by Tim LaHaye
He tried to wipe the tears away and compose himself, but when he looked up, forcing an embarrassed smile, he noticed everyone else was emotional, too. “It’s all right, Bucky,” one said. “If this is your first cry, you’ll discover it won’t be your last. We’re all just as scared and stunned and grief stricken as you are.”
“Yeah,” another said, “but his personal account will no doubt be more compelling.” Which made everyone laugh and cry all the more.
Rayford talked himself into calling the Pan-Con Flight Center early in the afternoon. He learned that he was to report in for a Friday flight two days later. “Really?” he said.
“Don’t count on actually flying it,” he was told. “Not too many flights are expected to be lifting off by then. Certainly none till late tomorrow, and maybe not even then.”
“There’s a chance I’ll get called off before I leave home?”
“More than a chance, but that’s your assignment for now.”
“What’s the route?”
“ORD to BOS to JFK.”
“Hmm. Chicago, Boston, New York. Home when?”
“Saturday night.”
“Good.”
“Why? Got a date?”
“Not funny.”
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Captain. I forgot who I was talking to.”
“You know about my family?”
“Everybody here knows, sir. We’re sorry. We heard it from the senior flight attendant on your aborted Heathrow run. You got the word on your first officer on that flight, didn’t you?”
“I heard something but never got any official word.”
“What’d you hear?”
“Suicide.”
“Right. Awful.”
“Can you check on something for me?”
“If it’s in my power, Captain.”
“My daughter is trying to get back this way from California.”
“Unlikely.”
“I know, but she’s on her way. Trying anyway. She’ll more than likely try to fly Pan. Can you check and see if she’s on any of the manifests coming east?”
“Shouldn’t be too hard. There are precious few, and you know none of them will be landing here.”
“How about Milwaukee?”
“Don’t think so.” He was tapping computer keys. “Where would she originate?”
“Somewhere near Palo Alto.”
“Not good.”
“Why?”
“Hardly anything coming out of there. Let me check.”
Rayford could hear the man talking to himself, trying things, suggesting options. “Air California to Utah. Hey! Found her! Name Chloe with your last name?”
“That’s her!”
“She checked in at Palo Alto. Pan put her on a bus to some outlying strip. Flew her to Salt Lake City on Air California. First time out of the state for that plane, I’ll bet. She got on a Pan-Con plane, oh, an oldie, and they took her to, um, oh brother. Enid, Oklahoma.”
“Enid? That’s never been on our routes.”
“No kidding. They were overrun with Dallas’s spillover, too. Anyway, she’s flying Ozark to Springfield, Illinois.”
“Ozark!”
“I just work here, Cap.”
“Well, somebody’s trying to make it work, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, the good news is, we’ve got a turboprop or two down there that can get her up into the area, but it doesn’t say where she might land. It might not even come up on this screen because they won’t know till they get close.”
“How will I know where to pick her up?”
“You may not. I’m sure she’ll call you when she lands. Who knows? Maybe she’ll just show up.”
“That would be nice.”
“Well, I’m sorry for what you’re going through, sir, but you can be grateful your daughter didn’t get on Pan-Con directly out of Palo Alto. The last one out of there went down last night. No survivors.”
“And this was after the disappearances?”
“Just last night. Totally unrelated.”
“Wouldn’t that have been a kick in the teeth?” Rayford said.
“Indeed.”
CHAPTER 8
When the other senior writers and editors drifted back to their offices, Steve Plank insisted Buck Williams go home and rest before coming back for an eight o’clock meeting that evening.
“I’d rather get done now and go home for the night.”
“I know,” the executive editor said, “but we’ve got a lot to do and I want you sharp.”
Still, Buck was reluctant. “How soon can I get to London?”
“What have you got there?”
Buck filled Steve in on his tip about a major U.S. financier meeting with international colleagues and introducing a rising European politico. “Oh, man, Buck,” Steve said, “we’re all over that. You mean Carpathia.”
Buck was stunned. “I do?”
“He was the guy Rosenzweig was so impressed with.”
“Yeah, but you think he’s the one my informant is—”
“Man, you have been out of touch,” Steve said. “It’s not that big a deal. The financier has to be Jonathan Stonagal, who seems to be sponsoring him. I told you Carpathia was coming to address the U.N., didn’t I?”
“So he’s the new Romanian ambassador to the U.N.?” Buck said.
“Hardly.”
“What then?”
“President of the country.”
“Didn’t they just elect a leader, what, eighteen months ago?” Buck said, remembering Dirk’s tip that a new leader would seem out of place and time.
“Big shake-up there,” Steve said. “Better check it out.”
“I will.”
“I don’t mean you. I really don’t think there’s much of a story. The guy is young and dashing and all that, charming and persuasive as I understand it. He had been a meteoric business star, making a killing when Romanian markets opened to the West years ago. But as of last week he wasn’t even in their senate yet. He was only in the lower house.”
“The House of Deputies,” Buck said.
