Headwind

FORTY-THREE

Alastair Chadwick had been gathering weather reports and studying the flight plan for nearly a half hour when Craig swung into the flight planning room of the aeronautical information services office in the lower level of the main terminal.

“Okay, Magellan, what’s the word?”

Alastair peered at Craig over his reading glasses. “Smashing, I should think.”

“Not… the best of words to use in aviation, old friend,” Craig replied, scanning the weather depiction on the computer terminal.

Alastair pointed to the papers. “Basically, Craig, we’ve got two weather systems moving around that we need to be aware of, and a rapidly changing jet stream.” He used his index finger to trace the serpentine wave of the jet stream, the high speed river of stratospheric air depicted as flowing from eastern Canada across the Atlantic in a great arc. Along the expanse of Canada’s Hudson’s Bay it roared to the northeast, but south of Greenland it flowed south, and at a right angle across their westbound route to Maine.

“How fast?” Craig asked.

“The core is moving about eighty to ninety knots, but it pretty much stays out of the way, unless that upper curve around Greenland starts to come south and, well, flatten. Then we could be facing it on the nose, and we couldn’t make it to Maine with safe fuel reserves if that happens.”

“And the forecast?”

“They don’t expect that much movement, but it’s not impossible in three hours for it to become a problem. We’ll have to keep close tabs on it.”

“Okay. By the way, I know I’ve hogged the last two legs, but would you mind if I flew this one, too?”

“Of course not.” Alastair grinned. “The fact that I’m rapidly forgetting how to fly because my captain won’t let me handle the aircraft is wholly immaterial, I should think. I’ll just save my pennies and take flight lessons at a local aeroclub when I get home. Maybe I can afford time in a Piper Cub.”

“And you think I’m good at generating guilt!” Craig laughed.

“Now,” Alastair continued, ignoring the comment, “pay attention, Mr. Bond.”

“Certainly, Q.”

“There’s a deep low over Iceland, and Keflavík is very marginal… just barely legal for our flight plan. We’ve also got to consider that the winds behind us could change in computing our equal-time decision point.”

“Understood,” Craig said, moving closer to study the chart, his mind completely focused.

“Gander, Newfoundland, is a decent alternative, and the weather all across the Maritimes is good, and the weather back here should hold through late afternoon, in case we have to come back.”

“In other words, you can’t think of any meteorological reason not to do this?”

“Nothing compelling,” Alastair said with a smile. “Aside from the basic insanity of it all, we’re fine.”

Despite the weather, Craig had fully expected something to go wrong. There were simply too many ways the flight of newly named EuroAir Charter 1020 could be blocked. It was overly optimistic, he thought, to believe they were really going to get airborne or be issued their clearance to Maine, some 2,800 nautical miles distant. Considering what had already happened, he expected the opposition would know their plans and would somehow find a way to interface, either through EuroControl in Brussels or through pressuring the appropriate companies to refuse fuel for their aircraft.

Yet, the pre-departure tasks had been completed on schedule and their plane had been serviced, fueled, ground-checked, and readied for flight by 6:15 A.M. By 6:25 A.M., John Harris, Sherry Lincoln, and Matt Ward had joined the three flight attendants and two pilots aboard.

Craig was mildly shocked when they actually received the air traffic control clearance to the United States, something he had fully expected to be withheld. But there was still the matter of a takeoff clearance, and when the tower issued it routinely, he found himself in total disbelief.

Craig hesitated and looked at Alastair. “Really? Did I hear that right?”

“The tower sayeth, and I quote, ‘EuroAir ten twenty, cleared for takeoff.’ ”

“I can’t believe it!”

“I suppose,” Alastair added, “since they’ve been kind enough to give us the clearance, we ought to commit an act of aviation about now.”

Craig nudged the throttles forward to taxi the 737 onto the runway. “How do we do this again?” Craig asked.

“Do what?”

“Take off.”

“You’ve forgotten that, too? Boy, am I glad we don’t allow outsiders in the cockpit to hear these comments.”

“Okay, check my memory, Alastair. When I pull the yoke, the houses get smaller, when I push, the houses get larger.”

“Provided, that is, you first push the throttles up and provide a little forward momentum.”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s all coming back to me now. I’m supposed to say, ‘Set power, engage autothrottles.’ ”

“By George, I think you’ve got it.”

“Alastair!” Craig said with mock surprise as the engines came up to full thrust and they began rolling forward. “I’m impressed you would cite the name of America’s founding father, President Washington.”

Craig reached up to confirm the landing lights were on as Alastair snickered. “That reference, I’ll have you know, was to England’s esteemed King George.”

“Sure it was. Eighty knots,” Craig said.

“ ‘Eighty knots’ is my bloody line!”

“So, say it.”

“Eighty knots.”

“Feel better?”

“Much,” Alastair said, watching the airspeed climb steadily to the computer flying speed of 138 knots. “Vee One, Vee R,” he said.

