THE CARGO PLANE BUMPED AND bounced along crappy air at twenty thousand feet as it made its way over the Atlantic.
Sam Wingo sat tethered to a canvas sling seat. It had proved impossible to obtain a ride on a commercial aircraft coming out of India. Once he had made his way to New Delhi, he had spent a day changing his appearance as much as possible and then had identification documents created with the new image on them in a back alley store full of computers and high-res printers. Still, making his way through airport security had been problematic. He had heard rumors on the street that there was an official search on for an American solider; it was believed that he might have sought refuge in Pakistan or India.
Well, he hadn’t been seeking refuge. He was trying to get the hell out.
After a day of trying every way he could think of to leave the country, an opportunity had presented itself. It had cost him some bribe money, but in Indian rupees the price was not bad. Thus, he was now sitting in his canvas sling seat trying to stop himself from being thrown into the sides of the fuselage and keep the little food in his belly from coming back up.
Nothing made sense right now. He didn’t know who had taken his cargo or why. He didn’t know what the U.S. government knew about it. He did know that they blamed him and that he would be arrested on the spot if they could only find him.
He didn’t know that he had just received an email on his phone, because he had turned it off when the cargo plane lifted into the air. The email would have no response from him. At least for the duration of the long flight.
All the hours in the air would give Wingo some time to think about what he would do once he got back to the States. His options were limited. He had no doubt his son was being watched. They might have intercepted his email to Tyler. Hell, they might have his kid detained somewhere. That thought ate at Wingo so badly, he thought he might go berserk at twenty thousand feet. This mission had been a cock-up from the get-go. He had been in the crosshairs from the very first and he wondered how he had never seen it coming.
His guilt would have been established by his decision not to come in as ordered by his superior. In their minds he was already court-martialed. They probably thought he had taken the cargo for himself. Well, part of him wished he had. He could use it right about now.
But he didn’t have it. Tim Simons from Nebraska did, whoever the hell that bastard really was. He was fairly certain his name wasn’t Tim, and he seriously doubted he was actually a Cornhusker.
Wingo knew he had to get into contact with his son at some point and explain what had happened. Then he had to get a line on the hijacked cargo. If he could recover it, then maybe he could save his reputation and avoid spending the rest of his life in a prison cell at the United States Disciplinary Barracks in Kansas.
As the plane received a hard jolt from the turbulent air outside and dropped about a hundred feet, Wingo also received a jolt of sanity to his mind.
Everything he had just envisioned doing was impossible. He would not be able to get anywhere near his son. He had no way to get a line on the cargo. It was probably worlds away by now, and he had no means to get to where it might be. For all he knew the police would be waiting for him when he landed in Atlanta.
And he would spend the rest of his life in prison.
He put a hand to his head, closed his eyes, and prayed. For a miracle.
“Nothing,” said Tyler.
He had been staring at the computer ever since he had sent an email to his dad. He had used a Gmail account set up by Michelle. While his dad wouldn’t recognize the account’s sender, Tyler had used their code to write the message. He hadn’t said much, though, in case others were somehow watching and had cracked the message.
He looked up at Michelle. They were at Sean’s house in northern Virginia. Sean and Michelle had decided it was too risky to let Tyler go back to his home to get his things, so they had driven directly here. Sean had left to go to Tyler’s house and pack him a bag.
Michelle had been constantly checking her watch for the last thirty minutes.
Tyler said, “You can call or email him.”
“No, then he’d think I was checking up on him.”
“But you would be.”
“Exactly. He can get prickly about that.”
It was dark outside now, and Tyler’s belly was rumbling.
Michelle must have heard it because she said, “I can whip up some dinner. Although I’m not much of a cook.”
“I can help,” replied Tyler.
“Wait a minute. Kathy told me that you can cook. That you taught her mom a few dishes, in fact.”
“I used to help my mom. She was a great cook.”
“I’m sure she was, Tyler,” said Michelle somberly. She brightened and said, “And for what it’s worth, when you get out into the real world the ladies will really appreciate that talent.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, trust me, I know so. There’s nothing more attractive than a man with a spatula and a plan.”