“Who speaks English?” Dayton asked, keeping his voice controlled and calm.
One of the officers stepped forward, brushing past the wide-eyed gate agent, who was somewhere between panicked and helpless. The officer motioned to quiet down the other policemen who were in animated discussion behind him, then turned back to the captain, carefully noting the four-stripe epaulets on the shoulders of his white uniform shirt. “Captain, we are ordered to. . . hold everyone aboard your aircraft. There are others . . . government officials . . . coming here with papers.”
“What for?” Dayton asked.
The officer shook his head. “I do not know. My orders are to keep everyone on board at the gate.”
“How long before they get here?” Craig asked.
“A half hour, perhaps.”
Dayton said nothing for a few seconds, then pointed to the 737’s forward door, which was folded back along the forward fuselage.
“All right. Here’s what I’m going to do. As captain, I’m responsible for these passengers. So I’m going to close the aircraft door to keep everyone on board for you, as you ask. Okay?”
The policeman thought it over quickly and nodded with a fleeting smile.
“Okay.”
“I’m also going to start one of the engines to keep the air-conditioning on.”
The officer looked concerned. “Start . . . engines?”
“I have to. It’s part of our regulations. If we keep people on board, we have to start an engine. Standard procedure. Rules.”
The officer smiled and nodded, understanding the last word. “Okay.”
“Stand back, now,” Craig said as he worked the small latch on the upper hinge arm and pulled the door back through the opening before using the single lever to lock it into position.
He leaned forward and peeped through the small, round window on the door, assuring himself the delegation of police had not been alarmed by his actions. They’d stepped back obediently and were waiting, hands in pockets, convinced they were doing precisely as their superiors had ordered.
Craig turned to Jillian and took her by the shoulders, his eyes finding hers, but his words betraying nothing of their long-term off-work relationship.
“Listen to me! Tell President Harris what’s happening, then get his Secret Service man up here to the entryway, strap him in your folding seat, and have him hold this door handle in place so no one can open it.”
“What are you planning to do, Craig?”
“What I’m sworn to do. Don’t ask. Just go.” He turned and disappeared into the cockpit, launching himself into the left seat and scrambling for his seat belt, aware of the questioning look from Alastair in the right seat.
“Before Starting Engines checklist,” Dayton barked.
“I say, my ears must be going,” Alastair replied, his eyebrows raised. “I could have sworn you called for the checklist.”
“I did. Checklist, please. Now! We’re getting out of here.”
Alastair hesitated, then took a short breath. “Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, old chap, but we’re still attached to the jetway and there’s no tug in place to shove us back.”
Craig looked at him suddenly. “That’s precisely what I’m counting on, Alastair. We’re going to start engines and get out of here.”
“This is an American thing, isn’t it?”
“You’re damn right it is. No one’s going to arrest a U.S. president on my watch.”
“May I remind you this is a German airline?”
Craig nodded without looking as his eyes scanned the forward instrument panel. “So noted.”
There was a hesitation from the right seat, and Craig looked around at Alastair. “What?”
“You’re going to get us both sacked, aren’t you?” Chadwick said quietly.
“I got you this job,” Dayton said, “and I’ll make sure you keep it. It’s my authority and my neck. I made you do it. So do it! Checklist, PLEASE!”
Alastair read the deadly serious expression on his captain’s face and quietly pulled the laminated checklist into his lap, beginning the challenge and response litany immediately.
“Brakes?”
“Set.”
“Hydraulics?”
Jillian Walz had gone immediately to brief the Secret Service agent who moved without hesitation to the front to hold the door handle immobile. She returned, then, to brief President Harris—unprepared for the message to be taken lightly.
“Wait a minute, Ms. Walz,” President Harris said, leaning toward her with a smile. “There’s obviously a mistake somewhere in translation,” he chuckled, “or someone’s pulling your leg. To the best of my knowledge, I haven’t started any wars or overthrown the Greek government in the last few days, so there’s really nothing to arrest me for. I’m sure that delegation is just some sort of welcoming committee. We get a lot of them. They probably found out belatedly I was coming through town, got a late start, phoned ahead, and inadvertently got everyone excited.”
“Sir!” Jillian interrupted. “Our agent out there was told they were coming to arrest you. Not greet you. She mentioned an arrest warrant.”
President Harris exchanged looks with the woman beside him, thirty-two-year old Sherry Lincoln, a Rhodes scholar and his assistant for the previous two years. Before she could say anything, the boarding music playing over the PA system shifted to a fast-paced instrumental more suited for the sound track of a movie chase scene. Sherry Lincoln glanced at the overhead speakers in irritation before looking back at her employer.
“What do you think, Sherry?” he asked with a wink. “A bunch of angry Democrats back home manipulating relatives in the old country? I’ve always been told to beware of Greeks bearing gifts or warrants, but . . .”
