“Right,” Virginia admitted. “But the cargo aircraft was stationary at the time!”
Sam glanced at his speedometer. It read: 90 miles an hour. “Technically, we’re only slightly traveling only slightly faster than the Globemaster, so we’re basically stationary.”
The Ford Tudor edged closer to the dragging tail ramp. The wheels touched metal and the Tudor launched itself into the Globemaster. Sam jammed on the brakes, pulling up at the end of the empty cargo bay.
Sam yanked up the Tudor’s handbrake, opened the door, and quickly hopped out. Crossing around the front of the car, he opened the passenger door, for Virginia and Tom to climb out.
The huge tailgate, which had been slowly moving, closed tight.
Tom slammed the door shut, then the three of them walked to the side of the monstrous cargo bay, and dropped onto the bench seats there.
The loadmaster strode in. Nodding to the others, he raised a hand to Sam in a friendly greeting of relaxed familiarity. He immediately began securing the car with a set of fixed chains. Sam felt the aircraft brake hard as its pilot reached the end of runway 22, in preparation of making a sharp turn, ready for takeoff.
Virginia turned to him. “Whose aircraft is this?”
Sam said, “It belongs to my father’s shipping company. He lets me borrow a little freight space now and then when I need it. It was on its return from Alaska after dropping off some engine components for one of his freighters in dry dock at Dutch Harbor. When I spoke to Elise earlier, I asked her to arrange to have it meet us here. I told her to let them know we might have unwanted guests.”
The four Pratt & Whitney F117-PW-100 turbofan engines increased pitch to a constant whine in preparation for takeoff. The entire aircraft began to shudder, as it dragged against its locked brakes.
Sam clicked his seatbelt and used part of the fuselage rigging for support.
Virginia shook her head. It was all a game to him. They were being chased by the FBI and dangerously entangled with a violent takeover by organized crime, and he was grinning.
With a lurch, he felt the pilot release the brakes. The monstrous cargo carrier launched forward at a rapid pace. Unburdened by anything other than the Ford Tudor, and three extra passengers, the Globemaster III moved with the spritely ease of a much smaller aircraft.
Sam felt the nose lift. Moments later the entire aircraft effortlessly soared up into the air.
One of the flight engineers approached the cargo hold. His eyes darted between, Sam, Tom, and Virginia — taking them all in at a glance, and fixing on Sam. “Sam Reilly?”
“Yeah.”
“The captain wants a word with you.”
“What about?” Sam asked.
The flight engineer sighed. “We have a problem.”
Sam raced up into the cockpit of the massive cargo aircraft.
The captain greeted Sam with familiarity, but his open salvo was, “We have a serious problem.”
“So I heard.” Sam gripped the side of the third seat in the cockpit — the engineer’s chair — to brace himself, while he ran his eyes across the important instruments. The aircraft looked stable in the air, for now at least. “What’s going on?”
“The control tower has requested that we return immediately.”
Sam said, “That was to be expected.”
The pilot’s brow narrowed. “Sam, how long have I known you now, fifteen years?”
Sam nodded. “Sixteen.”
“In that time, I’ve learned that your word is like an ironclad contract, as solid as it is unbreakable.” The pilot met his eye. “I just broke a number of laws just by taking off, not to mention nearly killing some FBI agents who tried to stop me. I did so based on your word that the FBI were currently working for organized crime and you’ve got with you, the only evidence to end their entire operation.”
“That’s right,” Sam said.
“I believe you. Even so, when I land, I’m going to be arrested, lose my wings, and my freedom. So, what do you suggest I do about the control tower’s request for us to return to Minneapolis?”
“Nothing.” Sam shrugged, maintaining his characteristic stance of insouciance. “What are they going to do about it?”
The pilot bit his lower lip. “Well, apparently three F16s from have been scrambled from the 148th Fighter Wing out at the Minnesota Air National Guards. They should be here within a few minutes to escort us back down to the ground.”
Sam expelled a deep breath of air. “That will be Good.”
“Good, what?” The pilot looked confused. “How is that good?”
“While the F16s are on our tail, we’re less likely to be attacked by the people we’re really running from.”
Sam pulled out his cell phone and began to casually scroll through it.
Jaw tight, the captain said between gritted teeth, “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Nothing. Keep going, continue on your flight plan.”
The pilot’s brows drew down. “And what do I say when our country’s finest men and women with really expensive jets tell us to land?”
Sam continued to indifferently scroll through his cell, as though he was finding a number to arrange a coffee date. “I’ll sort it out.”
The pilot, red faced from fear, his raising blood pressure, or perhaps helpless fury, the pilot slowly, clearly enunciated, “Did you hear a word I said, Sam?”
Distracted, Sam looked up from his cell phone. “What?”
“I asked what the hell you suggest I tell the F16 fighter pilots when they ask me to land?”
Sam grinned. “Tell them to wait one minute while I finish speaking to their boss.”
The captain’s eyes darted toward the radar screen. Three small green blips could be seen entering their airspace, moving ominously toward his vessel. “We’ve got company!”
Sam pressed the call button. It reached the message bank. He left a short message, asking the person to ring back as soon as they got the message.
The three F16s took their escort position around them.
The pilot shot Sam a concerned look. “They’ve requested we return to Minneapolis.”
“Did you politely decline?” Sam asked.
“Did you notice their array of armaments?” the pilot replied.
“All right,” Sam said, equably. “Tell them you’ll need a minute to program your landing vectors.”
“Okay.” The pilot exhaled a breath of relief, and began inputting the return flight details.
Sam said, “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I need you to drag this out as long as possible.”
“Why?” the pilot asked.
Sam said, “I’m still waiting on a call.”
At three minutes, the captain’s face darkened further as a message came over his headphones. He turned to face Sam directly. “Sir, we’ve been officially given two minutes to turn around and make our descent into Minneapolis.”
“All right. I want you to wait until 119 seconds have passed before beginning your turning circle. Then you’d better take us back to Minneapolis.”
The captain nodded, visibly relieved.
At the two-minute mark, the pilot made a gentle bank to the left, to make a 180 degree turn back to the Minneapolis airport.
The captain mumbled under his breath as they made their final approach, “There’s a hell of a lot of FBI agents back at the airport… we’re about to be in a world of trouble.”
Sam’s cell phone started to ring.
He picked it up. His lips curled upward into a winning smile. “Yes, madam Secretary, I did call. You’re right, the situation is urgent. You see, I might need your help…”
Chapter Sixty-Eight