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“Mr. Overholt,” Hanley said, “we have a problem. Your friend Juan is probably on fumes by now—if we don’t get him some help soon we’re going to lose the meteorite once again. We’re doing our job here, but we need some backup.”
“I understand,” Overholt said, “let me see what I can do and I’ll call you back.”
The telephone went dead and Hanley stared at the map on the monitor in the control room. The blip from the radar image of the Cessna was just crossing over the shoreline. He began to dial.
“YES, SIR,” THE pilot of the Challenger 604 sitting in Aberdeen said. “We have been running the turbines every half hour to keep them warm. We can be off the ground as soon as we receive clearance.”
“The target has just reached land at Cape Wrath,” Hanley said, “so fly east first, then turn north. It appears his present course is toward Glasgow.”
“What do we do when we reach him?”
“Just follow him,” Hanley said, “until the British jets arrive.”
While Hanley and the pilot had been talking, the copilot had received clearance for takeoff. He motioned to the pilot.
“We just got clearance,” the pilot told Hanley, “is there anything else?”
“Keep an eye out for our chairman. He’s aboard the Robinson helicopter and he’s low on fuel.”
“We’ll do it, sir,” the pilot said as he advanced the throttles and began to taxi toward the runway.
A light mist wet the windshield of the Challenger as the pilot steered down the access road toward the main runway. From the looks of the clouds to the north, it was only going to get worse. Lining up on the runway, the pilot ran through his checks.
Then he advanced the throttles to the stops and raced down the runway.
JAMES BENNETT STARED at his fuel gauge with concern. He wouldn’t make Glasgow with the fuel onboard, so he adjusted his course slightly to port. Bennett’s plan was to stay over land in case he had to make an emergency landing, so he decided his new course would be south to Inverness then almost due east to Aberdeen. He’d be lucky if he reached the Scottish port. But Bennett was not a lucky man.
Just then his telephone rang.
“We have a problem,” the voice said. “We just intercepted a British communication stating they are scrambling a pair of fighter jets to intercept you. We have perhaps fifteen minutes until they reach you.”
Bennett glanced at his watch. “That is a problem,” he said quickly. “I’ve had to change course because of fuel. I can no longer make Glasgow like we’d planned. The best I can do is maybe Aberdeen—and I can’t reach there before the jets arrive.”
“Even if you had the chance to refuel in the Faeroes,” the voice said, “it now turns out that Glasgow would have been out because of the British fighters heading your way. What about the helicopter? Do you think he’s still following?”
“I haven’t seen him since I left,” Bennett said. “My guess is they turned back.”
“Good,” the voice said, “then my plan should work. Get out your chart.”
Bennett opened the chart showing Scotland. “Got it,” he said.
“Do you see Inverness?”
Bennett glanced at the chart. “Yep.”
“Right south of there, do you see the large lake?”
“You’re kidding,” Bennett said.
“Nope,” the voice said, “Loch Ness. Fly along the east side—we have a team on the ground in a truck. They are going to pop smoke so you can see them.”
Popping smoke was a military term for igniting smoke grenades to mark a position.
“Then what?” Bennett asked.
“Come in low and drop the cargo out the door,” the voice said. “They will retrieve it and bring it the rest of the way.”
“What about me?” Bennett asked.
