Headwind

by John J. Nance

  “Point nine from the end, way above glide slope, speed one ninety, we’re one thousand two hundred.”

  “Dumping it! Flaps thirty!”

  Alastair complied, his left hand moving the lever almost instantly.

  “Flaps are coming through fifteen on the way to thirty. Half mile, Craig, eight hundred feet, two thousand feet per minute down and one eighty on the speed.”

  “Call the glide slope when you see it! We’ll intercept it from above.”

  “Sink two thousand, quarter mile out, four hundred feet, speed one seventy-five.”

  “I’m gonna hold the sink rate until I see it!”

  “Sink two thousand, three hundred feet, speed one seventy-five. Remember the hydraulics may die! Don’t wait too long to pull!”

  A galaxy of fuzzy lights swam into view just ahead, coming up at them fast as Craig began hauling back on the yoke.

  “Sink twelve hundred, two hundred feet, speed one sixty. PULL, CRAIG!”

  Craig yanked the yoke almost back in his lap, feeling the nose coming up but with greater sluggishness each passing second as the airspeed slowed the turning of the engines and the hydraulic pressure bled away.

  “One hundred feet! Sinking too fast!” Alastair said, the runway under them now but the sink rate still excessive.

  Craig had unfolded the manual handle on the pitch trim on his side, as had Alastair, and suddenly they were both rotating the wheel backwards at a blinding rate to the nose-up position. They felt the nose respond at the last second as the 737 settled into ground effect, killing off the remainder of the sink rate as the tires kissed perfectly onto the surface with a moderate plunk.

  “Reverse it! Rotate nose down!” Craig barked as Alastair complied, both of them cranking the pitch trim in the opposite direction, lowering the nosewheel to the runway.

  “Brakes, Craig!” Alastair called as Craig’s right hand left the manual trim and yanked the speed brake handle back, momentarily startled to find it already deployed. He’d forgotten.

  There was only emergency brake pressure now to stop them. The normal antiskid protection had died with the electrical system, leaving only the glow of the battery-powered flight instruments on Craig’s side as the runway lights flashed by. “Airspeed one hundred twenty, Craig!”

  If he pressed the brake pedals too hard, he’d blow the tires and doom them to run off the far end of the runway.

  There were red lights visible now through the mist marking the end of the runway several thousand feet ahead. They were coming fast. Craig metered the braking, feeling the disks grab, slowing them as he used the same rudder pedals to steer between the gradually slowing blur of runway lights.

  “Ninety knots!” Alastair called out. “Eighty . . . seventy . . .”

  The end-of-the-runway red lights loomed closer.

  The brakes felt mushy, as if they were fading, and possibly overheating.

  “Fifty knots, forty!” Alastair called as Craig pressed harder on the brakes, gambling against a blown tire.

  The red lights were just ahead as Alastair called them through 20 knots. Craig jammed on the remaining brakes, feeling the 737 shudder and skid to a halt just as the red lights slowed and disappeared beneath the nose.

  For perhaps thirty seconds the two pilots sat in shocked silence, barely daring to believe they were alive and intact.

  Alastair reached for the transmit button, relying on the battery power for the remaining radio.

  “Galway Approach, Ten-Twenty is down safely at . . . wherever this is. Thank you, sir.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” the controller said, emotion overwhelming the cool professionalism that had marked his previous transmissions. “Now I can restart me heart. Well done, lads!”

  The Four Courts, Dublin, Ireland

  Mr. Justice O’Connell had reclaimed his seat on the bench and taken the time to make several notes as he composed his response, then looked up.

  “Very well. I find the videotape evidence as submitted here today to be inadmissible in the extreme due to the inability of Mr. Campbell to override the evidence that it was faked. We are essentially back precisely where we were two hours ago when this hearing began. And so, Mr. Campbell, I turn to you with one question, sir. Have you any evidence to present to this court to support the Peruvian Interpol warrant, or the application for extradition, other than the fact that it was issued by a Peruvian court of competent jurisdiction?”

  Stuart Campbell got to his feet slowly and cleared his throat, his eyes on the papers before him until he looked up at the judge.

  “My Lord, without the efficacy of that videotape, I possess no such supporting evidence. And, I should like to state that I anticipate I will need to take instructions from my client, and that possibly, in due course, an application may need to be made on behalf of my instructing solicitor to come off the record.”

  Jay leaned forward to whisper in Michael’s ear. “What the heck does that mean?”

  Michael scratched the answer on his legal pad. “It means he’s about to dump Peru as a client and get out of this.”

  “I will not ask your grounds, Mr. Campbell,” O’Connell answered. “I believe they’re all too obvious. So noted. And, for want of sufficient supporting evidence to sustain this request against the challenge of the defendant, the warrant is quashed in the Republic of Ireland, and the motion to extradite is denied.”

  This time the gavel came down with finality.

  EPILOGUE

  Dublin International Airport, Ireland—Thursday—3:20 P.M.

  Jay slid the door of the Parc Aviation van open and stepped onto the ramp, preferring to wait by himself for the EuroAir 737, just now touching down.

