Headwind Page 28

  Secretary Byer turned and took Jay’s arm, walking him toward an empty corner.

  “The President’s plane disappeared from radar just off the coast over the English Channel. The pilot apparently indicated he was trying to work out some problem and canceled his flight plan.”

  Jay looked at him in total confusion.

  “What?”

  “The Air Traffic Control people are telling us he was in a sort of tailspin before they lost contact. Rescue forces are on their way to have a look.”

  “They think . . . he crashed?”

  “They don’t know, but it was very curious, I’m told,” Byer said, studying Jay’s eyes. “Should we think anything else, Jay?”

  “I really don’t know. I talked to them back there on the side of the road, and I was cut off . . . but I’ve had no contact since then.”

  The conversation ran back and forth through his mind, both ends and the middle all at once, yielding the captain’s words of caution: “. . . but it’s kind of risky.” He felt a cold chill.

  “I suspected you were calling the President,” Byer was saying. “You said you’d tell me the details of the call later. This is a pretty good time.”

  Jay tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry as cotton. “I . . . ah, told him, Mr. Secretary, that they shouldn’t land in London.”

  The statement hung in midair between them as the Secretary stared at him in silence, then nodded. “I understand. Let’s pray things are not as they appear out there.”

  “Amen,” Jay said, slowly fighting back from the sudden doubt that they were still airborne. Maybe something had happened, but maybe not. What had Dayton meant? “What are you planning to do, Mr. Secretary?” Jay asked.

  “Well, go back to the hotel and wait for word. I see nothing to be gained by staying out here. May I give you a lift back?”

  Jay nodded, thinking of his roll-on bag in the Savoy. “I’d appreciate that, but I’d better not leave just yet. I have some urgent phone calls to make back to the States.”

  Jay could see the questioning look return to Byer’s face.

  “The President’s family,” Jay added.

  Byer nodded. “Oh, of course.” He shook Jay’s hand and turned toward the door.

  Jay walked over to a refreshment tray and poured himself a cup of coffee, aware that his hand was shaking, and acutely aware that Stuart Campbell and his entourage were working somewhere in the building. He waited until Byer’s car pulled away before walking outside into the night, conscious of the cool temperature, but needing to think. They were still airborne, of course. He refused to consider any alternative. He had to focus on what had to be done.

  THIRTY-THREE

  EuroAir 1010, in Flight—Tuesday—5:50 P.M.

  When the connection with Jay Reinhart’s GSM phone was lost, Craig Dayton turned to Alastair and studied his face for a few seconds.

  “What?” Alastair asked.

  “Ready to risk a crash?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Craig took a deep breath. “For God and country, Alastair.”

  “I don’t want to bloody well know what you’re talking about, do I?”

  “Stand by to turn off the transponder.”

  “Talk to me, Craig. I do want to know.”

  Craig quickly explained the plan: drop to the surface, stay under radar, and fly north up the English Channel to the North Sea and then to an airport in Scotland. “Probably Inverness.”

  “Oh. The old tried and true Grinder maneuver. Very well. I’ll go along . . . with one proviso,” Alastair said.

  “What’s that?”

  “We cancel our instrument flight clearance so that any conclusions they make about our fate are their responsibility. Otherwise, our licenses will never survive the ruse.”

  “You got it.”

  Craig notified everyone in back to buckle up for some unusual maneuvers, then disconnected the autopilot and rolled the 737 into a tight left descending turn as Alastair triggered the transmitter.

  “London, EuroAir Ten-Ten, please cancel our IFR flight clearance and our Heathrow arrival slot at this time. We’re descending now in visual conditions to work out a problem.”

  The controller’s voice betrayed surprise. “Ah, EuroAir Ten-Ten, roger, IFR cancelled. May we be of assistance, sir?”

  The altimeter showed they were halfway between thirteen and fourteen thousand feet over the English Channel, and the Global Positioning Satellite equipment had the small symbol representing their aircraft less than ten miles from shore in the deepening twilight.

