Simon Whatley looked at the line disdainfully.
'Wait a minute. Why can't I check my luggage?' he demanded petulantly. 'This damned suit bag's heavy. Christ, I'm only going for the day. Why did you pack so many clothes?'
'Sir…'
'And why the hell do I need to fly all the way to Portland in one of those damn little puddle-jumpers, and change planes and fly all the way back over Medford, to get to San Francisco? What happened to the goddamned 737 direct flight?' the congressional district office manager whined in a decidedly childlike tone of voice.
'Sir, I…'
'Why can't I fly direct into Washington National instead of landing all the way out in goddamned Dulles and spending a goddamned hour driving through the goddamned rush-hour traffic?' Whatley stopped, visibly out of breath and dangerously flushed.
'That's what I tried to tell you when I called earlier, sir,' the aide explained patiently for the third time, hoping that his boss was more alert now that he'd had some time to recuperate in the car.
A frantic Keith Bennington had passed the brightly smiling, heart-achingly attractive, and all-too-familiar young woman from the Rene Bocal Agency at the door to Simon Whatley's expensive apartment. Trying not to think about what the young woman wearing the professional-looking business suit and carrying the executive briefcase had actually done in Whatley's apartment, Bennington had hurried inside and found his exhausted, bleary-eyed boss in the shower, trying with minimal success to wash off what looked like a great deal of lipstick and body oil from various parts of his pale, slender body.
For some incredible reason that defied logic — or at the very least, Keith Bennington's limited imagination regarding such sordid events — Whatley's hair lay in a mass of slippery, oil-soaked and soap-resistant tendrils atop his slightly pointed head. It took the congressional aide almost two hours to get his boss properly scrubbed, rinsed, dried, dressed, packed, into the staff car, and to the airport.
Like bathing a damned dog, he thought ruefully as he glanced down at his watch. Thank God I left early.
'The direct flight from Medford to San Francisco was canceled because of a mechanical problem,' Bennington repeated for the third time. 'I busted my butt to get you on this flight… which is boarding right now,' he reminded Whatley firmly. 'And as soon as you get off this plane, you've got to grab your luggage and run because even if you make it to Portland on time, you've only got twenty-three minutes to make your next flight. And don't forget, the United terminal's up that long ramp and way over on the far side of the terminal.'
'Twenty-three minutes?!' Whatley squawked. 'But that… that isn't even legal!'
'No sir, it's not.' Bennington leaned forward and lowered his voice. 'In fact, they didn't even want to issue me the tickets. I had to mention Congressman Smallsreed's name twice before they agreed to make an emergency exception. Even then, they wouldn't promise to hold the plane in Portland. That's why you can't check your luggage, sir, because if you do, it simply won't make the connection in Portland.'
'But then why the hell do I have to fly on three goddamned different airlines?' Whatley continued raging hotly, resisting his congressional aide's firmly guiding hand and ignoring the other people in the small airport terminal who were now staring at them curiously.
'Because only these two flights can get you to San Francisco in time to make that flight. And if you don't get going right now, you will definitely miss the last commercial flight that can get you to Washington, DC, in time for your meeting tomorrow.'
'But what about United or…'
'Sir' — Keith Bennington continued firmly to guide his boss toward the security checkpoint, knowing full well that if Whatley missed this flight, someone would pay dearly… and he could easily guess who that someone would be — 'this time of year everyone's looking for cheap fares. If you're willing to travel first-class, I can easily get you on a later red-eye, and I can always get you on a special military flight,' he reminded Whatley, having no clue why his boss suddenly rejected the standard congressional travel perks available to the members and staff seated on the right appropriation subcommittees. 'But if you insist on traveling coach, this is it… and that was the final boarding call, sir. If you don't get going right now, sir, you're going to miss the goddamned plane!'
Either Bennington's use of profanity, or his amazingly loud and insistent voice when he said it, ignited some survival-oriented circuit in Simon Whatley's fevered brain and galvanized him into action.