“How did you know that?”
Buck grinned. “Rosenzweig educated me.”
“For a minute there I thought you really did know everything. That’s what you get accused of around here, you know.”
“What a crime.”
“But you play it with such humility.”
“That’s me. So, Steve, why don’t you think it’s important that a guy like Carpathia comes from nowhere to unseat the president of Romania?”
“He didn’t exactly come from nowhere. His businesses were built on Stonagal financing. And Carpathia has been a disarmament crusader, very popular with his colleagues and the people.”
“But disarmament doesn’t fit with Stonagal. Isn’t he a closet hawk?”
Plank nodded.
“So there are mysteries.”
“Some, but, Buck, what could be bigger than the story you’re on? You haven’t got time to fool with a guy who becomes president of a nonstrategic country.”
“There’s something there, though, Steve. My guy in London tips me off. Carpathia’s tied in with the most influential nonpolitician in the world. He goes from lower house to president without a popular election.”
“And—”
“There’s more? Which side of this argument are you on? Did he have the sitting president killed or something?”
“Interesting you should say that, because the only wrinkle in Carpathia’s history is some rumors that he was ruthless with his business competition years ago.”
“How ruthless?”
“People took dirt naps.”
“Ooh, Steve, you talk just like a mobster.”
“And listen, the previous president stepped down for Carpathia. Insisted on his installation.”
“And you say there’s no story here?”
“This is like the old South American coups, Buck. A new one every week. Big deal. So Carpathia’
s beholden to Stonagal. All that means is that Stonagal will have free rein in the financial world of an Eastern European country that thinks the best thing that ever happened to it was the destruction of Russia.”
“But, Steve, this is like a freshman congressman becoming president of the United States in an off-election year, no vote, president steps aside, and everybody’s happy.”
“No, no, no, big difference. We’re talking Romania here, Buck. Romania. Nonstrategic, scant gross national product, never invaded anybody, never anyone’s strategic ally. There’s nothing there but low-level internal politics.”
“It still smells major to me,” Buck said. “Rosenzweig was high on this guy, and he’s an astute observer. Now Carpathia’s coming to speak at the U.N. What next?”
“You forget he was coming to the U.N. before he became president of Romania.”
“That’s another puzzle. He was a nobody.”
“He’s a new name and face in disarmament. He gets his season in the sun, his fifteen minutes of fame. Trust me, you’re not going to hear of him again.”
“Stonagal had to be behind the U.N. gig, too,” Buck said. “You know Diamond John is a personal friend of our ambassador.”
“Stonagal is a personal friend of every elected official from the president to the mayors of most medium-sized cities, Buck. So what? He knows how to play the game. He reminds me of old Joe Kennedy or one of the Rockefellers, all right? What’s your point?”
“Just that Carpathia is speaking at the U.N. on Stonagal’s influence.”
“Probably. So what?”
“He’s up to something.”
“Stonagal’s always up to something, keeping the skids greased for one of his projects. OK, so he gets a businessman into Romanian politics, maybe even gets him installed as president. Who knows, maybe he even got him his little audience with Rosenzweig, which never amounted to anything. Now he gets Carpathia a little international exposure. That happens all the time because of guys like Stonagal. Would you rather chase this nonstory than tie together a cover piece that tries to make sense of the most monumental and tragic phenomenon in the history of the world?”
“Hmm, let me think about that,” Buck said, smiling, as Plank punched him.
“Man, you can sure chase rabbit trails,” the executive editor said.
“You used to like my instincts.”
“I still do, but you’re a little sleep-deprived right now.”
“I’m definitely not going to London? Because I’ve got to tell my guy.”
“Marge tried to reach the guy who was supposed to meet your plane. She can tell you how to get through and all that. But be back here by eight. I’m bringing in the department editors interested in the various international meetings coming here this month. You’re going to be tying that coverage together, so—”
“So they can all hate me in the same meeting?” Buck said.
“They’ll feel important.”
“But is it important? You want me to ignore Carpathia, but you’re going to complicate my life with, what was it, an ecumenical religious convention and a one-world-currency confab?”
“You are short on sleep, aren’t you, Buck? This is why I’m still your boss. Don’t you get it? Yes, I want coordination and I want a well-written piece. But think about it. This gives you automatic entrée to all these dignitaries. We’re talking Jewish Nationalist leaders interested in one world government—”
“Unlikely and hardly compelling.”
“—Orthodox Jews from all over the world looking at rebuilding the temple, or some such—”
“I’m being overrun by Jews.”
“—international monetarists setting the stage for one world currency—”
“Also unlikely.”
“But this will let you keep an eye on your favorite power broker—”
“Stonagal.”
“Right, and heads of various religious groups looking to cooperate internationally.”
“Bore me to death, why don’t you? These people are discussing impossibilities. Since when have religious groups been able to get along?”
“You’re still not getting it, Buck. You’re going to have access to all these people—religious, monied, political—while trying to write a piece about what happened and why it happened. You can get the thinking of the greatest minds from the most diverse viewpoints.”