  Craig hit the transmit button on his yoke, adopting a tense, strained tone of voice.

  “Ah . . . London . . . Ten-Ten, EuroAir . . . we’re . . . we’re going . . .” He released the transmitter, waiting for the inevitable reply as he tightened his left turn and let the descent rate increase to four thousand feet per minute.

  “Say again, please, EuroAir Ten-Ten.”

  They had already turned ninety degrees to the original course as he pulled the thrust levers back.

  “Don’t answer him, Alastair! And call out my altitude in thousand-foot increments.”

  “Roger. Ten thousand, down five thousand feet per minute,” Alastair reported, his voice calm and steady, but the size of his eyes betraying concern.

  Craig glanced at him and grinned, then glanced back at an ashen-faced John Harris.

  “Hang on.”

  “Nine thousand, down six thousand per minute. Don’t increase that descent rate!” Alastair warned.

  “I won’t,” Craig replied, carefully watching the instruments as he came through the first three-hundred-sixty-degree point.

  “EuroAir Ten-Ten, London, observe your turn and altitude loss, sir! Are you in distress?”

  “Descending through eight thousand, Craig.”

  “Any oil platforms or other structures out here in the channel, Alastair?” Craig asked.

  “I doubt it, but I wouldn’t bet our lives on my memory, or the idea that we’ll be safe under five hundred feet.”

  “We’ll need lower than that.”

  “Seven thousand, down six thousand per minute.”

  “Roger.”

  “EuroAir Ten-Ten, London. Are you in distress, sir?”

  “Don’t touch that button, Alastair. I know you’re tempted.”

  Alastair nodded and swallowed hard. “Six thousand, Craig. Of course I’m tempted! The poor bloke’s heart is in his throat.”

  “Altitude?”

  “Coming through five thousand three hundred.”

  “Stand by to cut the transponder and all our external lights on my command.”

  “Don’t . . . overdo it, fellows,” John Harris managed to say, his eyes huge as well.

  The voice of the London air traffic controller took on a more urgent tone as he continued to call.

  “I hate to do this to him!” Craig said. “He’s watching our data block plunging out of control.”

  “Okay, Craig, we’re through three thousand, still descending at six thousand a minute. Better shallow the descent.”

  “Speed?”

  “Two hundred eighty.”

  “Good. Plenty of energy. I’ll take it to one thousand before shallowing.”

  “That’s awfully low, Craig! Give yourself enough room to level off or we could fly into the water.”

  “Altitude?”

  “Coming through two thousand, Craig! It’s getting too dark to see the water clearly.”

  “Call me at one thousand.”

  “Very well . . . fifteen hundred . . . thirteen hundred . . . twelve . . . eleven . . . ONE THOUSAND!”

  Craig began pulling on the control column, far too slowly in Alastair’s view. The Boeing responded sluggishly as the vertical velocity began backing off the peg.

  “Craig! Pull!”

  “I am. Kill the transponder and the lights.”

  “Done!” Alastair said, his fingers flipping switches he had already identified. �
�You’re too low, Craig! Dear God . . .”

  Metro Business Aviation Terminal, Heathrow Airport, London, England

  Stuart Campbell had taken temporary refuge in one of the smaller waiting lounges provided for the well-heeled users of private jets. Two of his associates had cell phones plastered to their ears just outside in the hallway, as Campbell sat back and focused his thoughts.

  “Stuart?” one of the men said as he leaned in the door, breaking Campbell’s concentration.

  “Yes?” Campbell sat forward, pulling himself back to the moment. “Come in.”

  Henri Renoux took a chair opposite Campbell’s, his voice urgent: “They’ve got helicopters on the scene right now.”

  “There is, in fact, a ‘scene’?” Campbell asked, looking startled.

  Henri shook his head. “I’m sorry. Poor choice of words. They are in the area where the aircraft is presumed to have gone down about fifteen kilometers off Dover. Several boats are in the vicinity as well. They’ve found nothing so far.”

