by Bill Clem
"Well," Jonah said. "Looks like we picked a bad time to see Howie.
Normally, I would be in charge of handling the setting up of a temporary morgue to process all the bodies when they find the plane. Under the circumstances, though, I'd say I'm off the hook."
For several seconds, although Jonah was still talking, all Jack could hear was the blood rushing to his head. He was staring across the terminal at the passenger he'd seen on the bus. The man kept bringing his hand up to his mouth every few seconds, and then he'd look back at Jack.
Jack stood petrified. "I think we'd better get out of here, Jonah."
"Something wrong?"
"You see that guy over there," Jack motioned with a slight movement of his head.
By the time Jonah looked, a second man had joined the first. Now, both were glaring at Jack.
"I recognize the one on the left," Jonah said. "Let's go."
An airport baggage handler wheeled a fully stacked cart in front of Jack and Jonah. Ducking behind it, when it reached the glass door, they bolted for the parking lot. Jack looked back and the men seemed confused for a moment.
Then they spotted him, and were flying out of the terminal.
Jack heard loud shrieks behind him as the men flattened anyone in their path. Jack lost Jonah Bailey in the maze of cars and taxis in the parking lot.
A minute later, he found him leaning against a car gasping for breath.
"You know," Jonah said, "if we keep this up, I'm gonna be the one who needs a transplant."
* * *
Three floors above the parking lot, Howie Layton sat frozen in his chair.
"We'll tell you exactly what to say when the time comes."
"Who are you people?" Layton asked.
"That's not your business."
Layton bristled. "The hell it's not. I'm the dispatcher for this airport. I just lost a plane, and you people waltz in here and tell me to forget it. You must be crazy."
"Mr. Layton, is it? I work for the United States government. And what you need to know is that this is a matter of national security. It is in your best interest to do exactly as we tell you."
Denton Cogswell leaned in close to Layton's face, his eyes as black as a great white. "Do you understand?"
Layton cringed inwardly. He didn't know who these people were, but he felt sure he'd better cooperate if he wanted to see another day.
"Okay" he said.
Cogswell grinned. "Good. Now, here is what you are going to say."
Chapter Sixty-Two
On runway nine at Andrews Air Force Base, the jet with the designation of Air Force Two was standing by with engines already whining on idle when Ron Fletcher, along with two FBI escorts, and two Secret Service agents arrived.
Less than two-hours after the fax had arrived he'd been called to the White House and informed of the shocking document and its ramifications.
By that time, it had already been sent to Langley and authenticated. They'd concurred; it was unprecedented in modern history. "Congratulations, Speaker Fletcher, you are now acting President."
Now, as the big jet lumbered toward the runway, Fletcher could still hear the echo of the lawyers in the West Wing...
If, by reason of death, resignation, removal from office, inability, or failure to qualify, there is neither a President nor Vice President to discharge the powers and duties of the office of President, then the Speaker of the House of Representatives shall, upon his resignation as Speaker and a representative in Congress, act as President.
He chewed on his lip as he tried to assemble all the pieces in his mind.
The law gave him all the authority he needed to stop what had been put into action by misguided emotion and extreme political opportunism.
Now, he just needed to get there in time.
Chapter Sixty-Three
In the parking lot of Zurich International Airport, Jonah Bailey caught his breath and propped himself against an SUV. Jack looked out now and scanned the huge area behind them, expecting to see the three men running toward them, or a government vehicle. Oddly, he saw neither.
Jack suddenly felt hopeful they might have eluded them. Maybe they'd lost them in the crowd. Maybe they could get out of here!
Satisfied it was clear, he and Jonah moved back toward the main building, zigzagging between cars in an attempt to gain any advantage possible. There were at least four sets of eyes searching for them, and more were probably on their way.
Jack spotted a Mercedes truck marked: AIRPORT MAINTENANCE.
