Terminal Run

He had barely completed the last thought when the rearview mirror startled him back to the moment. The state trooper was so close that he couldn’t see the cop’s headlights, only the Smokey Bear hat and the mirrored shades and the flashing lights. He cursed as he pulled the Porsche over, knowing he’d pulverized the speed limit. He’d been driving like a maniac on this highway for two years and had never once seen a local constable, much less a static. He became more dismayed as he came to a stop and a second state trooper cruiser pulled in ahead of him, the little sports car now trapped between the two patrol cars. He cursed again as he fished for his wallet and registration. When the jackbooted Ray *B an-wearing trooper came to the car, the glove compartment was open, papers falling onto the floorboards.

“Put both hands on the steering wheel immediately, sir,” the trooper commanded in a deep iron voice, his hand on his unbuckled holster.

With both hands back on the wheel he looked up at the cop and opened his mouth to speak, but never got a word out.

“Identification, sir.”

He handed over his driver’s license and his military ID. The cop scanned them for a moment, comparing the photographs to the driver.

“Mr. Egon Ericcson?”

“It’s Vie,” he said. “Call me Vie.”

The cop opened the car door. “Step out of the vehicle, Mr. Ericcson. Slowly. Don’t speak, don’t say a word.”

What the hell was going on? he wondered as he climbed to his feet. Once a varsity football warrior, Vie “The Viking” Ericcson towered over others, with broad shoulders, a flattop blond crew cut, ocean-blue eyes presiding over the broken nose and square jaw of an amateur boxer, his weathered face showing the hard wear of years in the outdoors.

A second trooper approached from the rear cruiser and climbed into the Porsche’s seat, shutting the door after him.

“Hey, goddammit, that’s my car!” “Please remain silent, sir,” the first trooper said. “Your vehicle is impounded. Please turn around slowly and walk to the patrol car, sir.”

“Officer, look, I know—”

“Quiet, sir.”

The trooper forced him into the back of his cruiser and shut the door, then took the driver’s seat. The cop backed up, then peeled out into the highway and rocketed down the asphalt toward the city. Behind them the second cruiser was escorting the Porsche, but the two cars soon vanished in the distance as the trooper accelerated.

“Where are we going? The courthouse? State Police HQ?”

The trooper said nothing. Finally the airport exit came up, and the cruiser pulled off, eventually coming to a stop at a large fence gate, which rolled open. Ericcson had the momentary thought that they must have a police facility inside the airport grounds, but the cruiser flew over the tarmac of the airport for a few minutes until it screeched to a stop at a gigantic commercial Boeing-Airbus 808, the plane’s jets idling far from the terminal.

He started to ask the obvious question, but before he could, the rear door opened and two new state troopers pulled him unceremoniously from the car and led him up an old-fashioned wheeled stairway to the jet’s door far above. He was escorted quickly inside the cool airplane, and as his eyes adjusted from the harsh noon sunlight he saw that the interior was empty except for two men in nondescript suits, who waved him to a seat in the middle of the firstclass section.

He looked at the suits and decided to see if they would prove more understanding than the uniforms who’d brought him and who were currently handing over a clipboard for signatures. As the cops withdrew, he looked up and started his complaint. “Look, guys, I was speeding. I admit it, but—”

One of the troopers suddenly turned and handed something down to him. He stared dumbly at his driver’s license and his U.S. Navy identification. Obviously, whatever was happening to him had nothing to do with a traffic violation.

“Who are you guys? What’s going on? Is this coming from Washington?”

“Sir,” the first suit said formally, “please strap yourself in. We’re leaving immediately.”

“Goddamnit, what the hell?” he grumbled, but decided to shut his mouth. He looked down at himself, at his casual clothes, the odd thought coming that he hoped he was dressed for wherever they were taking him.

The jet reached the end of the runway and throttled up, climbing out east over the Pacific. With his escorts insisting upon remaining silent, there was nothing to do but sleep in the large comfortable firstclass seat. It was hours later when he woke up, the windows dark long after local sunset.

“May I get you something, sir?” The first suit stood over him.

“Coffee would be great,” he said in his gravelly voice. “And then some information. And a phone.”

“Coffee is the best we’ll be able to do for you, sir.” The steaming coffee landed on the tray in front of him, and the smell of it made him want to dive into it, the aroma reminding him of his younger days at sea.

“Then tell me one thing — may I take it that we’re headed for Washington?”