Enigma (FBI Thriller #21)(11)
Cam looked at the six steps built into the door that led up into the belly of the little white death trap. She cleared her throat. “I’ve never flown in a single-engine before. It’s—very small. It’s got only one engine.”
“One good engine. Trust me, that makes all the difference. You get airsick?”
“Not on a reasonable-size plane, but this?” She looked at his beautiful baby and gave a convulsive swallow. “That one engine—good or not—it goes out and we’re toast.”
“Nah, I’m a glider pilot. I’d find somewhere flat to land. No worries. I was expecting you sooner. We have to move out now if we want to get to the national forest well before dark.” He saw her place one tentative foot on the bottom step, gulp, then take another slow step. He tried for a bit of distraction. “We’re dressed pretty much the same, partner. We could be twins if you weren’t a blonde.”
She looked him up and down. She wanted to ask him about his pilot’s license but decided he could take it the wrong way. She sucked it up, vaulted up the stairs, got right in his face, and tried for bravado. “Twins? Nah, I’d have kicked you out of our mom’s womb.”
He grinned. “I won’t crash us, I promise. I’ve been doing this a long time. Toss your backpack with mine in the back and come up front into the cockpit.” He pulled the clamshell door closed, secured it.
She wanted to tell him he wasn’t old enough to have that much experience. Was he counting flying toy planes when he was a kid? When she stuck her head in the cockpit, Jack pointed to the copilot’s seat. “Sit down, and I’ll seat-belt you in.” He handed her headphones. “Press this button and we can speak to each other.” He reached into the back again to make sure her backpack was secured.
Cam watched him ease into the pilot’s seat, a tight fit for a big man. He fastened his own harness and began flipping switches. She listened to him speak to the tower, a lot of numbers and letters, an alpha and a tango thrown in. The tower seemed okay with what he said, and answered back with some more garbled letters and numbers. Okay, he talked like he knew what he was doing, and the guy in the tower didn’t seem concerned. When they got clearance and began to taxi, Cam sucked in air and smoothed out her fists. He looked over at her, grinned. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, I promise; I’ll get you there without a problem.” Then he frowned. “Well, if we don’t get too much turbulence—just kidding, sorry,” he added, seeing her face go white.
They waited on the tarmac behind three small single-engine aircraft for their turn to shoot up into the sky in this oversize white coffin. Jack gave her another look, saw she was holding herself as stiff as a frozen pizza. “You’ll feel better once we’re airborne, trust me.” And then they were moving faster and faster on the runway, and the plane smoothly lifted into the sky. Cam’s breath whooshed out and he saw her lips move, imagined she was giving herself a pep talk. Or maybe she was praying.
As they slowly gained altitude, Jack said, “I guess if we get into trouble up here you won’t be taking over.”
“Trouble? What do you mean trouble? What kind of trouble?” Her voice came out in a croak, and she realized she sounded like a pathetic wuss. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Agent Cabot, it’s a perfect summer day, only an occasional billowy cloud in the sky to keep you from seeing where you’re going. So far I don’t see any SAM missiles below to shoot us down, no bows and arrows, either. So don’t disappoint my parents; get us there in one piece.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my pitiful best.”
He banked the small plane, perhaps at a steeper angle than he could have, saw her jaw clench, straightened out again, and headed due west. Washington soon disappeared behind them, and suburbs sprawled out below them, surrounded by the beautiful rolling green hills of Virginia.
The small plane hummed smoothly, no kicks, or lurches, no flashing red warning lights. Cam breathed more easily and thanked heaven her nausea went away.
She pressed the comms button again. “I guess I was expecting to meet up with a guy with Spec Ops tattooed on his arm, maybe a skull with a bullet in its mouth on his neck.”
He shot her a grin. “My mama made me promise no tattoos until I’m forty-five. I guess she figured I wouldn’t be tempted, even drunk, to want a tattoo by that age.”
“At that age, your wife would probably shoot you. Now, I’m told you’re an expert at survival and all, but my boss, Agent Dillon Savich, didn’t say whether you leap tall buildings.”
He laughed. “Hey, Wittier, I’m proud of you. It’s hard to crack jokes when you’re terrified. You doing better?”
“No, but I’m sucking it up, and insulting you helps.”
“You’ll be fine once your brain accepts you’re in expert hands, namely mine. Yes, give me a bottle of water and the sun, and I can find an anthill. Leap tall buildings? Three stories is my personal best. But the truth is, I’m not nearly as tough as my ex-mother-in-law.”
“I’ve never had a mother-in-law, but yours sounds iconic.”
He laughed, checked his compass, his altimeter, his airspeed. All okay. Lucky for Agent Wittier it was a beautiful day to fly. She was still on the pale side, time to take her mind elsewhere. “Tell me what you bring to the table.”