Headwind

THIRTEEN

When it became apparent that John Harris was not going to land at Da Vinci International, Stuart Campbell returned to his temporary hotel-based office in central Rome to wait for word on EuroAir 42’s ultimate destination. From the back of his car in the middle of midday Roman traffic he ordered his staff in Brussels into action, directing a quick profile on Malta’s legal structure, and making sure the young lawyer he’d dispatched to the island as a remote contingency was actually in the airport with the warrant. Back in his suite and satisfied that all possible preparations had been made, he ordered coffee and sat back, watching the clock and wondering why he still felt vaguely unprepared.

The coffee arrived with the news that EuroAir 42 had engineered a disappearing act and turned up on the ramp at Sigonella.

“What?” Campbell barked, startling the airport manager, who had just found out and phoned. “Surely you’re joking!”

“No, signore. Sigonella is a U.S. Navy base in Sicily,” the man offered.

“I know that,” Campbell replied, trying and failing to suppress a chuckle.

Clever thinking, Harris! he thought. Won’t get you out of this, of course, but not a bad move under pressure. I wonder how you talked the commercial pilots into it?

The bizarre thought that a former U.S. chief executive might have actually hijacked the commercial aircraft fluttered across his mind, bringing an even broader smile. Whatever had occurred, that certainly wasn’t the explanation.

He thanked the manager and ended the call, then summoned his secretary.

“Isabel, have the car brought around to take me back to the airport, and have my pilots ready to go to this place in Sicily,” he handed her a page of yellow legal paper with the information. “Call Minister Anselmo and tell him I will wait if he or one of his people wants to come along. Ask him to prepare the local Carabinieri commander in Sicily to meet me at Sigonella, and to please arrange diplomatic clearance or whatever’s necessary to get my aircraft onto that airport. Also, they need to clear that charter aircraft to the base as well. If the pilot of that charter calls… a Captain Perez… patch him through to the car or my GSM immediately.”

She finished the shorthand transcription of his orders almost as soon as he finished speaking. “Anything else, sir?”

Campbell hauled himself effortlessly to his feet and smiled at her. “That’s all for now. Tell the driver I’ll be down in five minutes. Oh, first, get the American Embassy here in Rome on the line, and ask for the Naval attaché.”

His GSM phone rang and he flipped it open as she turned to make the embassy call.

“Mr. Campbell, this is Captain Perez.”

“Yes, Captain. Where are you, and I trust you’re going to say Sigonella.”

“No, sir,” the charter captain replied, relating the fact that for nearly ten minutes he and Rome Control had lost track of EuroAir.

“So where are you?”

“In holding near Sigonella. They are refusing to let me land.”

“Stand by, Captain. That clearance will come in about ten minutes. Land and park wherever they tell you and just wait. I’m on my way. I’ll be arriving within an hour and a half in a Learjet thirty-five and will park beside you.”

He folded the GSM phone as the secretary reappeared at his side to report the attaché was unavailable.

“Relay the call to the car if you can get the attaché before I take off, Isabel,” Campbell said. He scooped up his briefcase and headed for the door, stopping in the hallway to concentrate on the dilemma rapidly evolving in his mind. The equation, he thought, might well be more complicated than he’d initially estimated. Sigonella was Italian soil, but now he was going to have to navigate through legal difficulties and diplomatic complications raised because he was a British lawyer representing a South American nation trying to assert Italian jurisdiction over a leased American military installation in order to arrest a former U.S. President under an international warrant!

His esteem for his adversary went up a notch.

The aircraft commander of Reach 70042, like all pilots for the Air Force’s Air Mobility Command, had been thoroughly trained on how to handle an unexpected message suddenly received in flight ordering them to divert somewhere other than the original destination. There was always the chance that the message could be bogus, even if the radio link it came in on was satellite-based or otherwise secure. Whoever was sending the diversion order had to stand by to be challenged by the aircrew from an ever-changing code table. If the ground station answered with the right coded response, the aircrew would obey and change course.

The call from the main AMC command post at Scott Air Force Base in Illinois had come as a complete surprise to the crew of Reach 70042. Cruising at flight level four one zero in a brand-new Boeing/Douglas C-17 Globemaster III on a routine nonstop flight from Spain to Daha-ran, Saudi Arabia, Aircraft Commander Ginny Thompson had taken an embarrassingly long time to dig the “secrets” out of her flight suit ankle pocket, and even more time to find the right table and extract the right codes. They were passing south of the southeastern edge of Italy by the time she made the appropriate transmission and received the answering authentication.

“They match,” she announced. “It’s real.”

“And that would mean?” the male first lieutenant in the copilot’s seat asked.

“Punch in the identifier for Sigonella NAS and get us a revised clearance. The orders are to proceed immediately at best speed, and I think we’re only about a hundred miles out.”

“Close. We’re ninety-eight miles,” the copilot said, finishing the task of reprogramming the flight management computer.

When Rome Control had cleared them to reverse course and descend, Major Thompson molded her right hand to the control stick and disconnected the autopilot, smoothly bringing the huge transport around in a left bank as she started the descent and pulled the power back on all four engines.

“Bill, go back and brief the loadmasters,” she told the copilot. “Make sure they’re awake.”

“Did I hear that right?” the lieutenant asked. “Did he say a former DV code 1 pickup?”

“That’s what I thought I heard, but that couldn’t be right.”