She wasn’t smiling, and it stopped him. “Sir,” Sherry Lincoln began, “if the word ‘warrant’ was used . . .”
“It was,” Jillian interjected, realizing the 737’s auxiliary power unit had just started up, a small jet engine in the tail section that provided electricity as well as compressed air to start the engines. She could hear the distant whine.
President Harris was shaking his head. “Oh, come on, Sherry! Our allies don’t make a habit of arresting former U.S. presidents. They throw formal dinners and bore us to death with welcoming speeches. Far more effective punishment. Anyway, there’s still such a thing as sovereign immunity for any parking tickets I might not have paid while in office.”
Another sound of rising frequencies reached Jillian’s experienced ear. One of the engines was at idle and the second engine was winding up. There was a momentary flicker in the lights as one of the pilots switched over electrical power from the ground unit to the engines, and the sound track went off-line for a few seconds, then resumed, the rhythm almost matching her accelerated heart beat.
“Look,” President Harris was saying in a soothing voice. “When they get here, whoever it is, I’ll talk to them and take care of it.”
Jillian raised her hand to stop him. “Sir, for right now, please, the captain wants you to stay seated and keep your seat belt on. I’ll report back shortly.”
“Are we leaving on schedule?” John Harris asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
The scream of the 737’s two CFM-56 jet engines starting up had forced the police officers to shove their fingers in their ears and retreat up the jetway, where they missed the significance of the slight movement of the fuselage against the accordion-like padding that encased the doorway of the Boeing. Thrust reversers were an unknown concept to them, so the fact that both sets of reversers had just come open was meaningless.
A sudden, unexpected lurch threw all seven against the wall of the jetway, instantly garnering their undivided attention. The lead officer scrambled to his feet and went flying back toward the airplane in time to see the cockpit of the 737 sliding backward in his field of vision. It looked as if the jetway were being moved, but when he reached the end and braved the
scream of the engines to peer around to the right, he realized that the jet was moving on its own, a maneuver that had not been covered by his orders.
“Careful, Craig!” Alastair had yelped as the captain yanked the thrust reverse levers up to a high-power setting, causing the 737’s nosewheel to jump over the single chock in its way and roll backward. Dayton cocked the nosewheel to the left, tracking the front end of the jet to the right and clear of the jetway. Just as quickly, he centered the nosewheel, rechecking the reflection of the area behind them in the windows of the terminal. They were clear as far as he could see. He held the reverse thrust at a high setting, knowing he was probably damaging the engines with debris from the ramp.
A roiling cloud of dust and dirt and a few stray papers boiled up in front of them and billowed angrily up the side of the terminal. Craig could see startled faces just inside the glass of the waiting area as people turned at the sound, wondering why Flight 42 had decided to leave ahead of schedule, and without a push-back tug.
The ground crewmen had turned in wide-eyed surprise and had stood in confusion as Craig had started the engines, but the sudden movement backward caught them unprepared. One by one they began running after the jet, waving their arms frantically at the cockpit.
Flight 42’s baggage compartment doors had already been closed, but there was an entire train of baggage carts parked on the right, and the jet blast overturned them now, spilling the contents, which skittered away, accompanied by an upended baggage handler who was rolling end over end toward the terminal.
There was a loud “thwang” as the ground power cable snapped loose from beneath the nose and snaked back toward the building, barely missing one of the ground crew chasing after them but doing no other harm.
The 737 was suddenly clear of the jetway and backing rapidly into the middle of the airport ramp, an area they couldn’t see from the cockpit.
“Craig! Stop!” Alastair yelped. “We don’t know what’s behind us.”
“It was clear,” he said. Craig could see several of the startled police officers leaning out of the end of the jetway, while two others spilled through the door to scramble down the metal stairway to the ramp with no clear idea what to do to stop the retreating jetliner.
The 737 was rolling backward at five to six knots. Craig stowed the reversers and waited what seemed like an eternity.
“Don’t touch the brakes!” Craig cautioned. “We’ll rock on our tail.”
“Right,” Alastair responded.
When the interlock had cleared, Craig shoved the thrust levers forward, waiting for the engines to come up to speed.
Slowly the big jet halted its rearward motion and transitioned to moving forward. Craig cranked the nosewheel to the left and guided them out of the ramp area toward the taxiway, aware that the ground crew was still giving chase and several police cars on their right were now moving cautiously, keeping pace, but maintaining a respectful distance.
“Call the tower for immediate takeoff clearance,” Craig barked.
Alastair complied, getting the response he expected. “EuroAir Four-Two, hold your position, sir! You were not cleared to taxi.”
