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  Rather than plow into the demonstrators, Seagrave pulled back on the stick, and the Lightning lifted into the air, shaking off its earthly shackles, and returned to where it belonged. Seagrave allowed a tight smile when he saw the protesters fall away as the jet barely cleared their heads, accelerating through 190 knots. He snapped the gear handle up. Again his voice was amazingly calm as he keyed the radio. “Tower, Lightning One is lifting off. No choice in the matter. We’re overweight and need to burn off fuel before landing. Please clear the runway.”

  The tower controller was frantic. “Remain within ten miles of the field. You are cleared to maneuver at your discretion. I, ah, we have no idea what’s going on. I’m ringing security to clear the runway.”

  “Capital idea.” He turned to Liz. “Well, this is a bit more than I bargained for. I do hope we didn’t singe too many hairs.”

  “Not me,” Liz answered.

  The old habits were back, and Seagrave scanned the instruments as he leveled off at four thousand feet on the downwind side of the landing pattern. The left main landing-gear light flickered from green to red for a few seconds. Out of habit he tapped the light, not that it would have done any good. The light flickered again. “Probably a microswitch,” he told Liz. “But it could mean the gear is not up and locked properly.” The light flickered again, and he considered recycling the gear. Then the light went out, indicating all was well.

  He keyed the radio. “Tower, I had an ‘unsafe gear’ light, but all appears well now. Would appreciate a visual.”

  “You’re cleared for a low approach and overshoot,” the tower answered. “The circuit is reserved for you to maneuver at your discretion.”

  “Cleared for the approach,” Seagrave replied. He turned final and lined up on the runway as they descended. He slowed to 240 knots and kept the gear and flaps retracted. Ahead of them he could see the runway, still packed with protesters at the halfway point. “What are those fools doing?” he muttered. He flew past the tower at fifty feet and pulled up, again accelerating.

  “I have no idea,” Liz said. “But you did get their attention, and a few are leaving.”

  “Your gear doors appear to be fully closed,” the tower radioed. “Your underside scans clean.”

  “Very good,” Seagrave replied. “What are those bloody fools doing down there?”

  “Security reports demonstrators are sitting down on the runway and refuse to move. We’ve called for help.”

  Seagrave hid his irritation as they did two turns in the circuit, holding at four thousand feet. Liz studied the crowd on the runway each time they flew past, her exasperation growing at the lack of progress. She reached over and touched his arm, her eyes sparkling. “Maybe we could do a high-speed pass to encourage a few others to leave, yes?” She tried to look innocent and helpful.

  He caught the look in her eyes. She may have been with the CAA, but her head was screwed on straight. “A very good idea,” he said. “And we are cleared to maneuver at our discretion.” He keyed the radio. “Tower, this time around will be a high-speed pass.”

  “Roger,” the tower answered. “Stay above two hundred feet and no faster than six hundred knots.”

  Seagrave flew a curvilinear approach to final and leveled off at four-hundred feet. “I don’t believe they’ve seen us yet. But they soon will.” He inched the Lightning down to two hundred feet and stroked the afterburners, the airspeed bouncing off six hundred knots. He passed over the demonstrators and rotated. “Full reheat now,” he said, shoving the throttles into max afterburner.

  Liz twisted her head, looking back and fighting the G’s as she gave the demonstrators the finger. “Bastards!” she shouted. “That singed the odd hair or two.”

  Seagrave allowed a tight smile. His passenger was a fighter pilot at heart. He leveled off at eight thousand feet and flew a wide downwind, rapidly descending back to four thousand feet. He automatically scanned the instrument panel once again. “Not good,” he muttered. “We’re losing hydraulic pressure.” He pointed to the Services Pressure Gauge. “It should be steady at three thousand PSI.” The needle was slowly dropping, falling toward the red sector.

  “Is that bad?” Liz asked.

  “It will be if we don’t get down.” He keyed the radio. “Cranthorpe, we have a problem. I’m losing hydraulic pressure and need to land immediately.”

  “Stand by,” the tower answered.