  He glanced at his watch, which was showing 3:20 P.M., and wondered how pilots achieved the level of composure necessary to survive a near-death experience, then fly the airplane back to Dublin as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

  “They’ll probably strike a hero’s medal for us, and pin it on just before we’re executed,” Alastair had quipped by phone when Jay had reached them after the verdict.

  A blue and white Boeing 757 from Andrews Air Force Base in Washington sat on another hard stand several hundred yards to the south. Jay glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Secretary of State and his people were still inside a waiting limousine several hundred yards away.

  The 737 was coming up the taxiway toward the pre-appointed parking stand as a marshaller wearing an orange safety vest held up his arms to guide them in. Jay watched with his mind on Sherry. Her voice had been composed on the phone from Connemara, but he’d heard the residual tension as she talked and asked her about it.

  “I’m okay. I mean, we knew there was something wrong when the crew told us to put on our life jackets, but it was all right.”

  It was telling, Jay thought, that she responded to his news of the extraordinary events in court with a single “Good!” before returning to the subject of the pilots’ incredible performance.

  “They were magnificent,” she had said.

  “But they miscalculated their fuel, Sherry,” Jay had countered.

  “True, but they pulled it out. That’s the important thing. They got us here safely, even if my hair is now completely silver!”

  Only John Harris had seemed unaffected by the aeronautical drama, focusing instead on what had transpired in Mr. Justice O’Connell’s court.

  “A movie set of the Oval Office! I never thought of that, Jay,” he’d said. “I knew my words on that tape were false, but . . . even I would have sworn that was me on the screen in the Oval.”

  Jay pulled his attention back to the oncoming 737. The EuroAir jet was turning onto the hard stand, the noise forcing his fingers in his ears. As soon as the pilots brought the craft to a halt and cut the engines, the internal airstairs began to descend.

  Jay walked toward the front entrance, waving to the attractive flight attendant who was standing in the doorway. She motioned to him to come aboard and he
bounded up the steps.

  Sherry was waiting at the top with a bear hug, and John Harris was right behind, his handshake progressing to a hug and a hand on Jay’s shoulder.

  “Well done, Jay! Very well done!”

  “Thank you, John, but . . .”

  “No ‘buts.’ You did it!”

  The pilots emerged from the cockpit, their faces reflecting the strain of the past few hours, as Matt Ward slipped into the doorway to scrutinize the ramp beyond, noting the approach of a limousine.

  “Joe Byer is here to greet you, too,” Jay said, as he ran a hand through his hair to control an unruly forelock. “He got the information to me just in time this morning about the U.N.’s findings . . . about Peru torturing political prisoners. And then he flew over here in time to help me prove we were dealing with an artificial set and actors, not you and the Oval Office. He’s been very helpful.”

  Matt Ward left the doorway and moved to the President’s side.

  “Secretary Byer and three others are on their way to the plane, Mr. President.”

  “See them in, please, Matt,” Harris responded, turning to the captain. “Craig? You remember when we were headed to Rome and I said I wanted to take you and your crew to dinner?”

  Craig Dayton looked cornered. “Ah, I think so, sir.”

  “Well, tonight’s the night, provided you’ll stay over.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President, but . . .”

  The President raised the palm of his hand. “No objections, Craig, I’ve got some work to do on your behalf, and it’ll be easier if you’re still here and I’m still paying for the charter.”

  Craig glanced at Alastair. “I’ll be real surprised, Mr. President, if they ever let us fly on EuroAir again, even as passengers.”

  “Give me a few hours,” John Harris said, “and we’ll see about that. By the way, I need that list of EuroAir personnel and phone numbers we talked about.”

  “Okay,” Craig managed, noting that the Secretary of State was already halfway up the stairs.

  “So,” John Harris said, “tonight we’re all going to debrief over the best food I can find in Dublin, and I’ve reserved rooms for everyone at the Shelbourne Hotel. No arguments. I’m buying.”

  He turned, then, extending his hand just as Joe Byer stepped through the entry door.

  The Shelbourne Hotel, St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin, Ireland

  With Matt Ward and Sherry Lincoln dispatched on various errands, John Harris had the two-room suite to himself, which was just what he wanted.

  A knock on the door came as expected, and he greeted the visitor with a correct handshake.

  “I thought it was time for some hatchet burying,” Harris said as he motioned the man toward the couch and sat in an opposite chair.

  “I agree,” William Stuart Campbell replied with a neutral expression.

  “We’ve never talked about the U.N. negotiations back in the eighties, Stuart, and . . . it occurred to me that I never explained or apologized for what happened.”

  “No,” Stuart said. “But I assumed you achieved exactly what you wanted to achieve.”

  John Harris shook his head. “I did not intend to kill your amendment.”

  “Then why did you do it? Just what was your intention?”

  John Harris studied the carpet for a few seconds before replying. “There you were in the limelight, Stuart, the engine behind the convention. Pearls of wisdom cascaded from your mouth with every speech. You’d done a masterful job of gathering the entire international community around you . . .”

  “And your client,” Stuart interrupted, “was determined to have you kill my offered amendment on sovereign immunity, the amendment that would have everyone in agreement that butchers like Pinochet could never hide behind the concept.”

