Headwind

by John J. Nance

  The frustration of not being able to access the same live broadcast of the Sigonella flight line that half the world could see had driven Stuart Campbell to keep his staff in Brussels on the phone line from their conference room, where the projected TV image filled a wall. One of his partners narrated the scene as it unfolded, describing everyone moving on or around the ramp area in the picture.

  “If a mosquito moves down there, I want to know,” Campbell had demanded, listening carefully as his partner described the movements of people around the Boeing.

  Without warning the C-17 had started engines and taxied away, leaving Stuart Campbell in a sudden quandary over whether John Harris might have somehow slipped aboard.

  “Did you see anyone walk from one to the other?”

  “Well, yes, as I said. Two mechanics, and several uniformed officers, and one or two others. But always as many came out as went in the C-17.”

  “Were you taping it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Play it back, and look very closely. See if Harris could have changed clothes with one of them and slipped out that way.”

  Several minutes passed.

  “Ah, Stuart, I hate to tell you this, but looking at the tape? There’s a man walking between two Navy officers and trying to stay invisible, but I can see him in the shot.”

  “Does it look like Harris?”

  “He’s about the same height, and he’s wearing a suit coat, although the pants look like Navy uniform.”

  “Good Lord!” Stuart Campbell said.

  “They walked directly from the 737 to the Air Force jet, but . . . only the two uniforms left. I’m afraid that’s him.”

  “But it might not be.”

  “Maybe not, but whoever I’m looking at, at least no one dressed like that left the C-17, and the others were trying to conceal him.”

  “Damn him!” Campbell said, letting his mind race over the problem as his eyes fell across the note pad he’d been using. “I honestly thought that kind of escape was beneath him.”

  The name of one Jay Reinhart was inscribed on it with a number in the States. “All right, thank you. I’ll ring you back shortly.” He toggled the phone and dialed through the local system to a direct U.S. long-distance operator and passed the number. The response from the other end was immediate.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Mr. Reinhart?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “I don’t believe we’ve met, sir, but I understand you’re counsel for ex-President Harris.”

  “That’s correct” was the caution-tinged answer. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Stuart Campbell, counsel for the Peruvian Government, Mr. Reinhart. I need to speak directly to President Harris in that 737. I rang him a while ago not realizing he had hired an attorney . . . I called on their satellite phone . . . and I need to reestablish the connection, with you on the line, of course. I believe I may have a quick and easy solution that does not involve immediate extradition to Lima.”

  “Getting on the phone at this point is not possible, Mr. Campbell.”

  “And why would that be? It was possible fifteen minutes ago. I suppose I could request to go talk to him in person, but . . .”

  “Did you see that C-17 depart, sir?”

  “Yes,” Campbell answered, suddenly off balance.

  “Well, since I don’t have a phone number for that aircraft, I can’t help you.”

  “Are you implying, Mr. Reinhart, that President Harris is aboard the C-17? No one saw him leave the Boeing.”

  “And you’re surprised, Mr. Campbell? This is a former U.S. President under the protection of the Secret Service. Now, when that C-17 reaches the U.S., perhaps we can arrange the conference you’re seeking, but even if it were possible at this moment, it would serve no purpose.”

  “I see.”

  “In case I need to reach you, Mr. Campbell, may I have your phone numbers, please?”

  Stuart Campbell passed the numbers by rote, his thoughts centered on the upsetting task ahead of informing Lima he had failed. He rang off and replaced the phone, then walked absently to the window as he explored the options.

  There were none.

  With Harris gone and under the protection of the U.S. Air Force, all that remained would be the task of presenting the warrant to a U.S. court, which would be akin to punching a giant marshmallow. It could take years of long, exhausting, and ultimately useless effort only to prove in the end that no American President was touchable by the treaty as long as American military might remained.

  Well, old boy, you’ve been well and truly snookered, I should think.

  He turned as the Deputy Foreign Minister walked in.

  “Mr. Sigerelli, I believe that about concludes our business. I assume you will want the Carabinieri to withdraw, and to that I have no objections.”

  Laramie, Wyoming

  Jay cautioned himself to calm down. The phone would ring again, and this time with John Harris on the other end. Without a number he could call in Sicily, it would be up to the President to reestablish the connection.

  There’s no way this is going to work! he told himself. Yet Campbell had given him a totally unexpected opportunity and the words had formed without conscious thought, careful words that neither confirmed nor denied that the President was aboard the C-17.

  Hearing Campbell’s voice on the other end had been a true shock. The big man’s deep, resonant tones were indelibly etched in his memory from a long time ago. He smiled at the fact that Campbell hadn’t even recognized his name. Or was that a purposeful slight? No, he concluded. Too many years, too many miles to remember some faceless little lawyer back in the States. He wondered if even John Harris remembered that Campbell and Reinhart had met once on the legal battlefield. Probably not, and it wasn’t worth mentioning at this point.

  He got up from the kitchen stool and looked at the clock, wondering if he dared to block either inbound line long enough to cancel his three o’clock class. He would have to get to Europe now as fast as possible, but when and how were still unresolved issues, especially with events unfolding so rapidly.