  “I can’t stand by too long,” Seagrave replied. “Request vectors to the nearest suitable field for landing.”

  A much-relieved tower controller answered, “The runway is open. You’re cleared all the way. Check three greens.”

  Seagrave lowered the undercarriage. Two lights blinked green at him. But the left main gear stayed red. “Tower, I have an unsafe condition on my left main. Request a flyby to check undercarriage down.” He selected flaps, hoping there was enough pressure in the system to lower them. There was.

  “Cleared for a low approach,” the tower answered. This time Seagrave flew by at 175 knots, as slow as possible. He gently yawed the aircraft to help gravity pull the gear down. “Your left main is still up,” the tower radioed.

  “Selecting emergency undercarriage now,” Seagrave answered, his voice still calm. His left hand dropped down beside his seat and he pulled the U/C selector button on the floor. “Just another day on the job,” he muttered to himself. But Liz caught it and understood. Like most fighter pilots, Seagrave would rather die than sound bad. Now it was a question of maneuvering as smoothly as possible while getting back around for landing. They entered downwind. He kept talking on the intercom to reassure his passenger. “Flying is a bit more demanding since the artificial feel and autostabs have quit. But it’s no big deal.”

  “I have you in the binocs,” the tower radioed. “Your undercarriage appears down and locked.”

  “How encouraging,” Seagrave answered. “But I still have a red.” He turned final and again gently yawed the aircraft, hoping gravity might perform some magic. It did, and the offending light turned to green. Then it blinked red to green and back. “Do make up your mind,” Seagrave groused. “No need to amuse the spectators with a gear-up landing.” As if on cue, the light turned steady green. The runway, finally clear of the demonstrators, loomed up in front of them. “Crossing in now, one seventy-five, ease back gently, gently, one fifty-five, one fifty, ah, there we are.” It was a picture-perfect landing. He eased the nosewheel onto the runway. “Brake chute now, Liz.”

  Her hand flashed out and pulled the handle, straight and smooth as he had told her. The chute popped out from the base of the vertical stabilizer and snapped open. He tapped the brakes, depleting the last of the pressure accumulator. They stopped on the runway, still going straight ahead. Seagrave’s right hand danced on the console. “HP fuel cocks off.” The engines died of fuel starvation and spun down. Seagrave keyed the radio. “Cranthorpe tower, Lightning One is down. We’ll need a tow back to dispersal. Thanks for the help. Good show all round.” He peeled off his oxygen mask and smiled to Liz. “Ground crew will have to use a hand pump to open the canopy. I hope you don’t mind waiting.”

  Liz reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand was warm. “That was the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “You were brilliant. And that entitles you to say the three magic words: ‘Cheated death again.’”

  “Cheated death again,” she repeated.

  The car carrying the three CAA officials reached the Lightning at the same time as the ground crew. The crew piled out of the van and quickly installed ground locks on the landing gear. Once the gear was secure, two men fitted a hand pump to the socket on the left side of the fuselage, just aft of the wing’s trailing edge. One man pumped furiously, and the canopy slowly opened while Shanker and Eric climbed out of the service van. Shanker gave Seagrave a thumbs-up. “You did good,” he shouted.

  The CAA headman jumped out of his car, his face bright red, and started shouting the moment Seagra
ve climbed down the boarding ladder. “This aircraft does not carry a certificate to fly, nor were you authorized to fly!”

  Seagrave ignored him and helped Liz climb down, her legs still a little weak. “Are you okay?” Seagrave asked.

  “Perfect,” she answered.

  Seagrave walked around the jet with Shanker and Eric, examining it for damage. One of the ground crew was looking in the left main gear well. “Here’s the problem. A gland let go when you retracted the gear. Never happen if the system were exercised regularly.”

  “It’s the same with us,” Shanker said. “You got to keep ’em flying once or twice a week or they turn into hangar queens.”

  The CAA headman was livid with rage as he trailed after Seagrave. “What’s your name? What are your qualifications? Who gave you permission to operate this aircraft? Why did you take off? What speed were you going when you flew down the runway? What was your height? What do you have to say?”

