both of them back towards the building, struggling to be heard over the noise of the helicopter’s engines. He quickly brought them up to speed.
“So he must have gotten off mid-flight,” said Carson matter-of-factly. Turner looked at him, confused.
“You can’t just open a door and jump out of a jet,” said Turner.
“What do you think parachutists do every day of the week?!”
“Even if he did, how the hell would we ever find him?” asked Turner. “They flew over 2,500 miles before we stopped them.”
“Easy,” replied Carson. “The black box will tell you exactly where and when they opened the door.”
“Fuck!” said Turner, his head dropping.
“What?”
“They just left!”
Chapter 16
Frankie boarded the chopper and let Carson take the front seat. A very pissed off Turner stood and watched their departure. He had made it clear he wanted to interview Frankie immediately. Carson, keen to control the political fallout and flow of information, was going to get Frankie on board whatever it took, even lying that the President had asked to see her. As Carson pointed out to Turner, he had more pressing priorities: a plane to re-catch and a black box to retrieve.
The helicopter climbed and with Turner safely out of sight, Frankie could speak. She leaned forward to speak into Carson’s ear on the far side of the pilot.
“You made out you knew nothing but you knew everything that Turner told you?” she asked quietly. Carson had received a call just prior to Turner’s arrival from a very unhappy Supreme Commander of European Forces.
Carson nodded.
“You didn’t suggest the black box either when you were told.”
Carson turned around to face Frankie. “To be honest, it just came to me.”
“If you had thought of it faster, you could have stopped the plane leaving.”
Carson nodded.
“So you are as much to blame as Turner?”
Harry Carson had worked for four different administrations over the previous thirty years, nobody ever really knowing what he did or who he worked for. He was the quiet guy at the back of the room, the guy who was always invited but nobody knew by whom, the guy who seldom spoke but when he did everybody listened. Harry Carson’s contact list read like a who’s who of the most powerful individuals over the previous three decades, yet he had never run for office nor been voted into any position of power by the American public. Harry Carson had that very special gift very few people had. He made things happen in the corridors of power. He delivered.
He smiled back at Frankie. “Maybe, but only you and I know that,” he winked. Turner was going to take the flak for the fuck-up. Carson never took the blame for anything, only ever the credit. He had thirty years of eating Turners and spitting them out for breakfast.
“You told him the President wanted to see me?”
“I’m sure he does. He’ll need cheering up and I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you,” replied Carson.
“But what if Turner checks?”
“The President will tell him he wanted to see you,” said Carson confidently.
Frankie shook her head. “But he doesn’t.”
Carson simply smiled.
Frankie sat back in her seat. “What is it you do exactly?”
“I’m just someone who helps out when required,” replied Carson.
“Helps out who?”
Carson smiled and turned back to the window and the view of the approaching Walter Reed Hospital.
***
President James Mitchell sat up in the hospital bed as they entered. The pain in his face made it clear that the TV address earlier that day had been staged. At least in the respect that they had hidden just how badly injured the President really was.
“Mr. President.” Frankie maintained her professionalism despite her instincts to rush over and hug the man she’d been in close contact with over the previous few years.
“It’s good to see you, Frankie,” he said warmly, biting back the pain.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. President, I can’t
“So he must have gotten off mid-flight,” said Carson matter-of-factly. Turner looked at him, confused.
“You can’t just open a door and jump out of a jet,” said Turner.
“What do you think parachutists do every day of the week?!”
“Even if he did, how the hell would we ever find him?” asked Turner. “They flew over 2,500 miles before we stopped them.”
“Easy,” replied Carson. “The black box will tell you exactly where and when they opened the door.”
“Fuck!” said Turner, his head dropping.
“What?”
“They just left!”
Chapter 16
Frankie boarded the chopper and let Carson take the front seat. A very pissed off Turner stood and watched their departure. He had made it clear he wanted to interview Frankie immediately. Carson, keen to control the political fallout and flow of information, was going to get Frankie on board whatever it took, even lying that the President had asked to see her. As Carson pointed out to Turner, he had more pressing priorities: a plane to re-catch and a black box to retrieve.
The helicopter climbed and with Turner safely out of sight, Frankie could speak. She leaned forward to speak into Carson’s ear on the far side of the pilot.
“You made out you knew nothing but you knew everything that Turner told you?” she asked quietly. Carson had received a call just prior to Turner’s arrival from a very unhappy Supreme Commander of European Forces.
Carson nodded.
“You didn’t suggest the black box either when you were told.”
Carson turned around to face Frankie. “To be honest, it just came to me.”
“If you had thought of it faster, you could have stopped the plane leaving.”
Carson nodded.
“So you are as much to blame as Turner?”
Harry Carson had worked for four different administrations over the previous thirty years, nobody ever really knowing what he did or who he worked for. He was the quiet guy at the back of the room, the guy who was always invited but nobody knew by whom, the guy who seldom spoke but when he did everybody listened. Harry Carson’s contact list read like a who’s who of the most powerful individuals over the previous three decades, yet he had never run for office nor been voted into any position of power by the American public. Harry Carson had that very special gift very few people had. He made things happen in the corridors of power. He delivered.
He smiled back at Frankie. “Maybe, but only you and I know that,” he winked. Turner was going to take the flak for the fuck-up. Carson never took the blame for anything, only ever the credit. He had thirty years of eating Turners and spitting them out for breakfast.
“You told him the President wanted to see me?”
“I’m sure he does. He’ll need cheering up and I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you,” replied Carson.
“But what if Turner checks?”
“The President will tell him he wanted to see you,” said Carson confidently.
Frankie shook her head. “But he doesn’t.”
Carson simply smiled.
Frankie sat back in her seat. “What is it you do exactly?”
“I’m just someone who helps out when required,” replied Carson.
“Helps out who?”
Carson smiled and turned back to the window and the view of the approaching Walter Reed Hospital.
***
President James Mitchell sat up in the hospital bed as they entered. The pain in his face made it clear that the TV address earlier that day had been staged. At least in the respect that they had hidden just how badly injured the President really was.
“Mr. President.” Frankie maintained her professionalism despite her instincts to rush over and hug the man she’d been in close contact with over the previous few years.
“It’s good to see you, Frankie,” he said warmly, biting back the pain.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. President, I can’t
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