Craig brought the yoke back smoothly, lifting the 737 into the air, his thoughts already turning to the impending receipt of their oceanic clearance across the Atlantic and the task of monitoring the winds and weather ahead.

“Positive rate, gear up,” Craig ordered.

“Roger, gear up,” Alastair replied, raising the landing-gear lever.

“What time is it, local?” Craig asked.

“Six fifty A.M. We beat our schedule by ten minutes.”

Craig nodded. “I just hope it’s not wasted effort.”

The alarm jolted Jay awake at 8:10 A.M. after less than three hours of sleep. He imagined Michael Garrity would be feeling just as groggy across town, provided he’d made it back to his house. The prospect of fighting the courtroom battle ahead when he could barely keep his eyes open was already worrying Jay, but it was a comforting thought that the night’s work might have given them a weapon against Stuart Campbell’s well-oiled machine.

He rocked to a vertical position and staggered to the bathroom for a shower, wishing he could stand under the hot water for at least an additional month or two.

He was having trouble keeping his mind off the EuroAir 737. He’d phoned the FBO around 7:30 A.M. for confirmation that they’d lifted off, and so far the lack of a call from Sherry meant that they were proceeding on schedule.

Jay stuck his head out of the shower and tried to focus on his watch on the counter. 8:23 A.M .! Craig had warned him that the decision point would come some three hours after departure, or just about the time the hearing got underway.

He returned to the hot water and stood with his eyes closed for a moment, luxuriating in the memory of Sherry Lincoln’s laugh and smile.

Maybe the attraction is a rebound kind of thing, he thought.

Or maybe not. In any event, I’d… like to… well, see if…

Jay shook his head vigorously and forced his mind back to the task at hand. Michael Garrity would do the talking in court, but it would be up to Jay to help direct him, and he had to stay focused. If John Harris ended up back on Irish soil, it would be around 1 P.M., and if they failed in court, the Garda would be waiting with a freshly issued arrest warrant.

A fleeting memory of something he’d dreamed crossed his mind. Was it a question, or a fantasy? Whatever it was hovered just out of reach until he closed his eyes and concentrated.

Jay left the shower, dried himself, and moved quickly to the phone as he retrieved a slip of paper from his shirt pocket in search of a London phone number. With any luck, the Secretary of State would still be there.

Alastair punched the transmit switch on his control yoke. “Roger, Shanwick, EuroAir Ten Twenty level at flight level three seven zero.” He glanced at the altimeter, confirming that Craig had leveled the 400 model Boeing 737 at its maximum operational altitude.

Alastair punched some numbers in the small handheld GPS unit in his lap and stuck a suction-cup-mounted antenna on the side window.

“What?” Craig asked. “You don’t trust the flight computer or the onboard navigation system?”

“I like plenty of backups, Captain, sir,” Alastair said. “And I like playing with my new toy.”

There was a click behind them as Jillian Walz opened the cockpit door to hand Alastair the Coke he’d ordered, then disappeared for a moment and returned with coffee for Craig. She hesitated with the cup in hand and turned to Alastair. “Since… this is a charter and… you know about us, Ali, do you mind very much if I kiss your captain?”

Alastair raised his eyebrows and tried to look shocked.

“And where, exactly, were you planning to kiss him, young lady?” he asked in as stilted a voice as he could manage.

“On the flight deck.”

“The flight deck? Only a shameless hussy would do such a thing.”

“Okay. I’m a shameless hussy. Now may I kiss him?”

Alastair held his right hand up, fanning his fingers as if tapping a cigar while he cycled his eyebrows and tried a strange, British-accented impression of Groucho Marx. “As long as that’s all you do in the presence of a lonely copilot!”

Jillian kissed Craig’s cheek and handed him the coffee before patting Alastair’s shoulder.

“Poor, poor Ali! No love, no companionship, no women.”

“How’re our passengers doing?” Craig asked.

“Sherry Lincoln and Matt Ward are both snoozing, but the President is awake and pacing around like a caged tiger.”

“How about Elle and Ursula?”

“Doing what we flight attendants do best in flight.”

“Talking?”

“Talking. See you boys later. Ring if you need anything… within reason, of course.”

When Jillian had left, Alastair took a long drink of the Coke as he pulled a notebook from his flight kit.

“Okay. Here’s the situation. I compute our decision point as being right at three hours, twenty-four minutes into the flight. We go westbound beyond that time, we’d best keep on going. Right now we’re right on predicted maximum endurance fuel burn, on speed, and the winds have been cooperating bang on to prediction so far.”

Craig nodded. “What do you estimate we’ll have on arrival at Presque Isle?”

“Let’s see… ah, three thousand pounds of jet fuel. Not a lot, but not an emergency, either.”

“But almost no margin for higher winds.”

“That’s the bad news,” Alastair said.

“And how long have we been motoring in this general direction?”

