Shit, he thought, this Hans is a tough act to follow. Flinging open the door, he pulled out the pilot, a chubby American with a baseball cap that said “I’d Rather Be Flying!” He staggered back in shock as the two mud-encrusted pirates piled into his plane. “Hey,” the man called, but he made no effort to stop them. The look in Peter’s eves was too wild, and besides the damn plane was a rental. In the cockpit, Peter stared dumbfounded at the bewildering array of instruments and levers. “Let’s go!” Elizabeth screamed. Now two Humvees were bearing down on them at full speed. “What do I do?”
“Pull that!” she yelled, pointing at the throttle. Peter pulled it: with an ungodly roar, the aircraft lurched forward, rapidly gaining velocity. Peter tried to steer the control yoke as if he were driving a car-which had absolutely no effect. He had a blind-ing glimpse of the obvious, realizing airplanes must not steer like that, but he was damned if he knew how they did. In fact, the plane began to veer off the runway. But even as panic raced through his veins, his feet found the rudder pedals and skillfully tapped their individual brakes so that the plane pivoted smartly back onto the runway and was able to speed forward faster and faster, engine whining. “Are you sure I, um, know how to fly?” he yelled back at her. “Don’t kid around, Hans, or whoever the hell you are. I don’t know what’s happened to your head, but Hans could fly a plane like this with his eyes closed, so stop thinking and just do it!” He obeyed. Switching off his thoughts, his left hand pulled back gently on the control column and the airplane lifted into the air. He looked down and back in amazement. The runway was already a distant ribbon, the vehicles of their pursuers toy cars. “Job well done,” said Elizabeth.
The blood surged in his skull. Floral patterns swam behind his eyes. He yielded to the madness. “Good job, Peter,” he said to himself.
And thanked God for Hans.
14
Puerto Rico was less than ten miles from Vieques, that much Peter knew. What he didn’t know was what it looked like from the air, at night, among the countless pinpricks of light emanating from boats, stars, houses and businesses on the hundreds of islands and cays dotting the region. “My understanding of aerodynamics is limited to theory,” he said, with an air of lunatic calm, “but I’d say we’re gaining altitude.” “We’re diving! Pull up!”
He was shocked at her lack of restraint in criticism. Beatrice could be opinionated, but she showed it in more subtle ways. This Elizabeth just said what she thought. “I’m sure that would be a mistake,” he said, trying to calm her. “You see, we’re over warm waters so we’re almost certainly climbing in thermal updrafts.” “Then why can I see waves!” she shouted. He looked closer and then he could see them, too, coming up fast. “Damn,” he said, wondering how you made an aircraft ascend. “Pull up!”
As combing waves loomed in their windscreen, his mind went blank and his hands immediately hauled back on the steering column. The plane clipped the top of a breaker with its wheels, then sucked itself up into a steep climb. A loud horn sounded in the cabin. What’s that?” he asked.
“Stall warning, I think. Level off a little!” “I don’t think I-”
“Don’t think, just do it!”
He forced his mind blank, and his arms pushed forward, leveling the plane off smoothly. The horn went silent. His right hand found the throttle and added fuel, then, eerily on its own, trimmed flaps. “Well, look at that,” he marveled. Elizabeth’s eves were wide with terror. He watched his hand reach for the instrument panel, then hesitate. “1 wanted to use the radio,” he said, as though observing a bird dog go through field trials. “Habit,” Elizabeth said, through her teeth. “You always set the radios after takeoff. Doesn’t your memory tell you any of that?” “I… I’m afraid not.”
Without looking at him, she asked, “Why did you say your name was Peter?” “Because it is,” he said.
