“Can you guarantee Charles will agree?”
Gibson pretended to think about it. “I’ll convince her. Let me call you back.”
Gibson hung up and grinned at Jenn.
“What?” she said.
“Eskridge just offered me three million for the plane.”
“So?”
“So, I think George is on board.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Convince me,” Jenn said with the skepticism of someone who’d opened her front door to a pushy salesman.
Gibson described his impromptu negotiation with Eskridge. The strangeness of Eskridge asking what they wanted for his aircraft. “He didn’t miss a beat when I said we had George.”
“Maybe he was bluffing too.”
“Why? It’s a dumb bluff. What does he gain?”
Jenn thought about it, wary of getting her hopes up again so soon. Gibson pressed her.
“Let’s divert to Florida now. Get on the ground as soon as possible and go through all the cargo containers. He’s got to be in one of them.”
“No. That we’re not doing,” she said.
Jenn took Eskridge’s threat seriously. Without a doubt, Cold Harbor had a GPS tracking device on board in addition to the aircraft’s transponder, but finding it, much less deactivating it, would be impossible in flight. It was a key reason they’d always planned to ditch the plane. The moment the C-130 set down, Eskridge would scramble whatever Cold Harbor assets remained on the Eastern Seaboard. The clock would be ticking, and she didn’t want to get caught on the ground searching for George.
“So what’s the alternative?” he asked.
“We search them in flight.”
He didn’t like the answer and told her so, then he told her again, but in the end, they did it her way. It was an incredibly bad idea and a recipe for getting themselves killed. The pallets and their cargo were lashed to the deck and secured with heavy tarps for good reason. A patch of heavy chop could turn an unsecured container into a sledgehammer, its contents into shrapnel. Jenn wanted to be the one to conduct the search, but she needed to stay in the cockpit and guide them around any rough stuff. That was how Gibson came to find himself unstrapping and uncovering pallets while the C-130 was still midflight.
Gibson started at the aft end of the hold and worked his way forward. The first few pallets held a mixture of aluminum ULD (unit load device) containers of various sizes. He had only two hours before they were scheduled to divert to Florida, so he did his best to streamline the process—eliminating any containers too small to hold a man. It was still slow going, as, once he’d gone through a pallet’s containers, they had to be resecured before he could move on.
It didn’t help that Jenn demanded constant updates. It made him tense, and as he worked his way methodically up the hold with nothing to show for it, he began to second-guess himself, replaying Eskridge’s words in his head. Had he read something into them that he’d only wanted to hear?
The heaviest pallet on any flight would always be positioned between the wings. In this case, it was ordnance. Through the clear plastic tarp, Gibson saw ammunition cans and crates of claymores. The only way George would fit in there was in pieces. A morbid thought, but he gave the ammunition cans a second look. From what he knew of Eskridge, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Gibson skipped checking further. For now.
The power of positive thought in action.
Something about the fifth pallet struck him as odd. Unlike the others, it held only one large ULD container. Externally, it looked no different from the others, but when Gibson rapped the butt of his knife against the side, it felt different. Denser. He wished he could hear the sound over the engines, but even so, he felt a familiar and fearful hopefulness.
“What is it?” Jenn said in his ear. He’d been talking steadily, narrating his progress, and she’d heard him fall silent.
“Nothing yet. Hold one.”
“Gibson!”
“Give me a minute.”
He worked his way around the container, loosening the ratchet straps, and threw back the tarp. The ULD was even bigger than he’d assumed. The size of a prefab shed that you might find at the end of a garden. With fingers crossed, Gibson opened the double doors. A wall of computer-monitor boxes greeted him. He double-checked the manifest—sure enough, pallet five should be nothing but computers. But better safe than sorry.
First he unpacked the monitors. Threw them aside, only to reach another wall of equipment. This time boxes of tower computers.
Frustrated, he almost quit. He had to cut corners where possible to save time, considering how much more he had to do. But on a hunch, he pried out one box and reached through the gap it left in the wall of boxes. He touched something smooth and metallic . . . with rounded edges. The cargo bay was dimly lit, and the interior of the ULD was virtually pitch-black. He shone his flashlight through the opening—whatever it was, it wasn’t more computer boxes.
Gibson worked faster, clearing away the remaining boxes to reveal what looked like an old-fashioned refrigerator door, only wider and held shut with dead bolts and latches. He unlocked it but needed both hands to pry the door open. He rested his flashlight on the ground, but it rolled away, casting shadows against the wall of the container. Inch by inch, the door gave way.
In the gloom, he saw movement. A water bottle rolled out and bumped against his foot. He groped around for his flashlight and held it up. A layer of thick white foam padding covered the interior. He ran the flashlight’s beam across the interior of the strange container. There, in a corner, crouched George Abe.
They’d found him. They’d actually found him. Gibson felt an unfamiliar flutter in his chest. He realized it was the feeling of hope fulfilled. He kind of liked it.
Gibson called George by name, but the roar of the engines drowned him out. Pressed against the back wall, George held up a hand to shield his eyes. He looked terrified. A beaten dog. Gibson realized George couldn’t see a thing, so he squatted down on his heels and turned the flashlight on himself.
“You’re safe now,” Gibson said, even though he knew he couldn’t be heard.
George squinted, head tilted to one side. Recognition flickered across his face, and he darted forward and threw his arms around Gibson. It knocked Gibson on his back. He felt George sobbing and simply held on to him. Gibson knew how it felt when a door that would never open finally did.
“What’s happening?” Jenn asked.
“He’s here. I’ve got him,” Gibson told her and then said to George, “I’ve got you.” It seemed important to say.
In the dark of the container, he held George and listened to Jenn whoop with joy. He smiled. It felt good. He would need this memory for what came next. How he would miss these people when it came time to say good-bye.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO