Headwind

TWENTY-ONE

The last direct flight of the day to Europe from Denver International was scheduled to leave in less than three hours, and Jay Reinhart was still at his kitchen counter in Laramie, a hundred fifty road miles from the airport.

“There’s got to be another way,” he said to the travel agent whose help he’d enlisted on his cell phone.

“No, and I doubt you’d make it anyway. That snowstorm has U.S. two eighty-seven closed over the pass, and I hear there’s a real mess on the interstate south of Cheyenne.”

“How about Chicago? Could I fly through there? Or… or Atlanta?”

“Sure, but any transatlantic connections will probably leave tomorrow morning, getting you in late tomorrow evening.”

“Dallas?”

“Same story. I can’t even get you on a commuter to Denver in time. But, look, may I make a suggestion?”

“Are you kidding? I’m desperate.”

“Charter an airplane to take you to Denver International. Even a Cessna can make it in an hour.”

“Charter…”

“An airplane. Yes, sir. It’s expensive, but if you really want to get on that last flight tonight, it’s the only way.”

The thought of fighting panic for eleven hours in a jumbo jet had been bad enough. Suddenly he found himself battling images of crashing to his death in a small jet, and a small wave of nausea pulsed through him.

“Mr. Reinhart?”

“What?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Ah…” He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I… I’m sorry. That’s the only way, huh?”

He thanked the agent and yanked the phone book out of the desk to flip to air charters, trying to keep his mind on anything but the fact that he was trying to pay money to get himself inserted into a small aircraft that would undoubtedly plunge to earth at the first opportunity.

Straighten up! People do this every day!

There were three charter operators listed, but none could help.

“I’m sorry, sir. All our birds are out for the day, including our Citation.”

“Your what?”

“It’s a jet.”

“Oh. Could you recommend someone in Denver who could come get me?”

“We tried that an hour ago for another customer, Mr. Reinhart. There might be somebody available, but we couldn’t find anyone. There’s some big function going on in Aspen for the rich and shameless, and it’s sucked all the charter aircraft out of the area.”

“I’ll pay double,” he heard himself saying, feeling almost giddy at the thought of paying for his own demise.

“Sorry.”

Jay replaced the phone with his mind racing. There had to be another way. No time to drive, no charters, no commuters, but…

The thought of a conversation with one of his students during the fall semester flashed in his head. David somebody. He was a private pilot and had his own plane and they were arguing in good-natured fashion over whether humans should fly, with his vote firmly in the negative. Was there any remote chance, Jay wondered, that he might be available for hire? He would eat the requisite crow as long as he could get to Denver in time.

Dammit! What was the name? David… David… Carmichael! That’s it!

He punched in the number of the University’s registrar and begged for David Carmichael’s number using the first excuse that came to mind.

“Good enough for me, Professor,” the lady on the other end said, reading him two numbers.

The first didn’t answer. The second one caught the graduate student between classes on his cell phone. Jay explained the situation and his desperation.

“Ah, I don’t know, Professor Reinhart, the weather’s kind of gamey today.”

“It’s too bad to fly?”

“Well… probably not, but I’ve also got a class.”

“How about if I get you out of it? I can’t tell you how important this is, David. This literally involves the life of a U.S. President.”

“You said that. Wow. Well, uh, as long as the forecast isn’t too bad…”

“You do still own your own plane?”

“Yes, I do. And it’s instrument equipped, and I’m an instrument pilot, but you still want to be careful, y’know?”

“Absolutely. Look, I hate to push, but I have no other way to get to Denver fast enough. So can you do it for me?”

“I think I’m legal for passengers… I haven’t flown for a few weeks, but I can probably be ready in about an hour.”

“How about forty minutes? I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”

“I can’t accept money, sir, except to pay for gas. I’m only a private pilot, not a commercial pilot.”

“All right. But is forty minutes okay?”

“You want to go to Denver International?”

“Yes.”

“I’d better get moving, then. I have to check the weather and file a flight plan. Where can I call you back, Professor?”

“Let’s just meet out there, David.”

There was a hesitation. “Oh. Okay.” Carmichael passed directions on how to find the so-called fixed-base operator, or “FBO,” at the airport where his plane would be waiting.

“I’ll… see you there, Professor.”

The thought of diving into a business suit without benefit of showering or shaving was anathema, but there was no time for anything else. The airspace in his bedroom was momentarily filled with socks and underwear and shirts as he tossed the minimum requisites into a suitcase and compressed his morning routine into ten minutes before racing out the door to the garage and into his car.

The image of his cell phone on the counter popped into his mind and he ran back to retrieve it, along with an extra battery and the charger, then returned to the car and opened the garage door on an overcast, gray sky – a reality he was trying hard to ignore.

David Carmichael had been a good student. He’d earned an A. Surely he was as good a pilot as he was a student. Surely he could find Denver in an overcast sky. Maybe they could fly low and follow the roads.

Carmichael was waiting for him at the door of the private terminal, a green headset in one hand and a small flight bag in the other. Jay forced himself to ignore the worried look on the young man’s face.

“They’re warming up the engine right now with a heat cart,” he announced.

“I don’t know what that means,” Jay said. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Carmichael said. “But my plane’s been cold-soaked for the last week, so that’ll help get the engine started.”

“Okay. This is a jet?”

David Carmichael’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “A jet? I wish!”