Buck shrugged in surrender. “You’ve got a point. I still say our department editors are going to resent me.”
“There’s something to be said for consistency.”
“I still want to try to get to Carpathia.”
“That won’t be hard. He’s already a media darling in Europe. Eager to talk.”
“And Stonagal.”
“You know he never talks to the press, Buck.”
“I like a challenge.”
“Go home and take a load off. See you at eight.”
Marge Potter was preparing to leave as Buck approached. “Oh yes,” Marge said, setting down her stuff and flipping through her notebook. “I tried Dirk Burton several times. Got through once to his voice mail and left him your message. Received no confirmation. OK?”
“Thanks.”
Buck wasn’t sure he’d be able to rest at home with everything flying through his brain. He was pleasantly surprised when he reached street level to find that representatives of various cab companies were posted outside office buildings, directing people to cabs that could reach certain areas via circuitous routes. For premium fares, of course. For thirty dollars, in a shared cab, Buck was let off two blocks from his apartment. In three hours he would have to be back at the office, so he made arrangements with the cabbie to meet him at the same spot at seven forty-five. That, he decided, would be a miracle. With all the cabs in New York, he had never before had to make such an arrangement, and to his knowledge had never even seen the same cabbie twice.
Rayford was pacing, miserable. He came to the painful realization that this was the worst season of his life. He had never even come close before. His parents had been older than those of his peers. When they had died within two years of each other, it had been a relief. They were not well, not lucid. He loved them and they were no burden, but they had virtually died to him years before, due to strokes and other ailments. When they did pass, Rayford had grieved in a way, but mostly he was just sentimental about them. He had good memories, he appreciated the kindness and sympathy he received at their funerals, and he got on with his life. Whatever tears he shed were not from remorse or heartache. He felt primarily nostalgic and melancholy.
The rest of his life had been without complication or pain. Becoming a pilot was akin to rising to any other highly paid professional level. You had to be intelligent and disciplined, accomplished. He came through the ranks in the usual way—military-reserve duty, small planes, then bigger ones, then jets and fighters. Finally he had reached the pinnacle.
He had met Irene in Reserve Officer Training Corps in college. She had been an army brat who had never rebelled. Many of her chums had turned their backs on military life and didn’t even want to own up to it. Her father had been killed in battle and her mother married another military man, so Irene had seen or lived on nearly every army base in the United States.
They were married when Rayford was a senior in college and Irene a sophomore. She dropped out when he went into the military, and everything had been on schedule since. They had Chloe during their first year of marriage but, due to complications, waited another eight years for Ray Jr. Rayford was thrilled with both children, but he had to admit he had longed for a namesake boy.
Unfortunately, Raymie came along during a bleak period for Rayford. He was thirty and feeling older, and he didn’t enjoy having a pregnant wife. Many people thought, because of his premature but not unattractive gray hair, that he was older, and so he endured the jokes about being an old father. It was a particularly difficult pregnancy for Irene, and Raymie was a couple of weeks late. Chloe was a spirited
eight-year-old, so Rayford disengaged as much as possible.
Irene, he believed, slipped into at least some mild depression during that time and was short tempered with him and weepy. At work Rayford was in charge, listened to, and admired. He had been rated for the biggest, latest, and most sophisticated planes in the Pan-Continental stable. His work life was going swimmingly; he didn’t enjoy going home.
He had drunk more during that period than ever before or since, and the marriage had gone through its most trying time. He was frequently late getting home and at times even fibbed about his schedule so he could leave a day early or come back a day late. Irene accused him of all manner of affairs, and because she was wrong, he denied them with great vigor and, he felt, justified anger.
The truth was, he was hoping for and angling for just what she was charging. What frustrated him so was that, despite his looks and bearing, it just wasn’t in him to pull it off. He didn’t have the moves, the patter, the style. A flight attendant had once called him a hunk, but he felt like a geek, an egghead. Sure, he had access to any woman with a price, but that was beneath him. While he toyed with and hoped for an old-fashioned affair, he somehow couldn’t bring himself to stoop to something as tawdry as paying for sex.
Had Irene known how hard he was trying to be unfaithful, she would have left him. As it was, he had indulged in that make-out session at the Christmas party before Raymie was born, but he was so inebriated he could hardly remember it.
The guilt and nearly spoiling his image straightened him up and made him cut down on his drinking. Seeing Raymie born sobered him even more. It was time to grow up and take as much responsibility as a husband and father as he did as a pilot.
But now, as Rayford ran all those memories through his throbbing head, he felt the deepest regret and remorse a man can feel. He felt like a failure. He was so unworthy of Irene. Somehow he knew now, though he had never allowed himself to consider it before, that she couldn’t in any way have been as naive or stupid as he had hoped and imagined. She had to have known how vapid he was, how shallow, and yes, cheap. And yet she had stayed by him, loved him, fought to keep the marriage together.