  Aboard EuroAir Flight 42, on the Ground,

  Sigonella Naval Air Station, Sicily

  When President Cavanaugh had ended the conversation with an apology and a promise, ex-President John Harris had slowly lowered the telephone receiver, keeping his face a mask of impassivity.

  “What is it, sir?” Sherry Lincoln asked, noticing that Captain Swanson had suddenly moved out of sight toward the front of the aircraft, his cell phone pressed to his ear. She knew the connection had been with the Oval Office.

  John Harris took a deep breath and turned, smiling thinly. “I knew it was too easy,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  He relayed the decision, shaking his head to neutralize the anger and shock showing on her face. “It’s a tough call, Sherry, and he had to make it on a broader basis than just helping me.”

  “This is stupid!”

  “It’s done.” He handed the receiver to her. “The conference call was through the White House. I’ll have to call Jay back.”

  The sound of engines winding up had reached their ears through the open door of the 737. Through the left windows Sherry could see a puff of smoke billowing from the rear of the C-17’s right outboard engine, making her feel like an unseen survivor watching the last chance for deliverance sail over the horizon. Her name would not be found on the warrant. Her passport would take her home at any time. But empathy and loyalty were incarcerating her emotions as effectively as if she were the target. There was a black hole out there labeled “Lima,” and they were being sucked toward it like a leaf in a whirlpool.

  Craig Dayton appeared in first class.

  “Mr. President, I just heard.”

  He nodded. “They’re leaving without me, Captain.”

  “What . . . would you like me to do, sir?” Craig asked in confusion.

  John Harris shook his head. “I
wish I knew.”

  “I . . . was expecting to let my passengers off when you left,” Craig said as he looked toward the coach cabin.

  The Navy base commander reappeared beside Craig Dayton, relaying the same news and asking the same question.

  “Mr. President, I have no specific orders from Washington or my commander at the moment. I’m trying to figure out what to do.”

  “Are they closing in on us?” Harris asked.

  Captain Swanson shook his head. “They’re still respecting the flight line. That one car that came through is mine. I wanted it standing by.”

  “I was worried about that,” Sherry said.

  “Sir,” the Navy commander said, “the way I see it, right now we have a standoff. Unless the Italians change their minds, they’re going to leave this ramp alone, and this fellow Campbell . . .”

  “William Stuart Campbell, Captain. World-class international lawyer from the U.K., a Knight of the British Empire, and a very substantial adversary.”

  “Understood. Unless the Italians cave, he’ll be held at bay as long as you’re out here.”

  “In this airplane, you mean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But this is a civilian airliner, and Captain Dayton here needs to get these passengers back to Rome. Is there a place I could safely stay on base?”

  The Navy Captain shook his head, looking cornered. “No . . . sir. I mean, I’d put you up in admiral’s quarters in a second, but the accommodations are not on the flight line, and worse, they’re at the other base, NAS-One. To get you there we’d have to transport you through civilian Italian landscape where we have zero jurisdiction. The only place I can protect you is the flight line. The ramp. Here.”

  “Captain Dayton,” Harris said, turning to Craig, “what if I personally paid for transportation for all these passengers wherever they want to go, and chartered this aircraft from EuroAir?”

  “Chartered . . .” Craig asked, his mind flashing through the probability of Frankfurt agreeing to such a plan.

  “Yes. Chartered. At premium rates, so we have a place to stay for at least a few hours. Captain Swanson? If I could charter this bird and the crew, can I leave with them?”

  “I . . . hadn’t thought about it, Mr. President. I guess the question is whether the Italian authorities would try to stop you the moment you taxied out of here.”

  “What’s your best guess?”

  “I wouldn’t have one, sir, at this point. Not one I’d want you to stake your freedom on.”

  Craig turned toward the front of the plane lost in thought. He moved rapidly back to the cockpit, where Alastair was watching the C-17 disappear around the corner of the terminal.

  “Get Frankfurt on the satellite phone for me.”

  “What? Are we throwing ourselves on the mercy of the chief pilot then?”

  “No. We’re going to charter ourselves.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just . . . make the call and hand it to me.”

  Laramie, Wyoming

  The live coverage from Sigonella had included a spectacular shot of the C-17 lifting off and banking immediately toward the west, literally disappearing into a beautiful sunset. The media knew that John Harris had been aboard the 737, and they knew that only a few mechanics and Navy personnel had entered or left the Boeing, but despite the absence of any video of John Harris leaving the EuroAir jet, the anchor in Atlanta was actively mentioning the possibility that John Harris had just departed, escaping whatever threatened arrest had been in the offing.

  Jay looked at the phone again, a plan forming suddenly in his mind. He opened the cell phone and punched in the number for the White House Situation Room. They would be formulating a public response, and he might have only seconds.

  EIGHTEEN

  Aboard EuroAir Flight 42, on the Ground, Sigonella Naval

  Air Station, Sicily—Monday—6:30 P.M.

  The telephone some six thousand miles distant was answered on the first ring.

  “Mr. Reinhart? Jay? This is Sherry Lincoln.”