Hoping to find a set of keys in the ignition he yanked open the driver's side door. Shit. No luck. Then, Jack had an idea. The truck had a large panel between the front seat and rear tool compartment. Any driver would be unable to see in the back unless the rear doors were open. It was a long shot, but he liked a long shot better than four men with guns. He motioned to Jonah who was bent down behind a parked car.
Jonah scrambled over. "You're not thinking about--"
"It might be our only chance."
"Let's try the back doors."
Jack yanked on the lever and the doors sprung open. He was about to congratulate himself on his genius when a short man in a brown uniform approached the truck. With no time to think he dived headfirst into the panel compartment with Jonah right behind him. An oversize drop cloth with years of paint stains; lay crumpled up next to them. Jack grabbed it and threw it over them just as the doors opened.
A metallic thud sent a searing pain through Jack's legs, and at that instant, he realized the man had thrown his toolbox onto him. Jack fought back a cry of agony and rammed a handful of dropcloth into his mouth to silence his shock.
Jonah lay silent.
Jack's shinbone now throbbed like a bad root canal. The doors closed and he exhaled silently. In the darkness of the truck, the only sounds were the metallic clang of tools and the roar of the engine. When they came to a stop, it went quiet, and Jack heard the driver's door close. Footfalls got fainter, until the sound completely disappeared.
Jack threw the tarp off his head and spat out the taste of dried paint and thinner. Knowing the man could return at any second, he gently opened the latch on the door and peeked out. Ahead of him, another large parking lot was filled with more maintenance trucks. He could hear planes taking off nearby, and when he opened the door completely, an empty expanse of airport concourse loomed before him. He realized they were behind the main building of the airport. As he climbed out of the truck, a wave of jet exhaust stung his lungs and choked him. Jack looked around uneasily. A large set of steel doors fifty feet to the right said: LUFTSTANSA AIRLINES-MAINTAINANCE PERSONNEL ONLY. A guardhouse next to the doors was empty.
Jonah finally got out. He started to speak, but the deafening roar of a 747 taking off drowned his voice out. When the plane was gone he said, "We need to get in there."
Jack fought to ignore the unrelenting throbbing in his leg. "That set of steel doors over there."
"Good idea," Jonah said. "Let's make a run for the... or should I say, a fast walk," his heart still pounding from his last run.
Jack took one last look, then he and Jonah dashed for the steel doors. As they skidded to a stop in front of the entrance, Jack grabbed the knob, and it opened without resistance. Inside, it was pitch black and totally silent. They stood by the door for a moment and listened. The low hum of an electric motor was the only sound. Jack ran his hand along the wall, feeling for a light switch. He touched a steel box; felt it carefully. There were several large heavy-duty switches. He threw the first one.
Small overhead bulbs wrapped in wire came on one after the other. A long corridor stretched out before them on either side that seemed to be the bowels of the airport. It striated as far as Jack could see on both sides. Stacks of boxes and suitcases were stored in metal bins. Compared to the lobby, it was as oppressive as a tomb. The floor reeked of hydraulic fluid from the forklifts.
Then something else caught Jack's attention. "What's that smell?" he asked.
"I don't know," Jonah said. "Smells like--"
"Yea it is," Jack said. He pointed to a small bathroom behind him. The light cast a glow over the old porcelain toilet that obviously hadn't been flushed recently. It was filthy and had overflowed several times judging by the floor.
"Switzerland is not known for it's plumbing," Jonah said.
Jack made a face and shook his head. How different the infrastructure of the airline is from the image they portray to the public. He hoped the maintenance on their planes was better than their bathrooms.
"No wonder they're losing planes," he said, "they can't even flush a toilet."
Jonah waved a hand in front of his nose. "That's worse than some bodies I've autopsied."
Jack noticed a set of steps. "I wonder if we can get to your friend's office that way."
Jonah nodded. "It's worth a try."
The sound of an engine broke the silence and they bolted to the stairway.