Craig punched the transmit button for his headset before the copilot could reply. “Negative, tower, I’m declaring an emergency at this time. Clear us please for immediate takeoff on Runway Two Seven.”
Alastair turned toward the left seat shaking his head. “What?”
“An emergency takeoff.”
“There’s no such thing that I’m aware of. You’re going to cashier both our licenses. Come on, Craig. Stop this.”
“No. Finish the before takeoff checklist. We’re rolling as soon as we get to the end.”
“Craig,” Alastair replied, his voice deep and serious, “I beg you, don’t take off without clearance!”
“We have the air traffic control clearance?”
“Yes, but no takeoff clearance, as you well know,” Alastair said, keeping his eyes ahead and calculating the distance to the end of the runway. There were no other aircraft in the way, and the cars giving chase were behind them now. “If we take that runway without a takeoff clearance, we’re both in serious trouble, and I’d rather keep my ticket. This is insane!”
Craig punched the transmit button again. “Tower? Are you going to clear me for takeoff under my emergency authority? We do not have time to explain, and lives are at stake.”
“Ah . . . I . . . this is most irregular, EuroAir. Are you being hijacked?”
“I can’t answer that. Understand?”
There was a telling hesitation as the tower operator found the right slot for the problem. Hijacking! That must be the answer. This must be a hijacking!
“Roger, Four-Two, you are cleared for immediate takeoff on runway Two Seven.”
“The checklist is complete,” Alastair said, his voice tense and urgent as he watched Craig take the 737 at a higher-than-normal taxi speed around the end of the taxiway and onto the runway.
“Setting power. Autothrottles engaged,” Craig said.
“Roger. Airspeed alive.” Alastair waited, watching the airspeed leap to life. “Eighty knots, looking for one hundred twenty-seven.”
Craig glanced to his right, past the copilot, half-expecting armed vehicles to be chasing them down the taxiway, but they were leaving unopposed.
The powerful thrust of the engines pushed them back in their seats as the airspeed needle moved against the dial.
“Vee One, and Vee R,” Alastair stated, reporting the commit speed and the rotation speed as the terminal flashed past in the distance on their right.
Craig pulled gently on the control yoke, lifting the nose, feeling the jet come off the runway as a flying machine and accelerate even faster, freed of the constraints of wheels on concrete.
“Positive rate, gear up.”
“Roger,” Alastair replied. “Gear up.” He moved the lever to the up position, monitoring the sequence of red lights and then no lights before moving the gear handle to the off position, his mind racing through the possible trouble they had just created for themselves. At the very least, EuroAir management would be apoplectic. At worst, he and Dayton would be fired and possibly prosecuted. He was the copilot and a British subject. Why had he permitted this to happen for the likes of an American President?
“Flaps One, Level Change, N1, Two Ten, Heading Select.”
“Flaps . . . One, Level Change . . . all done,” Alastair replied. “May I ask a question?”
“Yes, if you put the flaps up now.”
“Flaps . . . up. Very well. Where, exactly, are we going, now that we’re fugitives?”
Craig glanced at the copilot. “Rome. As scheduled. I’m going to deliver my former Commander-in-Chief safely to his destination.”
FOUR
Rome, Italy—Monday—1:40 P.M.
Word that EuroAir Flight 42 had blown its way out of the gate in Athens and departed with former President Harris aboard came as the Italian foreign minister prepared to leave Campbell’s suite. Stuart Campbell bade Anselmo good-bye before ordering his car to the front door.
“Notify everyone as planned, Isabel,” he instructed his secretary as he headed for the elevator, “and ring me with the expected arrival time of the flight.”
He slid into the back seat of the new Mercedes, quietly pleased that the showdown was going to be in Rome after all. He much preferred the Italian capital city to Athens, not to mention the fact that he spoke no Greek. Too bad for Anselmo, of course. Giuseppe and the entire Italian government would be twisting in the wind under excruciating pressure from the United States to quash the warrant and refuse extradition. But the international spotlight and the need within the European political arena to resist American arm-twisting would keep Italy from caving in.
And, of course, there was the basic strength of the case.
Stuart Campbell smiled to himself, imagining the impending legal battle that in some ways he’d been preparing for—spoiling for—for nearly
two decades.
EuroAir Flight 42, Airborne, Fifty Miles West of Athens, Greece
The satellite phone in the cockpit of Flight 42 had begun ringing almost as soon as the 737 reached cruise altitude. EuroAir’s operations center in Frankfurt had been informed by Greek authorities that the flight was being hijacked, which would explain their damaging departure from the gate as described by Athens operations.
“Is that true, Forty-Two? Are you being hijacked?” the dispatcher wanted to know.
“I can’t talk right now,” Craig replied. “I’ll call you on the ground in Rome.”
Headwind (2001) Page 2
