“I made calls. The closest field office is Boston. Well over five
hours away. And in this weather? Who knows? There are small resident
agencies in Portland and Augusta. I’ve left messages, but I haven’t
heard back yet. The state police might be a possibility, although
they’ve probably got their hands full with traffic accidents.”
“Shit!” Sawyer shook his head in despair and drummed his fingers
impatiently on the table. “A plane’s the only way. There’s got to be
someone willing to fly in this crap.”
Ray shook his head. “Maybe a fighter pilot. Know any?” he asked
sarcastically.
Sawyer jumped up. “! sure as hell do.”
The black van pulled to a stop near a small hangar at the Manassas
county airport. The snow was falling so hard that it was difficult to
see more than a few inches ahead. A half dozen black-clad members of
the heavily armed Hostage Rescue Team, each carrying assault rifles,
followed by Sawyer and Jackson, filed out rapidly and ran toward the
plane that awaited them on the tarmac, engines running.
The agents quickly boarded the Saab turboprop. Sawyer settled in next
to the pilot while Jackson and the HRT members strapped themselves in
the rear seats.
“I was hoping to see you again before this was over, Lee,” George Kaplan
shouted over the noise of the engines, and smiled at the big man.
“Hell, I don’t forget my friends, George. Besides, you’re the only
sonofabitch I know crazy enough to fly in this.” Sawyer looked out the
windshield of the Saab. Staring back at him was a blanket of white. He
looked over at Kaplan, who was working the controls as the plane taxied
to the runway. A bulldozer had just finished clearing the short strip
of tarmac, but the runway was rapidly being covered again. No other
planes were operating because officially the airport was closed. All
sane people had heeded that edict.
In the back, Ray Jackson rolled his eyes and gripped the seat as he
stared through the window at the near-whiteout conditions. He looked at
one of the HRT members. “We’re all crazy; you know that, don’t you?”
Sawyer turned around in his seat and grinned. “Hey, Ray, you know you
can stay here. I can tell you about all the fun when I get back.”
“Then who the hell would look after your sorry ass?” Jackson shot back.
Sawyer chuckled and turned back around to look at Kaplan. The agent’s
smile was replaced with a sudden look of apprehension. “You gonna be
able to get this baby off the ground?” Sawyer asked.
Kaplan grinned. “Try flying through napalm for a living.”
Sawyer managed a weak smile, but he also noted how focused Kaplan was on
the controls, how he continually looked at the driving snow. Finally
Sawyer’s eyes came to rest on the throbbing vein located on the NTSB
man’s right temple. Sawyer let out a deep breath, hitched his safety
belt as tight as he could and held on to his seat with both hands as
Kaplan pushed the throttle forward. The plane rapidly gathered speed,
bumping and swaying along the snowy runway. Sawyer stared ahead. The
plane’s headlights illuminated a dirt field that signaled the end of the
airstrip; it hurtled toward them. As the plane struggled against the
snow and wind, Sawyer again looked over at Kaplan. The pilot’s eyes
constantly scanned ahead and then skipped briefly across his instrument
panel.
When Sawyer looked back ahead, his stomach went into his throat.
They were at the end of the runway. The Saab’s twin engines were at
their loudest pitch. It didn’t look as if it was going to be enough.
In the back, Ray Jackson and all the HRT members simultaneously closed
their eyes. A silent prayer escaped Ray Jackson’s lips as he thought
back to another dirt field where a plane had ended its existence along
with that of everyone on board. Suddenly the nose of the plane jerked
skyward and it lifted off the ground. A grinning Kaplan looked over at
Sawyer, who was two shades paler than he had been a minute before. “See,
I told you it would be easy.”
As they rose steadily through the skies, Sawyer touched Kaplan’s sleeve.