A forklift whizzed by just as they closed the stair doors.
Climbing the first level of steps, they stopped at a metal landing. The door read: FOOD SERVICE in bold red letters. They continued up the next level, which was LOBBY and CHECK-IN. Finally, after the third flight they arrived on the administrative level.
"This is it," Jonah said.
He opened the door slightly and peeked out. He quickly shut it and put his back against it, arms outstretched, palms on the frame, as if he had fallen from the sky. "Holy Jesus, it's them."
"What?" Jack asked.
"It's them, four of them. Thank God they're headed in the other direction."
"What are they doing up here?"
Jonah shook his head "I don't know. I hope they haven't gotten to Howie."
"It's like they are always one step ahead of us."
Jonah's expression hardened. "Yea, well it's time we get one step ahead of them."
Chapter Sixty-Four
Ken Holland was jolted awake by the ring of his telephone. It was 6.00 P.M. and Holland was in a fitful sleep, still nursing a hangover from the previous night's binge. Holland was head investigator for the FAA's European branch located in Zurich.
He rolled over on one elbow, reached for the phone, knocked it to the floor, yanked it up by the cord and finally rested it on his ample gut.
"Hello."
"Ken. This is Frank Beard over at Zurich. We just lost a plane somewhere over the Alps near Pine Knoll. We think it was a private plane inbound from the Northeast United States, but we're waiting for conformation. Someone leaked to the press it was a commercial airliner. We know for sure it wasn't."
Holland's temples throbbed. His blood pressure was way beyond acceptable limits.
"All right, I'll be there in an hour or so," he said. He squeezed his neck muscles between his thumb and forefinger, attempting to quiet the pain.
Holland dropped the receiver in the cradle and swung his feet around on the side of his bed. He noticed they looked purpler today than usual, as if the two swollen appendages were competing with his nose for most discolored body part.
Holding on to his mattress for balance, he took a couple of deep breaths and stood up. His temples throbbed ever harder as if someone were squeezing a syringe full of boiling water behind his eyes. Why hadn't he retired when he had the chance? It had been six months since his last crash investigation, and he was not ready to deal with one now, especially with a hangover. After thirty-years of carnage to his credit, he was more than ready to quit. Perhaps this would be his last one?
He got to the refrigerator and found a beer and some V-8 juice, then mixed it into a foamy concoction that he drank straight down. He chased it with four aspirin and his blood pressure medicine. The floor went uneven on him and the room seemed to turn. The initial shock of the cold liquid only made his head throb harder, and for a moment he thought his carotid would blow out like some well-worn tire, exploding into shreds along the freeway.
Finally, a minute later, he had a reprieve in the pain long enough to make it to the shower. By the time he finished, he was alert enough to call his office and tell his assistant to meet him at Zurich International. He hung up the phone, got dressed, then grabbed a fresh beer on his way out the door.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Jonah looked out the door marked: ADMINISTRATION. Seeing it was clear, he motioned for Jack to follow. They hurried to Howie Layton's office and Jonah grabbed the door and burst in with Jack behind him. Layton jumped out of his chair, so pale; he could have passed for a mime.
"Jonah, my God you scared me to death. What are you doing here?"
I'm sorry to startle you, Howie, but we're being followed."
Layton threw his hands up. "What the hell is going on around here? I mean I'm sitting here in my office and all of a sudden a bunch of thugs' barge in here and start making threats. What's this all about?"
"I'll explain it all in a minute, but right now I have a friend who may be in danger from those very men. Do you have a car we can use?"
Layton nodded. "Sure, right outside, company vehicle."
Jonah looked at Jack. Why don't you go get Eva and bring her back here?
Meanwhile, Howie and I will figure this out."
"All right," Jack said. "I hope you can come up with something fast."
"Don't worry. Just get Eva."
Layton went to a small closet and pulled out a brown parka with a ZIA logo on it. While Jack changed into it, he brought out a brown cap with the sane logo.
