The detour to their rooms to collect their passports was a necessary risk. Although private air travel affords its passengers a greater degree of flexibility and less red tape, documents would still need to be checked and verified by the receiving airport on arrival. New York’s Long Island MacArthur Airport was no different.
Although still some two hundred miles and three hours by car from MIT, Tom felt like he was going home and, with it, came a sense of security. They had chosen the regional airport over JFK, LaGuardia or Newark for two specific reasons. Firstly, Tom was unsure whether the manhunt Deiter had alluded to extended to international boundaries. If it did, they would have a better chance of avoiding detection through a smaller provincial airport where officials tended to be more parochial.
Secondly, it was the nearest airport to their destination and time was of the essence. The Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider (RHIC) was located at Brookhaven National Laboratory in Upton, less than twenty-five miles away from the airport.
The RHIC was the only other particle collider in existence and, although smaller than its Swiss counterpart, the electromagnetic fields generated during its operation still made it the world’s second largest man-made magnet.
During their incarceration, Tom, Frederick and Serena had theorised that, if the butterfly effect of the LHC had instigated the polar reversal in the first place, then, hypothetically speaking, if a similar force were generated in an opposing geographical area, then the resultant reaction could slow down the polar progression enough to give the Earth time to adjust to its new environment, lessening the destructive phenomena they had witnessed over the last few days. Stopping the polar reversal itself was impossible; it would be like a swimmer trying to halt a cruise liner in mid-voyage. However, by using the RHIC as a tugboat to pull the Earth’s magnetic core the other way, then, in theory…
That’s all it was, though. A theory, Tom thought to himself. He went over their masterplan again as he reclined in the black leather seat in the French-built Dassault Falcon. But what options did they have left? He had to rely on his scientific doctrine in the hope that it bore fruit.
He looked across the aisle to the seat opposite him, where Serena was curled up in a tight ball, like a cat asleep in front of an open fire. They had cleaned and dressed each other’s wounds using the rudimentary first aid kit on board and now sported matching crepe bandages, which could pass as sweatbands at a quick glance. Tom noticed Serena’s shoulders shuddering; she was either sobbing or having a bad dream. Either was understandable given what they had just been through. He tried to reassure her.
‘It’s alright, we’re safe now,’ he said, but there was no answer.
He picked up the in-flight satellite phone and placed a call. Towards the end of the conversation, he realised he was slurring his words through exhaustion. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since leaving American soil and, with the adrenalin-fuelled activities over the past couple of days, he was totally spent. The last thoughts he had before drifting off were of Frederick and Ajay and he did something he seemed to be making a habit of recently — said a silent prayer for them.
‘Welcome to the United States of America,’ came the pilot’s voice over the intercom, stirring the two passengers from their deep slumber. ‘Please put your seatbelts on and return your chairs to an upright position as we will be landing shortly. Thank you.’
Tom awoke, disoriented. He cleared the sleep from his eyes and took in the plush features of the private jet: polished walnut trim, finest Italian calf leather seats and thick-pile carpet.
When they had discussed their plan back in the Bunker, Tom expressed his concern that its success was dependent on them getting out of the country and that they would probably be arrested as soon as they stepped foot in either Geneva or Zurich airport. Frederick pointed out that, as Director General of CERN, he had at his disposal the two Dassault Falcons, one of the few perks of the job. They could file a flight plan under an alias and explain the mix-up as a clerical error once they were on American soil. Their US passports should help expedite the repatriation.
‘Morning,’ said Serena, stretching her arms over her head to wake herself up.
‘Is it?’ Tom replied groggily.
‘Well, not strictly speaking,’ she replied, yawning. ‘My watch says it’s eleven o’clock in the evening, but then you Americans are a bit backward. Six hours, to be precise. So that would be… five o’clock Eastern Daylight Time.’
‘Don’t you class yourself as a US citizen?’
‘Only when it suits.’
‘You do hold an American passport, though, don’t you?’ A note of anxiety edged into Tom’s voice.
‘It’s a little bit late to be asking those sorts of questions, Mr Halligan,’ Serena replied. ‘We’re about to touch down in the good ol’ US of A.’ To placate him, she reached into her breast pocket and produced the navy blue booklet emblazoned with the bald eagle coat of arms.
‘You had me worried for a minute, there.’
She smiled impishly. ‘You’re so easy to wind up.’
Tom was looking out of the window as the surprisingly large terminal building of MacArthur Airport came into view. It had recently undergone an expansion programme thanks to the patronage of Southwest Airlines.
‘Will there still be somebody at the facility by the time we get there?’ It was Serena’s turn to be anxious.
‘I phoned ahead and spoke to Charles,’ replied Tom. ‘He’s keeping a full team on stand-by, so we can fire up the collider as soon as we get there.’
‘Charles?’
‘Charles Brannigan. He’s the Research Director at the Brookhaven National Laboratory. I did some work there for my dissertation when I was a mere student at MIT. Nice chap, you’ll get on well with him. He’s sending a car to pick us up.’
The wheels of the Falcon kissed the runway, before landing with a resounding thud. The tyres screeched on the tarmac and the noise inside the cabin increased as the airbrakes were applied. They taxied off to the right of the main glass and steel structure, where the charter flights gates were, towards an apron, pock-marked by other private jets. A Marshaller guided them into a slot in front of a low-rise building before indicating to the pilot to cut the engines.
Once stationary, the door to the cockpit opened and out stepped the co-pilot, dressed in his crisp white short-sleeved shirt and neatly-pressed black trousers. He looked as fresh and alert as he had when they’d boarded some eight hours earlier.
‘I trust you had a pleasant flight, Herr Direktor?’
Tom was a little taken aback by the moniker. ‘Er… yes, thank you. I must admit, I was so beat I slept most of the way,’ he said rather awkwardly, feeling the need to justify why he hadn’t stayed awake to appreciate their flying skills.
‘Do you want us to wait here for you, or should we return to Geneva?’ asked the co-pilot.
Tom, unsure how long they would have to spend at Brookhaven, told him to return to CERN and he would call when they needed picking up. He was getting to like the extravagance of personal air travel. How could he ever go back to the cattle market of scheduled flights?
The co-pilot pulled a lever and the cabin door opened with a hiss, the steps automatically unfolding onto the apron. He directed them to the nondescript single-storey edifice, which doubled as the arrival and departure hall for executive passengers, and bid them a safe onward journey.