  Seagrave gave him a sad look. “Which question to answer first? Ah, height. Six feet three inches in my socks. Question one: Robin Seagrave. Question two: eight thousand hours on fighters. Question three: your chaps. Question four: It was either take off or kill half the crowd on the runway. Not a long time to make that decision, and I don’t recall hearing any input from the CAA at that particular moment, which would have been most helpful. Question five: six hundred knots. That’s six hundred ninety miles per hour for you nonflying types.”

  The CAA man sputtered. “That’s supersonic!”

  Seagrave shook his head in resignation, his suspicions about the CAA fully confirmed. “Don’t you consider it strange that no one heard a sonic boom?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Try seven hundred sixty miles per hour at sea level for Mach One. What was I saying? Oh, yes, question six: I’ve already answered that, but if you mean altitude, two hundred feet.”

  Seagrave leaned into the CAA official, his eyes cold blue steel. “As to what I have to say? Are you naturally thick, or did you take a course? Talk about failed common sense. If you, as the CAA official in charge, had done your work properly, you would have known a protest was planned and exercised proper crowd control or canceled the taxi demonstration.”

  Shanker had to add his two cents’ worth. “I saw the CAA talking to the demonstrators about two hours earlier in the parking lot.”

  The CAA official whirled on Shanker. “Your contribution was not called for.”

  Shanker gave him an expressive shrug that was clearly a “fuck you” message.

  “Offhand,” Seagrave said, rolling in for a second strafing pass on the CAA, “it appears that your lack of appreciation of the situation allowed those bloody stupid demonstrators to place a large number of people in danger, the least of whom were my passenger and myself. In fact, I plan to raise the issue with my MP.”

  The CAA official blanched at the thought of Seagrave’s MP, or member of Parliament, questioning the CAA in the House of Commons. Now it was his turn to attack. “I want this aircraft towed to the nearest hangar and salvaged immediately. It will never fly again.” He stormed away without waiting for a reply.

  “Have a nice day,” Seagrave called. He took a deep breath and turned to the ground crew. “I’m afraid I cocked it up. Looks like the end for the old girl.”

  “Maybe,” Shanker said, “I can help.”

  3

  Miami, Florida

  Eduardo Pinar was the first to arrive at Café Martí, a sidewalk café in the heart of Little Havana. He found a table at the back and collapsed into the chair, his slender body spent from the exertion of walking two blocks in the early-September afternoon sun. As always, he was oblivious to the noise and hustle around him. Just another dreamy young man with a droopy mustache and limpid, brown eyes going nowhere and without ambition.

  A waiter approached and made small talk as he waited for Eduardo to order. “The heat has finally broken,” the waiter said in Spanish. “Soon we’ll see the tourists again.”

  “Will we?” Eduardo replied in English. “Espresso and a newspaper, por favor.”

  “Cuba Libre?” the waiter asked, not that it made any difference. Cuba Libre was the only paper allowed in the café, which was frequented by equal parts anti-Castro exiles, Cuban spies watching the exiles, and FBI agents watching both groups and trolling for recruits among either. For the waiter the only question was which group Eduardo currently belonged to. Allegiances changed almost daily, but he’d sort it out.

  A skinny little woman Eduardo knew only as Carita arrived at the same time as the espresso and newspaper. Like Eduardo, she ordered a small cup of the potent brew that could etch a sidewalk. “Where’s Luis and Francisco?” she demanded in English.

  “Coming,” Eduardo replied. He didn’t like Carita, but Luis had insisted she join the group.

  “Have you heard about the others?” she asked.

  “I heard they were arrested and are in jail.”

  “They’ll die there,” she said, unconsciously lapsing into Spanish. “The bastards will execute them in their cells.”

  “Were we betrayed?” Eduardo asked.

  “Of course we were,” she snapped. “How else—” She fell silent as the waiter returned with her espresso. When he left, she continued. “Our country will never be free.” She fought back her tears. “Not in our lifetime.”