Cursing to himself, Whatley hurled his luggage and briefcase into the gaping maw of the X-ray machine, bolted through the metal detector, screamed at the approaching security guard when the warning bell began to sound… then turned and ran back through the detector, frantically pulled his wallet, keys and coins out of his pocket, flung them between the metal detector and the X-ray machine — where they ricocheted off the equipment and nearly hit the security guard in the process — lunged back through the metal detector, scooped up his wallet and keys, snatched his waiting briefcase and carry-on bag, ran for the doorway, fumbled for his boarding pass, and then frantically raced across the tarmac toward his distant plane.
Gasping for breath, Whatley finally staggered up to small plane, handed his suit bag to the impatiently waiting baggage handler, and stumbled up the stairway… only to discover — as he hunched over to walk down the narrow, low-ceilinged aisle — that only the middle seat in the back row of the tiny plane remained unclaimed.
Only as he wedged himself into his seat between a very large man and his equally large wife who had claimed the two back window seats, strapped himself in, and stared wistfully up the narrow aisle toward the cockpit, did Simon Whatley realize there wouldn't be any flight attendants on this flight.
Which meant no comforting and numbing booze either.
At 6:55 that Sunday afternoon, as a truly distressed Simon Whatley contemplated the cruelty of fate, Larry Paxton was on a roll.
Working at a feverish pitch, the Bravo Team leader frantically drilled hole after hole in the wooden sides of the shipping crates and the tops of the aluminum terrarium covers, sending slivers of wood and aluminum flying as he urged Woeshack — his ever-loyal and faithful Eskimo special agent/pilot assistant — to move faster between temporarily plugging up the holes in the sides of the crates, connecting sections of clear-plastic tubing between the holed crates and terrariums, filling small plastic boxes with crickets, and securing the aluminum covers to the filled terrariums with long strips of duct tape.
In fact, only after the two Special Agents taped the sixteenth terrarium cover to the sixteenth filled terrarium did it occur to Paxton to ask a relevant question.
'Thomas, how are we doing on duct tape?' he inquired as he wrapped his chilled and slightly trembling hands around the blissfully warm drill.
'No problem.' The diminutive agent smiled cheerfully. 'I bought sixty-two rolls — every one left in town, far as I could tell.'
'Sixty-two, huh?' The nearly exhausted Bravo Team leader surveyed the warehouse, noting uneasily that in addition to approximately fifty duct-taped terrariums now lining the three-tiered shelf, sticky clumps of the easily tangled adhesive now covered a good portion of the warehouse floor. 'How many have we got left?'
'Uh… just a second.' Woeshack disappeared behind a pile of crates, then popped back up a few moments later. 'Looks like at least forty or so.'
Paxton smiled.
'Thomas, my man,' he announced cheerfully, 'in my humble opinion, I believe the crucial elements of this insane operation are finally starting to come together.'
Thanks to a slight head wind, the pilot of the bumpy flight from Medford to Portland touched down on the long PDX runway four minutes behind schedule.
It was all that Simon Whatley — who had frantically checked and re-checked his watch every fifteen seconds throughout the entire flight — could do to keep from unbuckling his safety belt, running down the aisle, ripping open the flimsy barrier to the cockpit, and screaming at the pilot and copilot who, from Whatley's fevered and biased viewpoint, barely looked old enough to qualify for a driver's license.
Christ Almighty, the congressional district office manager raged to himself, whatever happened to the idea of taking a goddamned plane to get somewhere faster?
Simon Whatley continued checking his watch every ten seconds or so as the pilot taxied toward the terminal, knowing full well he was hopelessly trapped by the sixteen people in the eight rows of seats in front of him, who undoubtedly would use those few first deplaning minutes to dawdle or suddenly decide to share photos of their latest grandchild with a perfect stranger. Suddenly, the idea of unbuckling his safety belt and running down the aisle seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do.