“That would be a former President of the United States, right? A ‘DV 1’?”

“Yes,” she said. “Although I don’t think I’ve ever heard the word former used with a distinguished visitor code before. Anyway, we’re supposed to be ready to go instantly. Be sure they understand that.”

“Roger.”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she added, wondering what the nature of the emergency might be. If there was a former chief executive at Sigonella, was it a medical problem? Were they supposed to fly him out as a medevac? If so, they should have been told. It took time for the loadmasters to set up the cabin. No, she thought, that wouldn’t make sense. More than likely someone other than a former President needed a fast, free ride home.

They obviously got the DV code wrong.

The wait was becoming excruciating by the time John Harris phoned to confirm they were on the ramp in Sicily.

“Great,” Jay replied.

“Now what?” the President asked gently.

“Well, now I talk to the White House. Is anyone trying to leave or come aboard?”

“No,” Harris said, his voice deep and concerned. “The doors are closed, and we have a lot of very unhappy commercial passengers aboard, but right now the engines are still running and we’re just sitting here. No one’s approaching as far as I can see.”

“John, whatever you do, do not get off that aircraft until I tell you, okay?”

“Very well. I think I understand.”

“I’m gambling a bit, but while the Italians might be inclined to come into a leased military installation, they will be very slow to actually invade a foreign flag carrier to remove anyone. Stand by, now. Let me call the White House on the cell phone. If the line goes dead, phone me back at five-minute intervals.”

Jay put the receiver of the house phone back on the counter and picked up the cell phone, punching in the number he’d been given to the White House Situation Room.

“This is Jay Reinhart,” he announced when a male voice answered. “I need to speak to…”

“Stand by, sir.”

There were a few electronic clicks before another male voice filled the earpiece.

“Mr. Reinhart?”

“Yes.”

“This is Lieutenant General Bill Davidsen. I’m Deputy Chief of Staff of the Air Force. I asked that you be put through to me if you called.”

“Thanks, General. I want to let you know that President Harris has landed at Sigonella Naval Air Station in Sicily and is currently sitting in the commercial aircraft on the Navy ramp.”

“Yes, we know, Mr. Reinhart. We got the information just ten minutes ago from Italian Air Traffic Control.”

“General, you need to know that I have President Harris holding on another line,” Jay said. “I’ve advised him to stay on the airplane. I think I need to coordinate with the commander of that Navy facility.”

“Mr. Reinhart, we’re already in motion. We had a C-17 passing less than a hundred miles away and we’ve turned him toward Sigonella. Now, we still need approval from President Cavanaugh, but the plan is to get that C-17 on the ground in about twenty minutes, transfer President Harris from that civilian craft to the C-17, and then get him the hell out of there and fly him nonstop back to the States.”

“Thank God, General!” Jay exclaimed, sighing in relief. “That’s wonderful news.”

“I’d better talk to President Harris directly at this point, Mr. Reinhart. Can you tie the lines together?”

“Uh, no, I don’t have the equipment. I could have him call you on that number, though.”

“Good. As fast as possible.”

“But, General, as his lawyer, I have to keep everybody focused on the fact that there’s an international arrest warrant out there and some powerful people who will be trying to serve it. I must stay in the loop and on the line. Can you conference me in at the same time if I break the connection and have him call?”

“Yes, Mr. Reinhart. As soon as he calls, we’ll patch you back in.”

Jay passed his home number, relayed the plan to John Harris on the home phone, and disconnected both calls. He sat staring at his home phone, mentally calculating how long it would take to establish the three-way connection and trying to envision what was happening at that moment in Sigonella. He could imagine the big C-17 barreling toward the Navy base at four hundred fifty knots, and he could imagine that Stuart Campbell would be closing in on Sigonella as well with a certified copy of the warrant, an Italian arrest version, and a carefully planned formation of Italian authorities ready to make the arrest. But if the President could make the transfer to the C-17 before Campbell found an Italian official brave enough to authorize an intrusion onto leased American military real estate, he would be safe. There was no way they would try to stop an Air Force aircraft from departing in such a confused diplomatic situation.

He checked his watch again. Twenty minutes, the general had said, before the Air Force transport arrived, and maybe another five minutes to taxi to the ramp and open a door. He could feel his heart pounding and wished there was some sort of television camera on the ramp broadcasting on the World Wide Web. Waiting was an agony.

This may all be over in forty-five minutes! he told himself.

For the first time in over an hour, he got to his feet and opened the refrigerator for more orange juice, thinking how nice it would be to build up the fire and sit there for hours with a cigar, something he seldom let himself do anymore.

Escapist thinking!

He closed the refrigerator and looked to the left, catching a glimpse of the open bedroom door. Linda’s angry departure flooded back on a tide of guilt. Had it really been necessary to hurt her? It seemed like days ago, but once the President was safely airborne, maybe he should chase her down, go to her house, somehow try to explain what he meant.

Thank God we’re going to get him out of there! I can’t imagine what would have happened otherwise.

Images of a frantic flight to Europe, an endless string of twenty-four-hour days, voluminous research, and high-stakes poker with Harris’s adversaries unreeled like the blueprint of an unfathomable nightmare, now that he didn’t have to pretend to himself that he could handle it. The reality that it wasn’t quite over yet was better suppressed.

He sat on the kitchen stool and stared at the phone, which remained silent.