  Campbell nodded. “Well, something as large as that airplane wouldn’t hit the water without leaving quite a bit of evidence.”

  “It will take some time, especially since it’s dark out there.”

  Stuart shook his head. “There’s nothing to be found, Henri. They’re wasting their time. Clever ploy, that, cancelling his instrument clearance first. He’ll feign radio failure and they can’t get his license.”

  Renoux cocked his head slightly as he tried to decipher his senior partner’s meaning. “I . . . thought you just said . . .”

  Stuart got to his feet and paced to the far end of the room, then turned.

  “It’s a ruse, and a very effective one at that.”

  “A ruse?”

  “Too convenient, Henri. First an alleged hijacking yesterday that was anything but. Then a dress rehearsal for this trick when they panicked Rome Control going into that Sicilian Navy base. We obtained the warrant, and Mr. Reinhart suddenly discovers that his President may not actually be as pure as the driven snow, and now, suddenly, the aircraft carrying President Harris to a certain arrest seems to be falling into the water with perfectly timed convenience just before reaching British jurisdiction.”

  “But . . . they were seen in an uncontrolled left spiral . . .”

  “We don’t know that it was uncontrolled. Whatever it was, it was cleverly crafted by a very innovative airline captain to fool London Center, which is precisely what he’s done. This is a very smart adversary we’re dealing with in that cockpit. A good partner for Harris, I should think.”

  “Forgive me, Stuart, but aren’t we ignoring the fact that the airplane hasn’t shown up anywhere?”

  Campbell chuckled and turned to look out the window to the hallway. “No, I’m not ignoring that fact, Henri, and the reason is because John Harris and his chartered jet will show up at an airport somewhere.” He pointed to the map. “Let’s get some pilots in here with maps of the U.K. and Europe and figure out where he could be going.”

  “Good heavens, Stuart, there are hundreds of airports in the radius of a few hundred miles from here.”

  “But, not all of them can take a Boeing seven thirty-seven, can they? And the chap certainly hasn’t enough fuel in that model to make the States, or probably even Keflavík.”

  Henri was already on his feet and moving toward the door.

  “Oh,” Stuart added, “and get a direct line to London Center, Henri. Suggest the same scenario, and see if there were any shadowy radar traces moving away from the supposed crash site.”

  “Okay.”

  “And . . . we’ll need another team of people with phones, and rapidly so. We’ll need to call every usable airport in the U.K. and expand the calls outward to match the amount of time they would have been in the air.”

  “You need Jean-Paul and Gina to be standing by with the Lear?”

  Stuart nodded aggressively. “Yes. We might have to fly in any direction.” Campbell smiled at Renoux. “Don’t worry, Henri, we’ll find Harris and win this little chess game. This is simply an unexpected gambit by the opposing king. Just when I think I have the little bugger in check, he scoots out of reach of my queen.” He laughed openly. “An apt analogy, that, even if I do proclaim it so.”

  “I don’t understand,” Henri said, still hesitating in the doorway with a slightly worried look.

  “It’s a chess analogy, Henri. It’s amazing how often I find them useful in law.”

  A shapely young woman in a tight-fitting little black dress appeared in the hallway, her jet-black hair bouncing luxuriantly and her face brightening at the sight of Stuart Campbell. She hurried in the office door.

  “Sir William? There’s an urgent call for you in operations, just down the hall.”

  “How very kind of you to come find me, my dear. Thank you,” Stuart said, turning on his brightest smile and watching her blush slightly under his penetrating gaze as she turned to leave. “Deirdre, wasn’t it?” he asked.

  She looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “Yes, it is. Thanks for remembering.”

  “How could I forget the lovely name of such a lovely lady,” Stuart said, crossing to the desk and watching in admiration as she flowed like a feminine wave around the corner.

  He raised the receiver. “Stuart Campbell here.”

  The voice on the other end was instantly recognizable.

  “Mr. Prime Minister! I appreciate your calling back. We need to talk most urgently.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  EuroAir 1010, in Flight—Tuesday—6:05 P.M.

