Headwind

FIFTEEN

Stuart Campbell stood in the corner of Captain Swanson’s office looking out the window toward the flight line several miles away as he talked on his GSM phone to the managing director of EuroAir Airlines in Frankfurt.

“No, Herr Niemann, I am not attempting to tell you how to run your airline, but you have a distinct problem. You need to order your pilots to empty that aircraft right now and warn them against protecting a man who, as of this moment, has become a fugitive from justice, largely because of the actions of your crew.”

The call to Frankfurt was a long shot, but any pressure would be helpful. Obviously the EuroAir crew had elected themselves John Harris’s guardians.

“There isn’t time, Herr Niemann. You need to order them to comply by phone right now from Frankfurt. Coming here will be too little, too late.”

This is getting nowhere, he decided, ending the conversation as amicably as possible and turning toward the office door as a Carabinieri officer came inside.

“Signore Campbell?” the officer said in Italian.

“Si. Stuart Campbell,” he responded, noting the absence of Giuseppe Anselmo’s deputy.

“My instructions are to assist you, sir,” the man said, quickly running down the list of men and equipment that were waiting at the gate of the airfield. “My men are being told they must come over here, rather than go to the airfield side.”

“Major, I need for you to instruct your vehicles that they are to move slowly and steadily into NAS-Two, regardless of Navy protests, and go to the flight line. Just ignore any Naval resistance. They will not actually fire on you, I can assure you of that. If you have to roll through a fence, go ahead.”

“Very well.”

“There will be some sort of gate at the flight line itself. Do not go in, but line up there and stay ready, and…” He handed the major a second cell phone from his briefcase. “Please answer this if it rings. It will be me with further instructions.”

The major nodded and left as a grim-faced man in a well-tailored pin-striped suit reentered the room.

“What was that, Mr. Campbell?” Giuseppe Anselmo’s first deputy asked.

“Why, Mr. Sigerelli, I have asked the Carabinieri personnel to force the issue, refuse the Navy’s request that they come over to this side of the base, and position themselves instead next to the flight line, not to enter.”

“Mr. Campbell, are you aware that I’m talking in another office with my government?”

“Yes, sir, I’m aware of that. I had Giuseppe in my office this morning. I know he’s calling the shots from Rome.”

“Do you also know that the determination that the flight line of this base is inviolable comes from Mr. Anselmo and the highest levels of our government?”

“I do, and I have no intention of violating that interpretation until I can convince all of you that your reading of the lease with the United States is entirely incorrect. You own this base, and the flight line.”

“That is not the current position of the Italian government, Mr. Campbell. Please give no other orders to Italian units without my approval.”

“As you wish. But if you don’t mind, I think I should speak to Giuseppe myself at this point.”

“Please!” Sigerelli said, pointing to the hallway. “By all means.”

Just as the temptation to call the Situation Room had become almost irresistible, the phone rang. Jay yanked it up, relieved to hear Sherry Lincoln on the other end.

“Mr. Reinhart, I’m on with Sergeant Jones from the Situation Room. General Davidsen was summoned to the Oval Office and we’re just waiting. Sergeant Jones will keep the line open and I’ll stand by if you’ll keep your line open there.”

Fifteen minutes had crawled by with only the news of the Navy commander’s arrival at the aircraft and a news helicopter’s arrival in the Sigonella area to break the tension.

Jay reached over to a small TV on the counter and flipped it to CNN, startled to see the Sigonella flight line on the screen.

There were voices in the background noise of the phone.

“What’s happening there, Sherry?” Jay asked.

“The President is still talking with the commander of the base, and they’re moving the aircraft that was between us and the C-17. They’re towing him out of the way.”

Jay glanced back at the television monitor, feeling slightly disoriented to see the P-3 Orion begin moving as Sherry Lincoln had described.

“I’m watching it on television,” he said, leaning forward. “Sherry, I’m seeing something else. The cameraman is zooming in on a line of… vehicles of some sort waiting just to one side of the flight line. They’re not on the flight line, but it appears… they’re at a gate.”

“What kind of vehicles?” she replied. “I’m looking out the window here, but I can’t see them.”

“They’re off toward the, ah, one o’clock position from your pilots’ perspective. Armored personnel carriers, jeeps, and several others. Has anyone been trying to convince the President to leave the plane and go to the visiting officers’ quarters or anywhere else?”

“No.”

“I can’t read their markings, but I’m sure they’re not there to help get him on that C- 17.”

“I still don’t see them.”

The cameraman aboard the news chopper zoomed to a tighter shot, and Jay could see several soldiers working with what appeared to be the lock to the gate separating them from the 737, the C-17, and the President.

“Okay, Sherry, this is getting very serious. I’d recommend getting him aboard that C-17 right now, before they move onto the flight line.”

“Stand by,” she said. He could hear the receiver being placed on her lap or against a cloth surface. She returned just as quickly.

“The Navy commander wants to wait for confirmation from the White House. He says his men are guarding the perimeter of the flight line.”

“Sherry, if anyone is guarding that flight line, they’re invisible in the TV shot. No one’s interfering with that group at the gate. What I’m looking at may well be preparations for an assault, and if that happens, they could either storm aboard and pull him off or surround the plane and make it impossible for John to get to the C-17. But if he’s already aboard the C-17, they won’t interfere. Please! Get him moving!”

“Understood.”

“Sergeant Jones, are you still with us?” Jay asked.

“Yes, sir,” the voice came back crisp and immediate.

“Can you get General Davidsen back?”

“He’s in the Oval Office, sir. Stand by.”

Nearly a minute ticked by before the general’s voice returned.

“Yes?”

“It’s Jay Reinhart, General. We’ve got a problem.” He quickly related what he’d seen along the fence. “Can’t you authorize moving President Harris into the C-17 right now?”

