Headwind (2001)

by John J. Nance

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Garda . . . that’s our police force. They’re guardians of public safety. They hate to be called police, even when they’re dashing about acting out an Irish version of NYPD Blue. Anyway, I think any attempt at extradition would take a very long time and would give you more than ample opportunity to appeal. It’s really a torturous legal process. Frankly, without doing some fast research, I’m not even sure we have an extradition arrangement with Peru.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Probably not in the least. If Mr. Harris is extraditable under the charges you mentioned, he’d be extraditable under the Treaty Against Torture even if there isn’t a regular agreement with Peru.”

  “How about government attitude?”

  “Essentially that doesn’t matter a great deal. Oh, with some of the jurists it may scratch at the back of their heads, but most of our judiciary are very independent thinkers and our Taoiseach, as we call our Prime Minister, would probably be very careful about stating a position.”

  “Can we control which judge we get?” Jay asked.

  “Can one control the wind? No, not in Ireland, you can’t. You just have to roll the dice. We have quite a gallery of judges. The good, the bad, the statutorily senile, and one or two who can’t seem to sleep in their own bedrooms.”

  “Just like home.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I’m a former judge. It’s a long story.”

  “This becomes even more fascinating by the moment, Mr. Reinhart. Are you of German ancestry, with that name?”

  “Way back on my Dad’s side. Texas German.”

  “My God, what a combination!”

  “Isn’t it.”

  “Like Walter Cronkite,” Garrity said.

  “I . . . yes. But my maternal grandmother was from Galway. Look, Mr. Garrity, one other key question. Does the President actually have to be on Irish soil for Peru to perfect their warrant in Ireland?”

  “No. All they need do is tell the judge they expect Mr. Harris to show up someday, and they’ll get their warrant.”

  “Could you think hard about this, sir? Research it as far as you need to right now, and let me call you in a few hours.”

  “Provided you never again in this life call me ‘sir,’ Mr. Reinhart. I’m not a bloody English knight, y’know.”

  “Okay. Deal. We’re on the clock as far as fees go, and if you’ll find a solicitor for me who knows this area and hire him for me, I’d deeply appreciate it.”

  Garrity chuckled. “You have no idea how much I would love to do just that. Our solicitors always hire us, so that would be a brilliant turnabout, but . . . I’m also afraid it would strain my ethics. I can make you a recommendation and even put someone on hold for you, but the actual retaining has to be done by you, I’m sorry to say.”

  Jay listened to the names of two solicitors adept at international practice and picked the first.

  “Ah, a fine choice, that,” Garrity said, as if Jay had chosen a premium wine. “Good man.” Garrity passed the solicitor’s phone number after agreeing to call and alert him to the case.

  “Mr. Garrity, will you need a retainer fee immediately?” Jay asked.

  “That’s an issue we always leave to our instructing solicitors.”

  “Okay. It’s just that I’ll need to transfer funds.”

  “Won’t be possible until Thursday, then, because tomorrow’s St. Patrick’s Day. But that’s all right. The solicitors will find a way to separate you from the appropriate amount of money, and I’m at your service in the meantime, I assure you.”

  Jay disconnected and left the smaller waiting room, feeling unsettled by the discussion of fees. He walked over to the Secretary’s group, where urgent conversations were flying back and forth.

  “Excuse me. What’s going on?” Jay asked.

  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 che
ck, 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.