Transfer of Power

30,000 feet. Eastern Atlantic Ocean

THEY WERE AIRBORNE and sailing smoothly westward through clear skies.

Rapp looked out the window at a blanket of cottony clouds that seemed to stretch forever. The young Virginian never tired of looking at the sight beneath him. It was always different; every cloud always had its own distinct pattern. Rapp had taken up flying a half decade earlier. It had not been his idea, but part of his continued training with Langley. He quickly found that nothing could clear his mind and relieve stress like flying. He would be asleep in minutes.

As Rapp settled into the comfortable chair, he heard a muffled scream from the rear of the plane. It was followed by what sounded like three long grunts. Rapp looked back at the small door to the bedroom and then leaned one ear against the bulkhead and covered the other with his hand.

It did no good.

He could still hear Harut’s screams of pain.

Rapp stood and began to pace up and down the short aisle. A feeling of restlessness gnawed at him. Near the forward bulkhead he found the previous week’s issue of Newsweek and started flipping through the advertisement-laden front section until he found the Periscope page. As he scanned the columns, he sat on the couch where Harut had been tied during their journey from Saudi Arabia. There were more strange noises from the bedroom, and Rapp tried to drown them out by focusing on the magazine. He moved on to the comics and then flipped to the last page, hoping to find a column by George Will. Instead, it was Meg Greenfield’s week. Rapp read the first two paragraphs and lost interest. He began flipping through the magazine in reverse, reading various articles that grabbed his attention.

Suddenly the door to the bedroom opened, and Dr. Hornig appeared with a panicked look on her face.

“Mitch, you’d better get in here!”