“Just a second, Mr. Reinhart,” the general said. There was a muted discussion in the background with an occasional word filtering through.

“Okay,” Davidsen said at last. “Here’s where we are. President Cavanaugh is on his way to the Oval to approve this, and we have to wait a few more seconds for him to get here.”

“We may not have a few more seconds, General. Are you, by chance, watching this CNN coverage?”

“Yes, we have it on, and I’ve seen the same shot, Mr. Reinhart, but they’re not through the gate yet. Just hang on.”

As promised, Craig Dayton had gone back to coach again to try to defuse some of the fury that was threatening to spill into first class and interfere with the impending transfer of the President. Secret Service Agent Matt Ward had moved to the rear of first class for just that reason, increasingly concerned that three of the most aggravated passengers, all European males, would decide to rush him at the very moment he needed to be escorting the President across the ramp to the C-17. He watched the captain moving slowly down the aisle, making promises and trying to explain what was happening, without giving all the details. The strategy, however, was not working.

Exasperated, Craig pushed through six or seven men who were out of their seats and charged back to the front of the cabin to a small PA microphone the airline had added at the forward bulkhead.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Dayton. Please look forward. I’m here at the front of the cabin. Now I want you to listen to me. For the next twenty or thirty minutes, we are going to be in the middle of a major diplomatic confrontation between the governments of Italy and the United States. You may have noticed the news helicopters hovering in the distance. You are on TV right now, I’ve been told, and the whole world is watching. In a few minutes, President Harris will be transferred to that large Air Force jet you see next to us. At that point, I will let all of you off the airplane and we will deal with the question of when we can fly you back to Rome, or get you directly out of here to whatever other destinations you have. But no one is going to leave this cabin until the President has left. For those passengers who are upset and angry, let me tell you that yelling at me or at the flight attendants or at other passengers will not get you where you want to go any faster. For those of you who have been patient and understanding, my heartfelt thanks. We’ll have this resolved as quickly as possible.

Craig replaced the microphone and watched with relief as most of those standing began to sit down. Judging that things were under control for the moment, he turned and walked back to first class and was startled to see President Harris disappearing into the cockpit and Alastair standing just outside.

“Someone was ringing him on our cockpit satellite phone,” Alastair explained when Craig reached the entry area. “Someone named Campbell.”

John Harris eased into the proffered copilot’s seat and picked up the receiver.

“Well, Stuart, you’ve been a busy man,” Harris said.

“And you, Mr. President, have been an exceptionally clever one in the last few hours.”

“Why are you calling me? It’s rather customary for an attorney to limit his contact to the other party’s attorney, as you well know.”

“I wasn’t aware that you’d had time to retain counsel. Of course I’ll contact your lawyer and his firm, but only as a courtesy, you understand. This is, after all, a criminal matter, Mr. President, and I merely represent the complainant, which is Peru. I think you should know, by the way, that I have the smoking gun. That’s why I rang you. Just to let you know personally that this is no frivolous matter.”

“What are you talking about, Stuart?”

“We have the evidence. I thought you ought to know that in advance. We know you were in the Oval Office when the order for that raid was given, and we know it was after the initial CIA finding. We also know there was a deliberate effort to make it appear that no one from Langley was anywhere near the White House that day, but in fact, one very important CIA operative was there, and you relayed the order through him.”

“I gave no orders, directly or indirectly, to conduct that raid,” John Harris snapped, “and I’m not about to engage in a debate with you on this meritless nonsense. In fact, there is no point to this conversation.”

“Oh, I think there is. I know you to be a statesman, John, and running from this action is beneath your dignity. Since you no longer have a Chief of Staff to remind you of this, then I might as well be the one to do so.”

Harris chuckled. “So now you expect to shame me into surrendering to Peruvian jurisdiction? Stuart, please, you know better than that. You’re asking me to voluntarily agree to face bogus charges in a monkey trial run by a dictator in Lima who has sworn to execute me? Don’t hold your breath.”

“We’re in Italy, Mr. President. I expect you to submit yourself to Italian jurisdiction and let the Italian courts decide if and when you should go to Lima, and I can assure you that despite your scandalous characterization of the Peruvian president and the Peruvian courts, they are a civilized nation in full compliance with international law and with this treaty, which is more than I can say for the United States. The John Harris the world knows… the moralist and statesman… would do the right thing and stop this little escape attempt, which is clearly beneath the dignity of perhaps the only American President to ever refuse guaranteed reelection. By the way, I’ve always thought your devotion to the concept of a single six-year term was exceptional and historic.”

“I see no purpose in continuing this exchange, Sir William, and your backhanded compliments are of no interest to me. You’re far too good a lawyer to be rolling dice with the Italian courts. You had this all set up, but you didn’t expect me to slip out of your grasp.”

“You haven’t escaped in any event, have you? You’re still here, just a short distance away from where I’m standing.”

“Don’t create a diplomatic confrontation, Stuart. You can’t win it. It didn’t work for you fifteen years ago, and it won’t work now.”

“That was then; this is now. You’ve certainly assumed a cocky attitude for a Republican asking a Democratic President to rescue him. Your faith in President Cavanaugh is misplaced. Surely you know that.”

“Sitting American Presidents, as a rule, are disinclined to see former American Presidents mistreated, arrested, or subjected to show trials. Good day, Stuart. Contact Mr. Jay Reinhart, my attorney, for any further discussion.” He passed the number in Wyoming and disconnected before getting out of the copilot’s seat and returning to his seat, visibly angry.

“What was that about?” Sherry asked, but he waved her off, his mind increasingly consumed with remembering everything he could about the events leading to the disastrous Peruvian raid.

“It’s just a matter of minutes now, sir,” Sherry was saying.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “It’d better be, Sherry. I really want out of here.”