Accordingly, Whatley waited until the plane almost reached the gate, quickly released his seat belt, and lunged down the aisle… unfortunately at the precise moment the pilot braked suddenly to avoid hitting an errant baggage carrier.
The sudden forward acceleration caused his flailing arms and legs to slam into the backs and armrests of four separate seats, triggering a series of startled screams and angered curses in his wake as his head, knees, chest, and elbows bore the brunt of his headfirst slide along the rough carpet… until finally, thanks to the effects of abrasive friction and the amazingly sturdy cockpit barrier, he came to a sudden halt.
Stunned and bleeding, Whatley managed to regain his feet and brace himself against the low ceiling, ignore the glares and mutterings of his fellow passengers and the perplexed look of the youthful copilot, who struggled to open the combination door and collapsible stairway, stagger down the stairs of the small plane, snatch his briefcase and suit bag from a baggage handler, and run for the terminal building.
Once inside the terminal, Whatley continued running — elbowing his way through the densely populated Horizon boarding area, charging down the hallway and up the seemingly endless ramp, then sprinting across the main terminal, plunging through another security checkpoint and bolting down another long hallway — to the United gate where, seventeen minutes later, red-faced, wheezing, oozing blood from his knees and elbows, and barely able to hold his briefcase and suit bag in his cramped and fatigued hands, much less stand upright on his wobbly legs, he learned that the flight to San Francisco would be delayed.
It was probably just as well for all concerned — the airline representative at the gate, the nearby security guard who was scrutinizing Whatley carefully, and Whatley's fellow passengers, not to mention his as-yet- unblemished rap sheet — that it took the senior congressional staffer another ten minutes to regain his breath, color, and strength… which, in turn, gave him a fighting chance to regain what amounted to a very tenuous grip on his composure.
Only then did that sorely abused congressional district office manager finally comprehend that he couldn't check his suit bag in, right here, at the Portland gate — for automatic transfer to the American Airlines red¬eye flight — because the anticipated delay would give him, at most, only a very few minutes to make his connecting flight at San Francisco International Airport.
'So we can't check your luggage, sir,' the polite airline representative explained in a professionally patient voice. 'Because even if you manage to make your connection in San Francisco, any luggage you check here definitely will not.'
With understandable amazement, then, at 11:55 that Sunday evening, Simon Whatley — bandaged, exhausted, sweat-soaked, aching, and thoroughly numbed by the six drinks he'd consumed at the Portland Airport and on the United flight — finally stuffed his suit bag, briefcase, and coat into the overhead compartment of the American Airlines 757 red-eye flight to Washington Dulles, and collapsed into his rearmost aisle seat adjacent to two of the plane's three toilets.
Understandably, too, any plans to review the messages from Lt. Colonel John Rustman's rogue hunter-killer recon team prior to his next meeting with Regis J. Smallsreed, Sam Tisbury, and the harrowing presence in the shadows of Smallsreed's congressional office, immediately evaporated when Simon Whatley fell into a deep and exhausted sleep.
At precisely seven minutes after midnight Monday morning — just as the American Airlines 757 jetliner bearing the unconscious body of Simon Whatley arced into the night, and just as Bravo Team leader Larry Paxton taped the next-to-last aluminum cover to the next-to-last giant-tarantula-filled terrarium with hands that definitely trembled with exhaustion and the surrounding cold — special agent/pilot Thomas Woeshack made a relevant discovery.
'Hey, Larry,' he called, holding up a box filled with a fifty-fifty mix of long red and purple light tubes, 'weren't we supposed to put these IR and UV lights back in those terrarium lids you drilled before we taped them shut?'
Chapter Forty-four
The impact of the 757 jetliner's wheels against a solid surface jarred Simon Whatley out of a deep sleep.
Christ, what was that? Did we hit something?
Whatley's eyes snapped wide open just as the spinning rear wheels struck the runway for the second time, whereupon he became aware — once again — of the stench of the nearby chemical toilets, and the noise of the rear cabin, where at least a half dozen small children now yowled from the effects of the sudden change in cabin pressure.
Landing? Can't possibly be there yet. What time is it?
Whatley tried to blink his sleep-blurred eyes into focus enough to see the hands of his very expensive Rolex.
Quarter to five. Can't be Dulles. Way too early. Not supposed to be there until… oh, right.
Seven-forty-five.
Three hours difference. Time zones.
God, we are here, he realized, blinking his eyes at what his numbed brain finally recognized as daylight — in the form of dreary clouds and the inevitable rain — through the windows of the now taxiing plane.
He immediately gave immensely grateful thanks that the first leg of this latest in a series of nightmarish trips had finally ended.
Not until the plane came to a final stop, and he stood up on his stiff, aching legs to retrieve his suit bag and briefcase from the overhead compartment did he realize…
Oh Jesus, the messages from the drop box. I haven't even looked at the damned things yet.
Simon Whatley felt sorely tempted to sit right back down and go through all of the messages from Lt. Colonel John Rustman's rogue hunter-killer recon team right there. Very tempted indeed, because Smallsreed had given him the specific task of reading, analyzing, and digesting their contents and presenting a summary of the relevant information to the congressman, Tisbury, and the horrifyingly ominous shadow-man who haunted the dark corners of Smallsreed's private office
… and scared Whatley far more than any one individual he'd ever met.
But Smallsreed's bagman immediately realized that any such effort — with kids whining, and babies crying, passengers trying to recover their luggage and other carelessly stowed personal items, and the flight attendants hovering with amazing patience, trying to get everyone off the plane so that they could get off, too — courted disaster.
Christ, what if I drop one of them… and some kid grabs it.. and it ends up in the hands of some nosy law- enforcement official?
Or worse, much worse, someone from the Washington Post?
The mere thought sent a chill down Simon Whatley's spine.
In the taxi, he told himself as he slowly shuffled his way out of the plane. Read them in the taxi on the way to the hotel. Check in, shower, change clothes, whip out a quick summary, and go to Smallsreed's office.
He glanced down at his watch again, noting it was almost exactly eight o'clock in the morning, D.C. time, and quickly calculated the relevant time/risk factors associated with his scheduled appearance before Regis J. Smallsreed, Sam Tisbury, and the shadow-man,
Smallsreed didn't expect him to arrive at the private office at the Longworth House Office Building until eleven. Thus, even taking the heavy rain and the notoriously congested DC metro area commute into account, the senior congressional staffer felt certain that he would be in his hotel room by nine-thirty A.M. at the very latest.
It would take him one hour to shower, shave, change clothes, glance through the drop-box messages one last time, write a quick summary, and then take the elevator down to the lobby, where a very solicitous concierge and doorman would personally escort him to a waiting taxi with an open umbrella and a cheerful smile.
Add another ten-minute taxi ride — fifteen at the very most — to reach the front steps of the Longworth House Office Building, followed by a pleasant five-minute walk through the halls of power… and Whatley would
