Patriot games - Tom Clancy [68]
Fine, Jack. Why not go back to living in caves and hunting bear with a pointed stick? What's natural about teaching history, or watching TV, or driving a car? Idiot.
But I hate to fly, Ryan reminded himself.
"There has never been an accident in the Concorde," Murray pointed out. "And Jimmy Owens's troops gave the bird a complete checkout." The possibility of a bomb on that pretty white bird was a real one. The explosives experts from C-13 had spent over an hour that morning making sure that nobody had done that, and now police dressed as British Airways ground crewmen stood around the airliner. Jack wasn't worried about a bomb. Dogs could find bombs.
"I know," Jack replied with a wan smile. "Just a basic lack of guts on my part."
"It's only lack of guts if you don't go, ace," Murray pointed out. He was surprised that Ryan was so nervous, though he concealed it well, the FBI agent thought. Murray enjoyed flying. An Air Force recruiter had almost convinced him to become a pilot, back in his college days.
No, it's lack of brains if I do, Jack told himself. You really are a wimp, another part of his brain informed him. Some Marine you turned out to be!
"When do we blast off. Daddy?" Sally asked.
" One o'clock," Cathy told her daughter. "Don't bother Daddy."
Blast off. Jack thought with a smile. Dammit, there is nothing to be afraid of and you know it! Ryan shook his head and sipped at his drink from the complimentary bar. He counted four security people in the lounge, all trying to look inconspicuous. Owens was taking no chances on Ryan's last day in England. The rest was up to British Airways. He wasn't even being billed for the extra cost. Ryan wondered if that was good luck or bad.
A disembodied female voice announced the flight. Jack finished off the drink and rose to his feet.
"Thanks for everything, Dan."
"Can we go now, Daddy?" Sally asked brightly. Cathy took her daughter's hand.
"Wait a minute!" Murray stooped down to Sally. "Don't I get a hug and a kiss?"
"Okay." Sally obliged with enthusiasm. "G'bye, Mr. M'ray."
"Take good care of our hero," the FBI man told Cathy.
"He'll be all right," she assured him.
"Enjoy the football, ace!" Murray nearly crushed Jack's hand. That's the one thing I really miss."
"I can send you tapes."
"It's not the same. Back to teaching history, eh?"
"That's what I do," Ryan said.
"We'll see," Murray observed cryptically. "How the hell do you walk with that thing on?"
"Badly," Ryan chuckled. "I think the doc installed some lead weights, or maybe he left some tools in there by mistake. Well, here we are." They reached the entrance to the Jetway.
"Break a leg." Murray smiled and moved off.
"Welcome aboard. Sir John," a flight attendant said. "We have you in 1-D. Have you flown Concorde before?"
"No." It was all Jack could muster. Ahead of him, Cathy turned and grinned. The tunnel-like Jetway looked like the entrance to the grave.
"Well, you are in for the thrill of your life!" the stewardess assured him.
Thanks a lot! Ryan nearly choked at the outrage, and remembered that he couldn't strangle her with one hand. Then he laughed. There wasn't anything else to do.
He had to duck to avoid crunching his head at the door. It was tiny inside; the cabin was only eight or nine feet across. He looked forward quickly and saw the flight crew in impossibly tight quarters- getting into the pilot's left seat must have been like putting on a boot, it seemed so cramped. Another attendant was hanging up coats. He had to wait until she saw him, and walked sideways, his plaster-encased arm leading the way into the passenger cabin.
"Right here," his personal guide said.
Jack got into the right-side window seat in the front row. Cathy and Sally were already in their seats on the other side. Jack's cast stuck well over seat 1-C. No one could have sat there. It was just as well that British Airways wasn't charging the difference between this and their L-1011 tickets; there would have been an extra seat charge. He