Clear and Present Danger

"Oh, great." Larson walked back to his aircraft and climbed up on the wing to open his fuel caps. He had to wait fifteen minutes. The helicopter usually drank fuel through a far larger hose. When the crewman took the hose back, the chopper's rotor started turning again. Soon after that, it lifted off into the night. There was lightning ahead to the north, and Larson was just as happy that he wasn't flying there. He let Clark handle the fueling while he went inside to make a telephone call. The funny part was that he'd even make money off the deal. Except that there was nothing funny about anything that had happened during the preceding month.

"Okay," PJ said into the intercom. "That's the last pit stop, and we're heading for home."

"Engine temps aren't all that great," Willis said. The T-64-GE-7 engines were designed to burn aviation kerosene, not the more volatile and dangerous high-octane gas used by private planes. The manufacturer's warranty said that you could use that fuel for thirty hours before the burner cans were crisped down to ashes, but the warranty didn't say anything about bad valve springs and P3 loss.

"Looks like we're going to cool 'em down just fine," the colonel said, nodding at the weather ahead.

"Thinking positive again, are we, Colonel?" Willis said as coolly as he could manage. It wasn't just a thunderstorm there, it was a hurricane that stood between them and Panama. On the whole, it was something scarier than being shot at. You couldn't shoot back at a storm.

"CLAW, this is CAESAR, over," Johns called on his radio.

"I read you, CAESAR."

"How's the weather ahead look?"

"Bad, sir. Recommend that you head west, find a spot to climb over, and try to approach from the Pacific side."

Willis scanned the navigational display. "Uh-uh."

"CLAW, we just gained about five-kay pounds in weight. We, uh, looks like we need another way."

"Sir, the storm is moving west at fifteen knots, and your course to Panama takes you into the lower-right quadrant."

Headwinds all the way , PJ told himself.

"Give me a number."

"Estimated peak winds on your course home are seven-zero knots."

"Great!" Willis observed. "That makes us marginal for Panama, sir. Very damned marginal."

Johns nodded. The winds were bad enough. The rain that came with them would greatly reduce engine efficiency. His flight range might be less than half of what it should be... no way he could tank in the storm... the smart move would be to find a place to land and stay there, but he couldn't do that either... Johns keyed his radio yet again.

"CLAW, this is CAESAR. We are heading for Alternate One."

"Are you out of your skull?" Francie Montaigne replied.

"I don't like it, sir," Willis said.

"Fine. You can testify to that effect someday. It's only a hundred miles off the coast, and if it doesn't work, we'll use the winds to slingshot us around. CLAW, I need a position check on Alternate One."

"You crazy fucker," Montaigne breathed. To her communications people: "Call up Alternate One. I need a position check and I need it now."

Murray was not having any fun at all. Though Adele wasn't really a major hurricane, Wegener had told him, it was more than he had ever expected to see. The seas had been forty feet, and though once Panache had looked like a white steel cliff alongside the dock, she now rode like a child's toy in a bathtub. The FBI agent had a scopolamine patch stuck to his head below and behind his ear to combat motion-sickness, but it wasn't fighting hard enough at the moment. But Wegener was just sitting in his bridge chair, smoking his pipe like the Old Man of the Sea while Murray held on to the grab-bar over his head, feeling like the man on the flying trapeze.

They were not in their programmed position. Wegener had explained to his visitor that there was only one place they could be. It moved, but that's where they had to be, and Murray was distantly thankful that the seas weren't quite as bad as they had been. He worked his way over to the door and looked out at the towering cylinder of cloud.

" Panache , this is CLAW, over," the speaker said. Wegener rose to take the mike.

"CLAW, this is Panache . Your signal is weak but readable, over."

"Position check, over."

Wegener gave it to the pilot, who sounded like a girl, he thought. Christ, they were everywhere now.

"CAESAR is inbound yours."

"Roger. Please advise CAESAR that conditions are below margins. I say again, it is not good down here at the moment.":

"Roger, copy. Stand by." The voice came back two minutes later. " Panache , this is CLAW. CAESAR says he wants to try it. If he can't do it, he plans to HIFR. Can you handle that, over."

"That's affirmative, we can sure as hell try. Give me an ETA, over."

"Estimate six-zero minutes."

"Roger, we'll be ready. Keep us posted. Out." Wegener looked across his bridge. "Miss Walters, I have the conn. I want chiefs Oreza and Riley on the bridge, now."