Alastair checked one of the displays. “We’ve been airborne two hours and forty-eight minutes. In other words, I need to wring the latest winds and weather from the radio so my courageous captain can conclude whether it’ll be a gallon of Guinness in Galway, or a bucket of Bud near Bangor.”

Craig looked at him wide-eyed for several seconds before speaking. “Promise me, Alastair, please, for the good of mankind… that you’ll never, ever try writing poetry!”

Jay’s taxi braked to a halt in front of the Four Courts just as Michael Garrity was climbing the steps.

Jay paid the driver and hurried to catch up with him as he pushed through the large doors.

“Michael!”

“Ah. There you are. All rested and ready?” Michael asked with a wink.

“Yeah, sure.”

They entered the Round Hall and Michael stopped to point out the entrances to the four courtrooms that radiated from the rotunda.

“Come on. We’ve got a few minutes. Let me show you the library, then we’ll find out which courtroom we’re in.”

John Harris paced to the front of the first-class cabin and turned again, as he’d done a dozen times in the past half hour. He glanced at his watch, which was still on Dublin time.

9:48 A.M.

He could imagine the lawyers beginning to assemble for the 10 A.M. hearing, and the thought of their battling it out while he essentially sneaked out of town under the cover of darkness was eating at him.

You panicked, John, he told himself. When faced with that tape, you panicked. You should never have run like this!

He glanced over at Sherry, her head gently lolled on a pillow wedged against the window. Her help over the last four years had been of incalculable value, he thought, and he felt guilty for not giving her more time to live her life. She rarely dated. He’d kept her too busy with work, and the paternalistic feeling that had grown on his part had led him to worry lately that he eventually should urge her to look for a better job, and one that made a social life possible.

But it was hard to envision facing the task of being an ex-President without her.

One thing’s for certain, he told himself. Life is going to change now. No matter what happens back there in Dublin.

In the cockpit of EuroAir 1020, Alastair suddenly yelped and looked up from his notebook.

“What?” Craig asked.

“We’re at the decision point. Turn it around, Craig.”

“What?”

“Turn this bloody craft around. We can’t make it.”

“Wait a minute. What do you mean, we can’t make it?”

Alastair was shaking his head. “The jet stream has moved south! Look at our ground speed. It’s down another forty knots, and the wind direction is coming around on our nose.”

“The wind speed’s increased?”

“Yes! Suddenly, on this forecast, the damn figures are all different and… and much worse. Also, Gander’s suddenly below minimums with fog! At this rate, we not only can’t make Presque Isle with running engines, we’re in potential trouble this far south getting to Gander with sufficient reserves. If we could have flown a true great circle instead of the North Atlantic Track System…”

“How about the winds behind us?”

Alastair shook his head. “They’re calling them the same, and what we’ve experienced is on prediction, but that low over Iceland is in motion southbound, so we’d better move now.”

“Call them,” Craig said.

“Shanwick, EuroAir Ten-Twenty. We need immediate clearance to reverse course and return to Dublin due to deteriorating winds and fuel.”

“Stand by, Ten-Twenty.”

“Negative, Shanwick. We’ve no time to stand by. We’re going to need to descend to a safe altitude and turn immediately while you’re coordinating.”

“Are you declaring an emergency, Ten-Twenty?”

“Not unless you force us to, sir.”

“If you reverse course without clearance and without an emergency declaration, that will be a violation, sir.”

Craig nodded. “Declare it! I’m turning and coming down a thousand feet.”

Alastair nodded as he pressed the transmit button. “EuroAir Ten-Twenty is declaring a Pan Pan Pan, potential fuel emergency at this time. We’re reversing course and descending to flight level three six zero pending clearance, and we request to leave the NatTracks and proceed direct Dublin.”

“Roger, Ten-Twenty, copy your emergency. Keep your same transponder code for now and make your turn. I copy flight level three six zero. Report reaching.”

Craig had already turned the heading knob on the autoflight panel, bringing the Boeing back to an easterly heading as he moved the altitude selector and began the descent. He stopped the magnetic heading at 085 degrees as Shanwick Control formally approved the new course and altitude.

“Alastair, are we okay to Dublin?”

“I’m looking. We’re going to be tight, but if the tailwind holds… we’re okay.”

“Dammit! It was looking so good!”

“I’ve seldom seen a reversal this severe, or I screwed up the figures, or both. The headwinds we calculated were a minus forty maximum, and the average was minus thirty-two. Suddenly with that new information, it would have been a minus one hundred thirty!”

“We screwed something up! They can’t change that fast!”

“They did. But you’re right, somewhere in our figuring…”

“Damn!”

“I know it. I’m sorry, Craig.”

“Forget it. We’re human. Now let’s just get this old girl on the ground safely.”

“Should I tell Jillian?”

Craig nodded. “Yes. And make sure she tells the President. It looks like we’re bringing him right back to the frying pan.”