“What then?”

“It’s a Cessna 172, Professor. A single-engine propeller driven four-seater. What’d you think?”

“I… don’t know much about private planes,” Jay managed, his stomach contracting to the size of a pea.

“Professor,” Carmichael began carefully, recognizing the panicked look on Jay Reinhart’s face as he placed a hand on his professor’s shoulder, “this is a great, stable airplane. In fact, the Cessna 172 is the only aircraft in history to ever successfully penetrate Soviet air defenses.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Jay managed.

Carmichael smiled slightly and shook his head. “Back in the eighties, some loon of a guy from Germany flew a 172 into Russia and landed in Red Square, and the entire Soviet Air Force couldn’t shoot him down.”

“Oh. Yeah. I think I remember,” Jay said, his eyes falling on the tiny high-wing aircraft he’d spotted just out front on the ramp. He suddenly realized it was the very one David Carmichael was referring to. It didn’t look big enough to carry a passenger, he thought. In fact, it didn’t look big enough to carry a pilot!

“Weather okay?” Jay managed.

“Well…” David Carmichael began. “We’ll have to go on an instrument flight plan. We’ll be in the clouds all the way, but I think we’ll be okay. No real icing predicted below twelve thousand, so, ah… as long as we don’t encounter any, the turbulence shouldn’t be too bad.”

“What do you mean, icing?”

“I can’t fly in known icing conditions. I don’t have any de-icing boots.”

“Boots?”

“Rubberized devices on the leading edge – the front edge – of the wings that inflate to break off ice.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll shoot an ILS to Denver.”

The acronym meant nothing but Jay nodded. “Okay.”

“It should take us about an hour.”

Jay checked his watch, anxious for something to do other than think of the flight ahead. “We’d better get moving.”

David Carmichael reached out and caught his arm. “Professor, this is really vital, right? There’s no time to drive and no alternate flight you could take?”

Jay shook his head. There was a warning tone in Carmichael’s voice, but Jay forced himself to ignore it, fearful he might change his mind. The image of Stuart Campbell closing in on John Harris loomed larger than his fear of flight. Surely David Carmichael was just reacting to the pasty look on his face. A pilot wouldn’t fly unless it was safe.

David Carmichael sighed and glanced toward the airplane, then back at his passenger. “Professor, you might want to make a quick bathroom stop first.”

Jay looked at him suspiciously, trying to form a coherent question as wild images flashed in his head.

“Why?” he managed.

“Because,” Carmichael began carefully, “there’s no bathroom aboard.”

“Oh.”

“The plane’s too small.”

“Of course,” Jay heard himself say. “I’ll… be right back.”

“It’s over there, sir,” Carmichael prompted, pointing to the men’s room.

The call on the satellite phone had come as a complete surprise, and for a second, Craig wasn’t sure how to react.

“What was that?” Alastair asked as Craig replaced the receiver.

“One of the Navy security guys telling me Captain Swanson is on his way back here with that lawyer, Campbell.”

“To our airplane?”

“That’s… the impression I got.”

“Oh, jeez! I’ll tell them,” Alastair said, scrambling out of the right seat and opening the door as Matt Ward was bringing General Glueck through the forward entry door.

“Agent Ward, we’ve got a problem,” he said, inclining his head toward the older gentleman with a questioning look.

Ward glanced at the general and back to Alastair Chadwick, quickly introducing the retired flag officer and the fact that he wanted to help. “What’s the problem?” Ward asked.

Alastair relayed the phone call, watching Ward’s eyes get large as he turned and bolted to the first-class cabin, leaving the General in the entryway. He was back in a few seconds.

“Okay, we have to assume Swanson’s being forced to bring Campbell aboard to see if the President is here.”

“If that’s true,” Alastair said, “he’ll want to check the entire plane and the restrooms.”

“Any place to hide a man on board?” Ward asked, already aware of the answer.

“Yes. No. Not on board up here, but… if we could do it without anyone seeing, and if the President could scrunch up, we could get him in the electronics compartment aft of the nosewheel.”

“How big is it?”

Craig had left the cockpit and joined them, listening to the intense exchange.

“Cramped, but he could do it,” Alastair said. “We’ll have to move fast, though. He’ll be very visible climbing in there, but once the hatch is closed, no one will find him.”

“General? Stay here, please,” Matt Ward directed as he moved back toward the President, giving Craig a rapid introduction to Glueck.

John Harris listened to the plan and shook his head. “No. I’m not going to do that.”

“What? Sir, look,” Matt Ward protested. “I’m here to protect you, but you’ve got to cooperate.”

“Haven’t we had this discussion a few times, Matt?”

“Yes, Mr. President, we have. But seconds are ticking away and that lawyer is on his way here.”

“And I am not going to be seen scurrying like a rat into a hole in the belly of this aircraft,” Harris said, his voice firm and determined.

“Sir,” Sherry began, but he held up a hand to stop her. “No! If Campbell comes aboard, I’ll meet him head on. Does he have the Italian authorities with him?”

“We don’t know, Mr. President,” Ward answered. “Look, will you at least go stand in one of the aft restrooms or something? Please don’t make it easy for him.”

John Harris thought it over. “I’m going to the rear galley to make a cup of coffee, Matt. If the man wants to inspect the airplane, I’ll greet him back there. I’m not going to hide and cower.”

“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.