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“You let the fighter jets force you down at an airport,” the voice said. “Then once the Cessna is searched and found to be empty, they will think this was all just a mistake.”
“Brilliant,” Bennett said.
“That’s what I thought too,” the voice said before disconnecting.
THE ROBINSON HELICOPTER carrying Cabrillo and Adams passed over the rocky shoreline. Adams made a thumbs-up sign to Cabrillo, then turned on the microphone.
“Looks like we’ll live,” Adams said. “If we run out of fuel now, I can do an autorotation to the ground.”
“I hope that if it comes to that, you’ve been practicing.”
“I do a few every week,” Adams said, “just in case.”
The cloud cover was thickening the farther inland they flew. Every now and then the men could catch a glimpse of the snow-covered hills of Scotland below. Thirty seconds earlier, Cabrillo had caught a quick glimpse of the flashing taillight of the Cessna above.
“The jets should be out there now,” Cabrillo said as he reached for the satellite telephone and called Hanley.
THE OREGON WAS steaming south from the Faeroe Islands at full speed. Soon a decision would have to be made about whether to steam west along Scotland and Ireland or east between the Shetland Islands and the Orkneys into the North Sea. Hanley was watching the projections flash across the monitors when his telephone rang.
“What’s the status?” Cabrillo asked without preamble.
“Overholt had trouble getting the British jets scrambled,” Hanley said. “Last word was they just left Mindenhall. If they travel at Mach one-plus, they should reach you in a half hour, give or take.”
“We don’t have a half hour of fuel left,” Cabrillo said.
“I’m sorry, Juan,” Hanley said. “I dispatched the Challenger from Aberdeen to take up the pursuit until the fighters arrive. They can track the Cessna and call me with the information. We’re going to get this guy—don’t worry about that.”
“What about the yacht?”
“It steamed from the port in the Faeroe Islands ten minutes ago,” Hanley reported. “A U.S. guid
ed-missile frigate is on a course to intercept her out in the Atlantic.”
“Finally,” Cabrillo said, “some good news.”
Hanley was staring at the monitor that showed the position of the Cessna and the Robinson. At the same time, he was listening to the copilot of the Challenger giving an update over the radio speaker in the control room. The Challenger was picking up the two aircraft on their radar scope and closing quickly.
“The Cessna is just now flying over Inverness,” Hanley said. “The Challenger has him on their scope. How much fuel do you have left?”
Cabrillo spoke over the headset to Adams. “Can we make Inverness before we run out of fuel?”
“I think so,” Adams said, “we picked up a tailwind once we crossed onto land.”
“Enough to make Inverness,” Cabrillo said to Hanley.
Hanley was going to recommend that Cabrillo and Adams stop and refuel but he never had the chance. Right at that instant the copilot of the Challenger called in to report again. All of a sudden the Cessna was descending.
“Juan,” Hanley said quickly, “the Challenger just reported the Cessna is starting a descent.”
On the moving map aboard the Robinson, Inverness was only a few miles ahead.
“Where is he trying to land?” Cabrillo asked.
“It looks like Loch Ness, along the eastern side.”
“I’ll call you back,” Cabrillo said to Hanley before disconnecting.
The weather was turning worse and rain began running along the windshield of the Robinson in tiny streams. Adams turned up the fan on the defroster and stared at the fuel gauge apprehensively.
