Second Nature

Chapter 7

7 

"Cessna N1007, this is flight leader, United States Air Force Capt. Gifford Mitchum in the F-16 off your port wingtip." 

Gen could make out the fighter pilot's name stenciled on the white fuselage under the bubble canopy of the sleek jet. Capt. Mitchum waved a black gloved hand. He wore a brilliant yellow helmet, streaked with blue lightning bolts, and an Air-Force-blue pressure suit. A shiny black visor and rubber oxygen mask hid his face.  

"My wingman, Lt. Dan Morrow, is sliding into position off your starboard wing." 

Another F-16 slipped into formation on the right, so close to the Cessna Citation X business jet that the two aircrafts' wingtips overlapped. Lt. Morrow saluted at Gen and Toshi. Both fighters' sweptback wings bristled with air-to-air missiles. 

"Sir, be advised that you are now under military escort by myself and Lt. Morrow under authority of the United States Air Force Tactical Air Command. Please acknowledge." 

Gen's heart sank into her lap. She looked at Toshi in the pilot's seat; he shook his head in stunned disbelief. How had Eberhard found them so easily? The Citation's flight plan, filed at the Alamogordo Air Park, claimed the rented business jet was headed west to San Diego. Instead, they'd flown toward the rising sun; their actual destination: Grand Bahama Island. They had just crossed Mobile Bay and the gulf shores of Alabama. Now the distant, squiggly coastline of Florida's panhandle, studded with tiny islands and pocked with bays, spread along the northeastern horizon, while the Gulf of Mexico stretched ahead southward like a bolt of unfurling blue silk. Gen and Toshi had begun to relax and enjoy their adventure, believing they were going to make it. 

"Cessna N1007, you are being hailed by a military escort. Respond now if you copy my transmission." 

Toshi depressed the com-button on the Citation's control yoke and spoke into his chin mike, his voice thick with anger. "Yeah, yeah. I read you." 

"Very good, sir. Pay attention, please. About 70 miles north-northeast of our present location, is Pensacola Naval Air Station. That is your destination. You are ordered to turn your aircraft to a new heading of 48 degrees north-northeast. Repeat: 48 degrees north-northeast. We will begin a 35-degree left bank on my command. Over." 

Toshi sighed. "Roger." 

"Banking to the left after three...three, two, one, bank." 

The three jets lifted their starboard wings and turned in a smooth formation until their noses pointed toward the white curve of the Florida Panhandle. 

"Well done, very nice," said the deep male voice in Gen's headphones. "Now tune your radio to 09166 and obey the landing instructions of Pensacola Naval Air Station Air Traffic Control. Repeat: dial 09166 and do not deviate from the guidance of Air Traffic Control. In about, ah, twenty-six minutes, you will land your bird at the Naval Air Station. Meanwhile, Lt. Morrow and I will stick to you like Super-Glue. Acknowledge." 

Toshi gave a dispirited nod. 

"Sir, I need to hear an acknowledgement." 

"Roger," Toshi said. 

Gen sat in the co-pilot's seat, watching everything with big eyes. A couple hours earlier, the sun had crested the curved horizon, fading the stars like evaporating dew drops. Then the clouds caught fire, glowing pink and gold, while the sky turned azure. In spite of the tension of fleeing, the beauty had overcome her. And to think the sun came up every day! Tomorrow and tomorrow, another light show. 

The Citation had flown over painted deserts, snow-capped mountains, and patchwork quilts of farms and ranches, and in the last hour, emerald green forests, coastal marshes and the Mississippi Delta.