“I’m leaving, Annie,” he said in a low, solemn voice. The sight of her in his shirt, fresh out of the shower, from his shower, holding his face, was almost too much for him to bear. “I won’t be back.”
“D-David? Where are you going?”
“Away.”
“Where? I don’t understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand, Annie,” Luger said. “I just came here to say good-bye.”
“What’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you, Annie,” he replied, the hurt obvious in his eyes. “But I’ll be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“David, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s going on. Please.”
“Good-bye, Annie,” he said. Annie wanted to get up and follow him, but Dev grasped her wrist, and it froze her. Luger didn’t seem like he was on any kind of drugs, not agitated or wild at all-in fact, he seemed very calm. Too calm. What in hell was going on?
“Will I ever see you again, David?” she asked. But he said nothing, only turned and walked down the stairs and out to the parking lot until he was out of sight.
Sky Wasters Inc. Corporate Headquarters,
Arkansas International Jetport,
Blytheville, Arkansas
Little Bradley J. McLanahan couldn’t take his eyes off the big Sky Masters Inc. DC-10, brightly illuminated by banks of ballpark lights, as the last forklifts moved away and the big portside cargo doors motored closed. He pulled on his mother’s blue jeans. “Are we going flying, Mommy?”
“Not tonight, honey,” Wendy replied. “Daddy’s going flying tonight.”
“I need to go flying,” he protested. The big cargo plane/tanker/command aircraft started up its fuselage engine. He turned to Patrick, realized he had not made his request politely, and pleaded, “Please, can I go flying with you, Daddy?”
“Not tonight, big guy,” Patrick replied. “When I get home, we’ll go fly the 210, okay?” But his son’s attention was fully riveted on the DC-10, saving Patrick’s heartstrings from his son’s earnest pleading.
“Stealing away in the middle of the night,” Wendy said to Patrick. “This can’t be right if we have to sneak away like this.”
“President Martindale said go, so we’re going,” Patrick said. “I just wish you were coming along.”
“Jon’s still got a business to run,” Wendy said. “Helen and I are it.”
“Just until things cool down.”
“Then I think you’ll be gone an awful long time,” Wendy said, “because I think things have barely begun to warm up.” She sighed, then asked, “Any idea where you’ll be?”
“Turkey or Ukraine,” Patrick replied. “We won’t make the final decision until we depart our refueling stop, either in Spain or Belgium.”
“I feel like we’re being pursued harder than the guy we’re trying to stop.”
“We are — for now,” Patrick said. “Something will happen soon. My guess is that we’ll get a sanction from the White House. Kevin will eventually make President Thorn realize we’re not a threat to him or his administration.” They heard the port engine on the DC-10 spool up, which was a signal to board. “I’d better go.” He kissed his son on the cheek, then gave Wendy a hug and a kiss.
“I wish I was coming along,” Wendy said. “No, actually, I wish we weren’t doing this. For some reason, it seems wrong.”
“I don’t know if it’s wrong or not,” Patrick said as he hugged her tightly. “I wish I knew.”
“Just be safe, then.”
“I will.” He kissed her one last time, then pulled away and headed for the airstairs. He took a seat near David Luger, Jon Masters, Hal Briggs, Chris Wohl, and Marcia Preston. Moments later, the starboard engine fired up, and they began taxiing for takeoff.
Patrick was just settling into his palletized passenger seat when he heard via his subcutaneous transceiver: “Patrick, this is Wendy. I see three helicopters in formation coming in low over the airport. No marking that we can see.”
At that same moment, Patrick heard on the cabin intercom: “General McLanahan, you’d better get up here.”
Patrick raced for the cockpit. Through the windscreen he saw the helicopters as they raced in at treetop level from the southwest. They broke formation, so Patrick could see only one of them.
“Who are they?” the DC-10’s copilot asked — then blanched as he heard an announcement on the emergency UHF frequency. “Oh, shit…”
The flight engineer handed Patrick a headset. “You’d better listen to this, sir,” he said.
“Attention Sky Masters DC-10 taxiing for takeoff, this is the FBI,” Patrick heard. “You are hereby ordered to stop immediately and shut down your engines. Repeat, stop and shut down immediately.”
“What do we do, sir?” the pilot asked.
“Keep going,” Patrick replied. “Take the next taxiway onto the runway, get airborne as soon as you can.”
“We’re pretty close to gross weight, sir,” the engineer said. “An intersection takeoff won’t give us enough accelerate-stop distance.”
“Just do it,” Patrick said. “If those choppers get any closer and block our path, we’ll all be in jail before you know it.” The pilot made a sudden turn onto the intersecting taxiway, and while the copilot and flight engineer frantically completed the pretakeoff checks, the pilot swung right on the runway, lining up for takeoff.
“General McLanahan, this is Earthmover.” Patrick heard Lieutenant-General Terrill Samson’s voice in his head through the implanted transceiver. “Better shut it down. The FBI is going to block the runway.”
“Terrill, what did you do?” Patrick asked.
“Yes, I told them you might be here — hard to believe, but the FBI didn’t know about Sky Masters or this facility,” Samson said.
“So you told them.”
“I cooperated with a federal investigation,” Samson retorted. “They have a warrant to search the facility and all the aircraft. You need to cooperate with them. Shut it down. Don’t continue the takeoff. You’ll kill everyone on board that plane.”
“Then I wish you were on board with me, Samson,” Patrick said bitterly. He shouted to the pilots, “Get this thing in the air!” The last thing he saw over on the parking ramp was a large group of armed FBI agents surrounding Wendy, his son Bradley, and the others. One FBI agent had an M-16 pointed at his wife and son, the muzzle just inches away. Wendy was clutching their son tightly, afraid to move.
The FBI’s Jet Ranger helicopter had just set down about three-quarters of the way down the runway. The pilot immediately realized the DC-10 wasn’t going to stop, and yanked the helicopter off the runway and quick-taxied clear. The DC-10 had started to rotate to takeoff attitude at that spot, and the wingtip vortices sent the chopper spinning and flipped it on its side.
“McLanahan,” Terrill Samson’s disembodied voice said, what has gotten into you? You may have killed that helicopter crew! Are you crazy?”
“If any harm comes to my family, I’ll be looking for you, Samson,” Patrick vowed.
“They’re taking Wendy and your son into custody,” Samson said. “She won’t be placed under arrest unless she fails to cooperate. I advise you to orbit the field and bum down fuel until you can land right back here.”
“Not one hair disturbed on either of their heads,” Patrick warned. “I hold you responsible.”
“I am not your enemy, Patrick!” Samson thundered. “Dammit, don’t you understand? The ghost of Brad Elliott has got you completely screwed up. Don’t let it affect your family as well. If you don’t give yourself up, Patrick, I can’t be responsible for what happens to them.”