asked.
“The President will understand. We’ll surrender him there and fight it out in the British system.”
“Are you sure that’s the best method?” she asked.
“No,” Jay replied. “I’m not at all sure. That’s why I want to think hard about it for a couple of hours. I just don’t see much of an alternative, and it won’t be long before the world knows he’s still in Sicily.”
Jay glanced out the windows of the reception area at the Cessna, another thought interposing itself. “Sherry, if you don’t hear from me in three hours, try calling. If still no response, assume I’ve crashed or something and get on the way to London.”
“That’s not funny, Jay,” she said.
“That wasn’t meant to be funny,” he replied.
He ended the call and moved rapidly through the glass door to join David Carmichael in the small Cessna, climbing carefully through the right-hand door into the copilot’s seat.
“It’s a standard seat belt, Professor. Just get it snug around you,” Carmichael instructed from the left seat.
The panel in front of him was as mysterious as a treatise in Sanskrit. Dials and switches and gauges displaying arcane information not understandable to the uninitiated were spread before them, and Jay was momentarily puzzled when David handed him a second green headset.
“What’s this?”
“Put it on, please, and adjust the microphone in front of your mouth. I’ve got an intercom and we can talk over this thing.”
“Okay.”
David began reading down a plastic laminated list of things to do, flipping switches and adjusting dials before starting the engine.
The shock of the engine and propeller roaring to life and the sudden shaking of the little aircraft confirmed Jay’s worst fears: neither man nor Cessna was meant to fly. How could something that shook so violently at idle on the ground possibly last in the air? It was less a spoken question in his mind than a general feeling of inevitability, and he closed his eyes, remembering the last time he’d let himself be talked onto a high-tech roller coaster. From the moment it began, he’d felt completely out of control, the forces on his body so startling and strong that he found himself simply along for the ride, neither frightened nor convinced he would survive and completely stripped of control.
Karen had been the Pied Piper who’d lured him onto the thing. He was convinced now that her death wish was already showing by that time, but he hadn’t seen it that way at the time.
He thought of Karen now, the image triggering the same familiar flood of grief and guilt that quickly filled the space where raw fear had resided seconds before.
“Ready, sir?” David asked, jolting him from his daydream. The question was straightforward, but there was a hesitation in the pilot’s voice, and once again the prospect that any hesitation might lead Carmichael to cancel the flight forced the answer. Jay nodded as forcefully as he could, well aware he was fooling no one, least of all himself.
Captain Swanson had driven Campbell on a circuitous route through NAS-Two to the terminal. He brought his staff car to a halt in front of the passenger terminal at last and pointed Campbell’s attention to the door.
“We’ll go through there. I try not to drive on the operations ramp any more than necessary, for safety reasons.”
Campbell said nothing as he unfolded his six-foot-four frame and followed the uniformed commander into the terminal and through the mixture of curious and upset passengers to the ramp-side door. He caught himself casually scanning the crowd for the familiar form of the ex-President before concluding that Harris would never try to slip out in such a manner. He could hear buses pulling up behind the staff car as an announcement was made for the passengers to get ready to board.
“Are they headed to the charter aircraft?” Campbell asked, remembering a brief, open exchange Swanson had just had on the radio as they drove toward the flight line. Apparently EuroAir had chartered the same 727 he’d just released a half hour before.
Just as well, Campbell thought. If Harris is here, the fewer passengers in the way, the better.
The Captain spoke to one of his enlisted security men, who opened the door to the ramp and let them pass.
The Boeing sat a hundred feet away, still pointed west, as Campbell followed the Navy officer around its nose and up the airstairs. The forward entry door was partially closed, and Swanson spoke a few words to someone inside before the door opened, and first one, then several older men stepped onto the top of the platform, one of them having difficulty walking, the weight of his years forcing him to hold on tightly to the top of the railing.
“What do you want, Captain?” one of them asked.
“I need to get this man aboard to inspect the aircraft,” Captain Swanson said evenly, taking in the presence of the men without comment.
“And who is he?” the first man asked, pointing to the lawyer.