  The hard pull up required to level the 737 just above the surface of the English Channel had profoundly frightened Alastair.

  “Good Lord, Craig!”

  “There’s one hundred! I’m level. Easy, Alastair! I’m trained to do this.”

  “Yes, in a blinking fighter! Not a seven thirty-seven! I thought we were dead.”

  “Altitude?”

  “Back to a hundred.”

  “Heading?”

  “Ah . . . zero six zero degrees.”

  “Okay . . . look at the GPS display and give me headings that will keep us moving just about up the center of the channel and way clear of the coast, then north up the north sea. We’ll round the shoulder of Scotland and come in from seaside to Inverness. Keep your eyes on the radar altimeter. Not an inch under a hundred feet, and, unless we get into fog, keep an eye out for any ships that might be sporting a mast over that height.”

  “Oh, too right! I can do all that! Do you have any idea what you’re planning? That’s hundreds of miles trying to evade radar!”

  “What? I’m stressing you out, old buddy?”

  The copilot sighed and shook his head, his expression deadly serious.

  “You are bloody crazy, Dayton!”

  “Maybe, but while I’m losing it, we need to get Reinhart on the phone,” Craig Dayton said as he took his right hand off the throttles long enough to rub his right eye. The task of holding the Boeing precisely one hundred feet above the water—a distance less than the wingspan of the jet—had already become tedious, making him seriously consider climbing back up a few hundred feet even if they did risk being seen by air traffic radar.

  “This is very dangerous, Craig!” Alastair reminded him.

  “When we’re another ten miles or so, we can come up a bit.”

  “There are ships with superstructures taller than this, you know.”

  “But we’ve got a cloud ceiling far enough above us to see ahead, Alastair. We spotted that other boat.”

  “Still steady at one hundred,” Alastair said, his hand firmly on his copilot’s control yoke, shadowing Craig’s every movement.

  “You think we’ve fooled them?” Craig asked.

  “Probably. For a while. Until they find no wreckage. You know this is liable to reach our respective families with devastating results?”

  “I know it. I figure you should call home as soon as we get on the ground,” Craig said.
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  “I’ll wager even at one hundred feet we’re being tracked by at least one military radar.”

  “As long as Air Traffic Control can’t see us and we’re not streaking toward a British city . . .” Craig said.

  “. . . we should be all right.” Alastair finished. “I ran a quick fuel calculation, and we’re okay at this fuel consumption rate to Inverness. We’ll land with an hour’s fuel remaining.”

  Lights loomed in the distance directly ahead, seeming to close on them rapidly in the gloom.

  “What’s that?” Craig asked, his eyes moving constantly from the attitude display to the radar altimeter to the vertical velocity indicator and back to the ADI with an occasional glance out of the windscreen ahead.

  “Probably a ship.”

  “I see a lot of lights,” President Harris chimed in, startling Alastair, who’d almost forgotten they had a guest on the cockpit jumpseat. “It’s tall, fellows, whatever it is.”

  “Craig, let’s climb.”

  “Just a second,” he replied.

  “No, dammit! Not just a second, I mean now!” Alastair barked.

  “Look . . .”

  “Craig, you’re going too far! You’re into reckless flying and I’ll have no more of it!”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Craig snapped.

  “No, you bloody well don’t! You’re tunneling in on a single objective. That trait kills even testosterone-soaked fighter pilots like you! This is foolhardy.”

  Craig studied Alastair with a quick glance and began easing the yoke back to start a shallow climb.

  “Five hundred okay?”

  “For now, yes.”

  “All right,” Craig said quietly.

  “All right,” Alastair echoed, watching the radar altitude increase until Craig leveled at five hundred.

  “Sorry,” Craig said as the lights of the ship ahead swam safely beneath their nose.

  Craig looked at Alastair, noting the alarm still in his eyes.

  “You still with me, man?” Craig asked.

  “Barely,” was the reply.

  Heathrow Airport, London, England