  Eduardo was moved by her tears and reached across the table, covering her hand with his. His eyes flashed with passion, and he spoke in Spanish. “Do not lose faith. For every one of us they cut down, four more will arise in his place. We will free our country of this evil, this abomination to God and humanity. Our children will return to their homeland and not have to live under the cruel tyranny that has driven us into exile.” He stopped talking when Luis Barrios and Francisco Martínez arrived. Like Eduardo, they were in their mid-twenties.

  Luis Barrios, the group’s leader, slumped in a chair and mumbled a few words of deep despair for their jailed comrades. Then he talked about their struggle to win the freedom of their country. Slowly his own words renewed his spirit and filled him with purpose. The movement was not dead, and as the Semtex explosive had been delivered, they had work to do.

  Eduardo called for their bill.

  The waiter scoffed at the small tip Eduardo left behind and scooped it off the table in disgust. A tall, very pretty woman with dark hair sitting at the next table caught his attention. She often came to the café, always alone, and most of the waiters thought she was either an FBI or a CIA agent. But as he always pointed out, beauty attracted attention, and that was bad for an agent. Personally, he thought she was attracted to Latin men or just practicing her Spanish. Perhaps both. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” Sophia James said in passable Spanish. “Are they really freedom fighters?”

  “Them?” the waiter said in disgust. “They’re from Puerto Rico, not Cuba.” She couldn’t hear the accents. At least she’ll leave a large tip.

  She did.

  4

  RAF Cranthorpe

  Inside the hangar, Shanker and Seagrave sat in deck chairs nursing monumental hangovers while Eric played in the Lightning’s cockpit. The boy’s dark blond hair kept bobbing out of sight as he fought his version of the Battle of Britain. Outside, a cleanup crew of volunteers swept up the trash from Saturday’s air show. “The bastards,” Seagrave kept grumbling over and over. “She’s too good a bird to turn into scrap.” He fell into a pit of deep remorse. “I should have mowed the bastards down.”

  “A kill is a kill,” Shanker muttered, each word a pile driver of agony spiking his headache.

  A silver Bentley drove up and stopped in front of the hangar. The chauffeur popped out and held the rear door open. Prince Reza Ibn Abdul Turika climbed out, stretching his tall frame. Seagrave stood and walked, a bit unsteadily, over to meet the Saudi prince. They knew each other from the time Seagrave had trained Saudi pilots in the Lightning. “So, my friend,” Turika said, “you have problems.”

  Seagrave told the p
rince about the unauthorized flight and how, in retaliation, the CAA had ordered the Lightning to be salvaged for scrap. “All my fault,” he admitted. “I should have killed the fools on the runway.”

  Turika walked around the jet. “Very good,” he admitted, admiring the immaculate restoration work. “You did this all with private contributions?” Seagrave quoted the figures in pounds sterling and the estimated number of man-hours that had been volunteered. “It sounds like a labor of love,” Turika said. Eric stuck his head out of the cockpit and quickly climbed out. Seagrave introduced Eric and then Shanker, telling the prince how Shanker had flown F-4 Phantoms. Turika was immediately interested. “Did you know a Colonel Anthony Waters?” Turika asked.

  A rueful look crossed Shanker’s face. “Yeah. I knew Muddy. They don’t get any better. I was with him at Ras Assanya. I was evacuated out just before the base was overrun.”

  “Muddy was a good friend,” Turika said. “And Jack Locke.”

  “I knew Jack,” Shanker said. The two men shook hands, bound by a common tie to two legends of the U.S. Air Force.

  “Well,” Turika said, “Chalky here tells me you can help with our dilemma.”

  “I belong to a group in the states called the Gray Eagles. We restore warbirds and keep ’em flying for air shows and demonstrations. We’re long on volunteers and short on money, but we can take care of the Lightning, providing it was a donation and transported to the States.”

  “And provided,” Turika said, “the CAA doesn’t turn it into scrap.” He studied the Lightning for a moment. “This was the first Lightning I ever flew. Chalky was my instructor. Do you remember that?”

  Seagrave nodded. “Like yesterday. Technically it still belongs to your government and is on loan to us.”