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Once clear, he gave Adams a thumbs-up sign and the Robinson lifted from the pad.
Within minutes the helicopter was back over London racing in the direction of Maidenhead. The distance was twenty-six miles and their arrival time was twelve minutes away.
THE PAIR OF pilots were still in the lounge at Global Air Cargo when the trucks pulled in front of the facility and slid to a stop. The 747 was sitting out front with the nose cone lifted in the air, awaiting loading. The rear ramp was also down to allow easy access. Hickman walked in a side door and found the pilots still watching the television.
“I’m Hal Hickman,” he said, “we brought the priority cargo.”
The head pilot rose and walked toward Hickman. “I’m honored to meet you, sir,” he said, extending his hand. “I’ve worked for you for years—it’s great to finally meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Hickman said, smiling. “Now, like I said over the phone, I have a priority cargo that needs to be on its way immediately. Are you ready?”
“We don’t have any loaders,” he said. “They won’t arrive for another hour—holidays and all have thrown a wrench in the works.”
“No problem,” Hickman said. “My men and I will drive the containers on board and secure them into place. Have you received clearances yet?”
“I can call and have them in a few minutes,” the pilot said.
“Do that,” Hickman said. “We’ll get the cargo aboard.”
Hickman walked back through the door and the pilot turned to the copilot. “Call for weather and plot the course. I think London over France across the Mediterranean and into Riyadh. That’s if the weather cooperates—if not, divert us as necessary.”
ONCE OUT OF the hangar again, Hickman picked up the gas mask he had left on the ground and placed it over his mouth and nose. The drivers had been briefed on the loading procedures, and as soon as Hickman motioned to them to start, the first drove his truck carrying the container from the front to the back of the 747. Stopping with his truck going down the rear ramp, the man unhooked the cable holding the container to the flatbed then slightly tilted the bed so the container rolled backward on the steel rollers built into the bed. He was pulling away from the rear of the 747 as the next driver backed under the nose cone and placed his container’s end to the one already at the rear of the plane. Sliding the container off the truck, he pulled out again. Turning away from the third truck, which was backed up waiting to enter, he pulled ahead and stopped.
The third truck backed in and started to unload as Hickman entered the 747 with the first driver. As they had practiced, the two men began to secure the containers to the floor with long canvas straps. One would attach the strap and pulley into slots built into railings on the floor, then toss the strap over the container to the other man, who attached it to the railing in the floor then winched the strap tight. One by one they attached three straps to each container.
The last driver was unhooked and pulling out of the 747 as they reached the container.
One, two, three and they were done.
Hickman walked out of the 747, motioned for the trucks to line up a distance away from the plane, then walked back toward the hangar.
“HERE ARE THE documents,” he said, handing a clipboard of declarations over to the pilot. “The containers are in and fastened down. We’re taking off.”
“How bad do you want to push this through, sir?” the copilot asked. “We have some weather over the Mediterranean that looks bad. It would be a lot safer if we could wait until morning to start out.”
“I need it there yesterday,” Hickman said.
“Okay,” the copilot said, “it’ll be a bumpy ride.”
Hickman turned and walked away. The copilot watched him heading for the door. There was something odd about the man, but it was not a bizarre personal appearance, as some of the pulp magazines claimed the elusive billionaire fostered. In all respects Hickman appeared quite nomal—ordinary, in fact. It was that tonight Hickman had a slight red ring shaped like a triangle with rounded sides around the area of his mouth.
The copilot brushed it off; he had a lot to get done and a short time to do it.
“PULL UP A detailed map,” Hanley ordered Stone.
The locators on the containers had stopped moving a few minutes ago. Hanley wanted to know where. Stone punched commands into the computer and waited as the screens loaded. Slowly homing in on the area that showed the beeping lights, he gradually reduced the maps down to smaller scale.
“Heathrow air cargo annex,” Stone said.
Hanley reached for the file Halpert had left and flipped through the sheets of paper. He remembered Hickman had a freight company. There it was. Global Air Cargo. Finding the telephone number of the hangar at Heathrow, he handed it to Stone.
“Call and see what you can find out,” he said quickly. “I’ll call Cabrillo.”
“THAT’S IT,” THE pilot said, “we’re cleared.”
The copilot gathered up his weather reports and the log book and started to follow the pilot to the door. They had opened the door and were headed out when the telephone started to ring.
“Leave it,” the pilot said as the copilot started to turn back, “I’ve got a flat to pay for.”