  “Thank heavens, Sherry. There’s a lot to tell you and I’m holding with the White House right now on another line. Where is the President?”

  “Sitting next to me. Why?”

  “In first class?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who on that base knows he’s still there?”

  “I . . . what do you mean?”

  “Who knows? Who’s seen him? He hasn’t stepped out the front door, has he, where anyone could spot him?”

  “No. I suppose . . . uh, let’s see. Other than those of us on the aircraft, the Navy commander, Captain Swanson and several of his aides, that’s about it.”

  “Is Swanson still there?”

  “Yes. He’s talking on his phone.”

  “Please ask him not to talk to anyone about the President’s presence on the aircraft. And keep him hidden.”

  “Who? The President? I don’t understand.”

  “Yes. Keep the President hidden. Do the passengers know he’s aboard?”

  “They all did, but . . . I don’t know.”

  “Listen very closely, please. Since the C-17 started engines, have any of the passengers seen him in your airplane?”

  “He’s been in his seat the whole time, and the curtain to coach is closed, and there are no other passengers in first class. Why?”

  “Please, take the President to the . . . I don’t know, maybe the forward galley. That’s a 737?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get him in the forward galley without the coach passengers seeing him, and pull the curtain, if they have one, then ask the captain to get the rest of the passengers off the airplane, if he will. Also, do you have a cell phone I could reach there while you’re on the ground?”

  “Ah . . . yes, as a matter of fact. I forgot. Let me turn it on.” She passed the number to him while she pulled it from her purse and hit the “on” button.

  “Okay, Jay, I’m still not sure what you’re planning.”

  “Please, just do what I’m asking, and get the Navy commander on this phone . . . and make sure the flight crew doesn’t tell anyone he’s still there.”

  Sherry took a deep breath and lowered the receiver as she took in John Harris’s puzzled expression and made the decision to act before explaining. She put the phone on the seat and jumped up to find Captain Swanson in the entryway.

  “Why?” Swanson asked her when she relayed the requests.

  “I don’t know yet, but this comes from his attorney. Wait a sec.” The cockpit door was ajar and she opened it to see Alastair Chadwick handing a telephone handset to the captain, who turned and stopped as she entered.

  “Sherry?”

  She raised a finger to her lips and pointed to the phone, and Craig covered the transmitter with his hand. “What’s up?”

  “The President’s lawyer is asking that you please reveal to no one that he’s still aboard. You haven’t, have you?”

  “No,” Craig replied, looking at Alastair, who shook his head as well.

  “Please don’t. I’ll be right back.”

  “What is he thinking?” Craig asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sherry said as she turned.

  Craig pulled at her sleeve as she turned to go. “Wait! I was just getting ready to try to charter this aircraft as President Harris asked.”

  “Hold off. Please!” Sherry said, turning to leave again and pulling the cockpit door closed behind her.

  Craig sighed and shook his head as he raised the handset and promised the director of flight operations he’d call back in a few minutes.

  “Bang on!” Alastair said suddenly when the connection had been broken. His face brightened into a broad smile.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bang on, I said.”

  “I know what you said. It’s what you meant that has me baffled. More Britspeak?”

  “It means how bloody clever! They couldn’t get the President on t
hat C-17, but if they pretend they did, the men with the warrant go away.”

  “Pretend . . .”

  “Yes. Pretend! He’s not here, eh what? He sneaked out in plain view. We could probably fly back to Rome, discharge everyone, and go happily on our way and no one would pay the slightest attention to his presence. Of course, they’ll be there to shoot us, but that’s another story.”

  “But the passengers . . .”

  “Probably haven’t seen a thing since Fat Albert left.”

  “Fat Albert?”

  “The C-17.”

  “No, no, Alastair. We called the C-5 Fat Albert. I don’t know what strange names they have for the seventeen.”

  “Whatever. He’s gone. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it, as the country-and-western song says. Bloody brilliant.”

  Laramie, Wyoming

  “Mr. Rollins? Jay Reinhart here. Have you said anything to the media yet about President Harris not leaving Sigonella?”

  There was momentary silence on the White House end of the call.

  “No, but we’re in the process of planning a release, and an explanation. Why?”

  “I . . . suppose I can understand why President Cavanaugh decided not to pull President Harris out of there . . .”

  “His reasons are sound, Mr. Reinhart, although I must tell you, completely off the record, that I was disappointed, too . . . that it didn’t work out.”

  “It still can.”

  “No, the decision’s made and the aircraft has . . .”

  “I know that,” Jay interjected. “But we still get most of the benefits if, for a few hours, at least, we let the other side of the equation believe he’s on that C-17.”

  Jack Rollins repositioned the phone receiver and sat down behind his desk. “Go on.”

  “I talked to Peru’s lawyer. He called me immediately after the C-17 left, and he was assuming that President Harris was aboard. I fed that assumption without actually saying so, and the upshot is, the lawyer, Campbell, and the Italian forces that were there to make the arrest are probably leaving. As long as they think President Harris is gone, I have a chance to engineer a civilian escape.” He explained the idea of chartering the 737 and was gratified at Rollins’s immediate response.