“That’s the name they gave you? Your new identity?” “Right,” he said, hoping that would suffice. Elizabeth looked out the side window, trying to sort it out. She wondered why she didn’t simply hate him. But she didn’t. Not yet, anyway. “I’ll tell you what 1 think,” she said. “I think you’ve had some kind of stroke.” “Yes, that’s more than possible,” he said, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. “Last night, when you came to see me, you had just been through one. “From swimming?” In a strange way it made sense. The vessels in his head were throbbing. Maybe… “You were numb, you couldn’t speak,” she said, trying to convince him of an easier reality. “And I bet that wasn’t the first time. You don’t remember who you are, who I am, and you’ve lost part of your higher cognitive skills, too, at least when it comes to flying.” “It’s coming back to me, Elizabeth,” he said. “Maybe I have suffered a few minor strokes.” It was true that he felt perilously close to one now. Maybe he did have a stroke. But he knew that the fear he was feeling was not because of a stroke. He reminded himself that he damn well never knew how to fly in the first place. “I remember most of it,” he lied, trying to bring some sense of cairn and safety into this madness, “Flying, I mean. See how well I’m doing?” She looked at him. trying to believe he was right. He did fly well when he needed to, it seemed. But the more complex procedures clearly left him baffled. “What are the coordinates of Puerto Rico?” Elizabeth challenged. He had no idea whatsoever. “It’s right over there,” he bluffed. “Experienced pilots don’t use coordinates.” He straightened up and tried to look like such a pilot. “Bullshit. Of course they do. You do-I’ve flown with you!” He felt himself tighten, jealous of his own body. Now his mind was veering in three directions and a fourth was no doubt in the offing. “I’m more of an instinctive pilot now,” he said, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her throw up her hands in exasperation. “What I could use at the moment, Elizabeth, is less criticism and more help. Are those lights down there islands or boats?” She peered down in frustration. “How should I know? They all look the same to me. The more important question is, which of those lights ahead are oncoming airplanes and not stars?” “Those are all stars. Let’s not get paranoid here,” he said. “We’re going to get through this, and then we’re-” His voice was drowned out by a Piper Seneca howling past so close that from the glow of its instrument panel they could see the startled pilot’s face, bathed in horror. Peter’s mind froze, but Hans’s body executed a superb evasive maneuver. The plane yowled into a steep diving turn and rolled out smooth as silk, wings level, trimmed perfectly As soon as Peter thought about what had nearly happened, he was piloting the plane terribly again. “Listen,” said Elizabeth, when her voice had returned, “we’ve got to at least stay in the air lanes.” “Right, okay.” He surmised an air lane must be some sort of avian highway. Except how do you see it? This was, he realized, like playing Russian roulette with three or four bullets in the cylinder. He took a deep breath. Better to get some of this out in the open. “Look,” he said. “I’m not a pilot.”
She looked at him. Obviously she believed that part rather easily, he thought. “I’m Peter and I’m not a pilot. I’m a physicist, and no, I’m not Hans’s evil twin. Well, maybe I am,” he allowed. Now she was staring at him like she thought he had simply gone mad. “You haven’t been involved with physics in twenty years. “Nothing I’m proud of, that’s for sure.
“You were an investment banker, yes or no?” Something tearful was coming into her voice. “I’ve never even balanced a checkbook,” he confessed. “Hans-”
“Peter. Doctor Peter Jance,” he added, sickening at the sound of his own name. And then, much lower, “Hans who, incidentally?” “Brinkman,” she said in shaken voice.
He wished he hadn’t asked. “I’m Peter Jance and I’m Hans Brinkman.” “Are you telling me you’re a multiple personality?” “It’s worse than that. The fact is,” he said gravely, relieved to be speaking the truth, “you’re considerably safer not knowing.” “Am I? You think I’m safe now, in a plane being flown by a nonpilot schizophrenic?” “You said they were trying to tie you up. That’s not field-manual procedure for assassination. The manual says stick and run. I think they were trying to kidnap you. She swallowed. She knew this part, at least, made sense. The guy could have killed her and hadn’t. “Why? Why would they want to kidnap me?” “I don’t know. Maybe to get me to come back.” “Back where?”