  “I didn’t have a client, Stuart,” John Harris said.

  “What?” Stuart Campbell’s eyebrows came together. “But . . . you were there representing the Saudis . . .”

  “I was there representing myself. You only assumed I was representing the Saudis because you knew I’d been doing a lot of recent work for them.”

  “But . . . why, John? You convinced the entire Third World that I was somehow going to kidnap and try all their leaders when all I was trying to do was keep the true criminals from slipping away.”

  “I know.”

  “And . . . you believed, personally, that this was the right thing to do?”

  Harris shook his head slowly. “I wish I could claim noble purpose.”

  “But, why? You cost us a year of angst while Britain grappled with the archaic concept of sovereign immunity for that bloody bastard Pinochet!”

  “Was this personal, Stuart?” John Harris asked without warning. “This little action against me on Peru’s behalf?”

  “Personal?”

  “Did you take this case because I blocked you in New York?”

  Stuart looked at John Harris for several moments. “Yes and no.”

  Harris laughed. “The perfect lawyer’s answer! I overuse it myself.”

  Stuart was not laughing. “I didn’t create the opportunity, John. I was shown the tape by President Miraflores, and I believed it was real.”

  Harris nodded. “Well, even I was fooled. Not by the words, which I knew weren’t mine, but by the images.”

  “I chose to believe it was real,” Stuart continued, “because I thought it was the best of poetic justice.”

  “Poetic . . . ?”

  “Yes! Have you forgotten the other provision that went along with that amendment of mine regarding sovereign immunity?”

  “I . . . guess I have.”

  “It was a procedure, John, for quickly trying the evidence of an Interpol warrant in order to protect former presidents and prime ministers against frivolous actions. Each nation would be required to hold an immediate and honest hearing on whether the charges were backed by real evidence or not, and whether the complaining country was competent to hold a fair trial. In other words, John, precisely what you needed in this case.”

  “So, you thought . . .”

  “I thought, what a marvelous opportunity! John Harris, the high and mighty, is going to rue the day he killed that amendment.”

  “Did you know the charges were false?”

  “Of course not. Good heavens, man, I do have some standards!”

  “But . . . you were willing to send me to Lima?”

  “I knew it would never come to that, John. President Cavanaugh couldn’t permit it. I knew he’d intervene.”

  “Stuart, you’re not telling something here. You had an ace up your sleeve somewhere, because you had to know there was still a chance some judge would grant extradition and the Italian government would comply.”

  Campbell nodded. “Very well. I knew your legal team would eventually realize that with Peru failing all the tests for humane treatment of prisoners, you could hardly be sent there. And Reinhart did catch on . . . with a little help from your State Department.”

  John Harris studied the carpet and took a deep breath. “Well, Stuart, in the interest of full disclosure, what I did to block you at the U.N. was personal for me, too. Someone had to cut you down a notch.”

  Stuart Campbell looked startled. “Simple jealousy, then?”

  John Harris nodded. “When you take away all the justifications and excuses, yes. And I regretted it through every day of the Pinochet circus. And I humbly apologize to you now.”

  Stuart Campbell nodded his head slowly. “I accept your apology, John, and add one of my own.”

  They sat in silence for the better part of a minute before John Harris shook his head. “We’re quite a pair, huh, Stuart?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Two legal titans involving the world in our private little shoving contest. Like two brothers fighting on the street corner, blissfully unaware that we’re upsetting the neighbors.”

  For the first time, Campbell’s expression softened to a smile. “Yes, I suppose th
ere’s some truth to that. Our motivations were hardly pure and lofty.”

  Stuart Campbell let his gaze wander to the windows and the lengthening, reddening rays of the late afternoon sun, his thoughts soaring back to Scotland and his own boyhood, memories of the good battles of the brothers Campbell flashing in his mind. Harris’s analogy was closer to the truth than he wanted to admit.

  “John, have you ever given a speech to some important world function, and found yourself mentally standing in the wings watching yourself, and wondering why all those important people were listening to the likes of you, because, in your mind, you’re still a pimply-faced fifteen-year-old?”

  John Harris was nodding. “More times than I’ll ever admit.” He sat forward. “See, Stuart, when we strip away all the veneer and the fancy jargon and the cloak of noble purpose and official position, we are just a couple of overgrown boys doing a pretty good job of acting out our respective roles.”

  Stuart nodded. “Which is a pretty apt description of life in general.”

  The Commons Restaurant, Dublin

  From the moment Craig Dayton had walked into the restaurant, he’d tried to focus on enjoying the extraordinary company and the once-in-a-lifetime circumstance of dining with a grateful former world leader and a sitting cabinet secretary whom Harris had invited as well. That, coupled with Jillian sitting across from him looking incredibly beautiful in a shimmering white dress that traced and caressed the magnificent femininity of her body, gave him every reason to ignore whatever professional disaster tomorrow was going to bring.

  Or so he kept telling himself.

  But the effort was failing, and he could no longer hide his depression, so before the main course arrived, President Harris excused himself and asked Craig and Alastair to follow.

  He led them to a corner of an empty banquet room.