"Better wear these," Layton said. "If anyone sees you, they'll think you're a maintenance worker."
Jonah looked at Jack in the ridiculous outfit and wondered if he was dreaming. Anything would make more sense than the truth. I'm a doctor, being chased by the CIA!
Layton directed Jack to the car, a white Volvo sedan parked in the maintenance lot. He came back into his office a minute later.
"All right, Jonah your friend is set. Now, what's the story?"
"I'm sorry to get you involved, but--"
"I was already involved. I don't know how or why, but I don't think it's because of anything you did."
Jonah looked at Layton and furrowed his brow. "I don't know about that.
All I can tell you is that guy you just sent out in your car is in some serious jeopardy, by no fault of his own. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And that may be the understatement of the century. Anyway, he has a friend who agreed to fly here from Michigan and get him."
"Did you say, Michigan?" Layton returned to his mime routine as the color drained from his face once again. "I hate to tell you this, Jonah, but we just lost a plane inbound from Michigan, less than two hours ago. I already have the FAA looking into it."
Jonah sank into his chair. "My God, man, you don't thin--"
"Those guys that were here earlier. They told me I had a script concerning the crash. I was not to say anything to anyone."
"I hate to tell you this," Jonah said, "but you and I, and especially, Jack, are caught in the middle of a very big government conspiracy."
"You think they have something to do with the plane's disappearance?"
Layton asked.
Jonah raised an eyebrow. "I'd bet my life on it."
"You just might have to, the way those guys were talking. Especially the older one. Called himself, Cogswell."
Jonah sighed. "Ah, of course, Cogswell. It's like he's in three places at one time."
"What are you planning to do?" Layton asked. "These people play for keeps."
"Since you told me about the plane, it puts things in a whole different light. The only way Jack is gonna be safe is to get him out of the country."
Layton's eyes twinkled. "There is a way. It won't be easy, but there is a way: the cargo hold."
"How's that? The cargo hold?" Jonah asked.
"If we can get him into a safe container and onto 747, we could arrange for someone to meet him in the states. Then get him out before anyone knows."
Jonah glanced up. "That sounds crazy."
"Hey, Jonah, you asked, and I'm telling you, it's the only safe way I can think of under the circumstances. This place is crawling with thugs who seem to be after you and your friend."
"I appreciate what you're saying. Can he survive eight-hours in a cargo container?"
"As long as we put some food and water in there for him, he'll be all right for seven or eight hours. I know because not long ago we had a stow-away on board a French Airbus. He had come all the way from Utah. He was a bit cold, but otherwise, he was fine."
"How soon can you arrange it?"
Layton's words came faster now. "It shouldn't take long, assuming we don't get another visit from Cogsworth or whatever his name is. I have to call my contact in the states to arrange the pickup. On this end, I have some loyal guys here I can trust. The next 747 cargo carrier leaves at eight tonight. We can hide him till then."
"Speaking of hiding, you have somewhere I can disappear to. I don't wanna be anywhere around if those suits come back."
Layton nodded. "Sure, follow me. I've got a special place I use when the stress here gets to be too much. No one knows about it except me."
Layton led Jonah up a small set of steps to a landing. A steel door that read: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY was directly in front of them. Stacks of boxes on either side concealed it, unless you were next to it. Layton produced a ring of keys and opened the door.
"Pretty clever," Jonah said. "Your own private fort."
Layton cracked a smile. "You'd be surprised how many times I've spent the night here. It's my home away from home."
When Layton told Jonah he had a place, Jonah had imagined a dark, damp room with some boxes to sit on, and little else. Instead, this room, about ten by eight, was carpeted in thick green shag, had a small cot with a feather blanket, and a portable television perched on a wooden table. A cooler-size refrigerator stood in the corner next to a table, set with a basket of snacks.
"Yea, kinda like the morgue and I," Jonah said. "Only I have company there."