The Threat

“Hand you what? The fire extinguisher?” the pilot yelled, twisting in his seat. The copilot, who had the stick, glanced back too, eyebrows raised.

“No. No!” He didn’t dare look back at the agents. “The extraction tool.”

The colonel followed his finger to a steel crowbar-and-cutter on the bulkhead. “What do you need that for?”

Dan patted the satchel. “Fucking latch is jammed.”

He saw the marine’s lips purse as he took it in: who Dan was, what he was saying. “That’s not good.”

“No kidding. I got to get it open.”

“I heard that thing’s set so it goes off if you fuck with it.”

“I heard that one too,” Dan said. “But there’s nothing in here but a manual and a radio.”

The colonel unclipped the crash bar and poked it through to him. Dan tried to keep his body between the case and McKoy and Leigh. The less he had to explain, the better. There was professional pride involved, too.

For a second, as he put the bar to the latch, he wondered: Am I going off the deep end? Then he shrugged. If he couldn’t get it open, then it’d be time to go to general quarters. Though all he really had to do was have the pilot call back and explain the situation, and have Gunning meet them with the spare.

The latch was stout. Brass-coated steel, and hardened to boot. It was even difficult to get the tip of the crash bar in position. When he exerted force it slipped off suddenly, gouging a rip into the top grain leather.

“Shit,” he muttered. But the pry bar was hardened too, sharpened and tempered for getting jammed hatches open, not just briefcase latches.

The first latch popped, but it took all his strength. The second broke, leaving the catch jammed in the lock. But finally he got the lid open. He peered in, with the sun pouring through the window plastic lighting everything with perfect clarity.

Well, he thought. That was a lot of angst over nothing.

Everything was there. The black plastic of the radio case. The spare battery. The red plastic of the Decision Handbook. The Beretta, in its nylon holster. The other notebooks, with comm data and the rest of his essential knowledge.

He was closing it up when he froze.

He had the duty Beretta. Stuck into his belt. Where it had been since he took over from Upshaw.

There hadn’t been any pistol in the satchel he’d inventoried with her. He called back the picture, and saw it clear in his mind. No. The gun compartment had been empty.

So why were there suddenly two pistols?

Son of a bitch! He felt for the gun under his blouse. Making absolutely sure he wasn’t forgetting something. But there it was, steel-hard against the bone of his hip. Right where he’d wedged it when they were running through the Residence.

Yet here was another one. He pulled the holster out just to make sure there was a gun in it. Yep.

At his shoulder McKoy said in an unfriendly tone, “What are you doing?”

“Barney — I’m still trying to figure this out — but I think somebody switched satchels on me.”

“What are you talking about?”

The woman agent was unbuttoning her jacket, moving to put herself between him and the still obliviously arguing De Bari and Weatherfield. Dan said, glancing at her but speaking to the lead agent, “I’m seeing something funny here, Barn. I have a handgun in my belt already, from the aide I relieved, from the case she turned over to me. But here’s another one. The only thing I can think, somebody switched cases on me.”

“Why would they do that?” said the baby-faced agent. He was watching Dan narrowly. Flicking a warning glance at the woman.

“Look, relax. I’m not doing anything threatening. Here. Take it.” He held the holstered pistol out. McKoy hesitated, then shook his head. Dan thrust it back into the satchel’s fitted compartment. Then swung around and put the case on the sofa bench.

“What’s he doing?” the woman said. Her jacket was open, her hand within.

“I’m inventorying the PES,” Dan told her. “Making sure everything’s okay here.”

Both agents were standing now, between Dan and where the president, the secretary of defense, and the first lady sat. They swayed as the aircraft pitched. He cleared his throat, a little nervous, though he still didn’t think he had anything to be nervous about. He was more puzzled than anything else. He started lifting things out and lining them up on the seat. Red handbook. Black handbook. Another black handbook. Transceiver.

His fingers halted. The radio, with its handset and little stub UHF antenna, hadn’t come all the way out. A black wire led from it to the spare battery beneath. He blinked at it.

Beside him McKoy said, “Everything okay?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “Wait a minute.”

Then he understood, not wanting to, but comprehending nonetheless. And the knowledge felt like a rush of cold descending air.

He stood cradling the thing. Trying not to move anything else, to jiggle anything. Trying to think of some other way, any other way around it. But he couldn’t.

There’d never been any wires between the spare pack and the transceiver.