“I am, sir. What scares me is that someone may have perfectly matched your voice digitally so that even if you didn’t say the words in that sequence, they could still be your words and your voice rearranged.”
“Don’t lose faith in me, Jay. Things are seldom what they appear.”
Jay looked up at him for several very long moments before replying. “That’s precisely what worries me,” he said.
John Harris returned to his room and Sherry bade Jay good-bye with confirmation that she would leave with the President on the 737. They hesitated at his door, holding hands briefly as she promised to call the second they landed in the United States.
Jay returned to the empty room in turmoil, desperate for sleep, feeling the effect of the two pints of stout, and determined to figure out a way around the inevitable. He turned on the TV and VCR and reran the tape, looking for something that had bothered him earlier, a fleeting glimpse of something he now couldn’t place. Whatever it was now eluded him.
He sat on the edge of the bed in deep thought, regretting the time spent at the pub, though Michael and his friends were delightful company.
His friends.
Jay yanked a sheaf of business cards from his pocket and lunged for the phone to get Michael Garrity on the line.
“What is it, lad?” Michael asked.
Jay related the details of what he’d seen on the tape Stuart Campbell had provided.
“Oh, me. That will make things very difficult indeed.”
“Can we block admission of the tape?”
“Yes and no. Remember, we’re dealing with Justice O’Connell, and he’ll do whatever he’ll do without benefit of counsel. Under our Criminal Procedure Acts, it’s really up to the trial judge. There’s no automatic exclusion just because the evidence – the video – might have been obtained contrary to U.S. law,” Michael said, pausing. “All I can do is fight a good fight to keep it out by persuading him that it’s terribly prejudicial to President Harris.”
“Michael,” Jay said, “I’ve got an idea how we can convince him – if you’re willing to lose a night of sleep, and if you can get one of your friends to help us tonight.”
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!”