On this mission, it was devoutly hoped they could accomplish what they had been ordered to do without unsheathing a knife, much less using any of their other weaponry.

"Colonel," the pilot's voice came over the speaker. "I'm going to open it up in sixty seconds."

"Go," Colonel Davenport said.

"Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight:" the pilot began to count.

Davenport and the others, moving with speed that had come only after long practice, checked the functioning of all their Halo equipment-the oxygen masks and the flask that would jump with them; the functioning of the headsets for their man-to-man radios; the GPS receivers; and the umbilical they would leave behind on the aircraft. This was best done with the fingers. Only after everything had been checked and found functioning did anyone begin pulling on their electrically heated gloves.

": Five, four, three, two, one. Depressurizing now," the pilot's voice said.

"Radio check," Colonel Davenport ordered.

One by one, everybody checked in.

"Compartment altitude fifteen kay," the pilot reported.

"Everybody's magic compass working?" Colonel Davenport inquired.

He got a thumbs-up from everyone.

"Compartment altitude twenty kay," the pilot reported. "Airspeed four-two-five."

"Check everybody," Davenport ordered Stevenson, who nodded.

"Compartment altitude twenty-five kay," the pilot reported.

Davenport walked to the rear of the compartment, where he got into his parachute harness and then helped Stevenson get into his.

"Compartment altitude thirty kay," the pilot reported. "Airspeed three-zero-zero."

"Okay, that's it. We're decompressed," the pilot said. "As soon as I can slow it down a little more, I'll start opening the door. Airspeed now two-six-zero."

"Okay, here goes the door. Slowly. Indicating two-two-zero."

There was a whine of hydraulics, followed by a first blast of cold air, as the door pushed into the slipstream, and then a steady, powerful rush of extremely cold air.

The door acted as sort of an air brake, slowing the aircraft now more quickly.

"One-ninety, one-eighty-five, one-eighty, one-seventy-five. One-seventy. Holding at one-seven-zero," the pilot reported.

The door step was now open.

Davenport went to it and waited until Stevenson hoisted his parachute and then connected it to him. Then he sat down on the floor and, reaching beside him, placed a bag connected to his harness on the stairs in front of him.

One by one, the others took their places behind him. The next-to-last man connected Stevenson's parachute to his harness and then got in line. Finally, Stevenson got in the line of jumpers.

"Everybody ready?" Colonel Davenport asked.

Everybody checked in.

"Pilot?" Davenport inquired.

"About two minutes, Colonel."

"Two minutes," Davenport responded.

"You ready, Colonel?" the pilot inquired.

"Ready."

"Fifteen seconds, thirteen, eleven, nine, seven, five, four, three, two, one."

Colonel Davenport walked awkwardly down the steps and then pushed himself off and into the air. The slipstream caught his body and hurled him away from the airplane.

It would take him five seconds, maybe a little more, until he could gain control of his fall and assume the position-facedown, legs and arms spread-that he would keep until he popped his parachute.

The object was to get out of the deadly cold troposphere before the toaster battery ran out of juice and the Oh-Two flask was empty. Otherwise, you died.

As quickly as they could, the others waddled under the weight of their equipment to the steps and went down them and into the night.

"Everything go all right?" the pilot radioed.

When there was no answer, he repeated the question.

When there was no answer again, he said to the copilot, "Michael, get on the horn and give them, 'Mail in the box at seventeen-twenty-two.' "

Then he reached for the control that would retract the stairs and door into place. When the green lights came on, he tripped the lever that would pressurize the rear cabin.

[FOUR]

Philadelphia International Airport

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

1345 9 June 2005

"That's him," Mr. Terrence Halloran said, indicating with a nod of his head a guy in a white Jaguar XJ-8 pulling up to the hangar.

"Finally," Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said, softly and bitterly. They had been waiting for him since quarter to twelve.

A very large African American in his late thirties got out of the car. Not without difficulty. He was as tall as Miller but at least fifty pounds heavier. Castillo had the unkind thought that this guy didn't get in the Jaguar; he put it on. He was wearing a green polo shirt, powder blue slacks, alligator loafers, a gold Rolex, and had gold chains around his neck and both wrists.

"What the hell is so important, Halloran?" he greeted them.

"These people need to talk to you, Ed," Halloran said. "Mr. Castillo, this is Ed Thome, who owns Aviation Cleaning Services, Inc."

"I'm with the Secret Service, Mr. Thome," Castillo said and held his Secret Service identification folder out to Thome.

Thorne examined it and then pointed at Miller and Sergeant Schneider.

"And these two?" he asked.

"I'm Sergeant Schneider of the Philadelphia PD," Betty said.

"My name is Miller, Mr. Thorne. I work for Mr. Castillo."

"So what's this all about?"

"We need to look at some of your personnel records, Mr. Thorne," Castillo said. "Specifically, we need the names and addresses, etcetera, of the people who you sent to work at Lease-Aire from May first through the fifteenth."

"No fucking way," Thorne said.

"Excuse me?" Castillo said.

"I said, 'No fucking way,' " Thorne said.

"Mr. Thorne, perhaps you don't understand," Castillo said. "I'm with the Secret Service. We're asking for your cooperation in an investigation we're conducting:"

"What kind of an investigation? Investigating what?"

"The disappearance of the Lease-Aire 727 in Africa," Castillo said.

"Yeah, that's what I figured. What are you trying to do, tie me to that?"

"No, sir, we are not. But we'd like to check out the people, your people, who worked for Lease-Aire in the:"

"You didn't think I was really going to hand over my personnel records to you just like that," Mr. Thorne said and snapped his fingers. "What are you trying to do, get me fucking sued?"

"Mr. Thorne:" Castillo began.

"You got some kind of a search warrant?"

"We hoped that wouldn't be necessary," Castillo said. "We were hoping for your cooperation."

"You get a search warrant and run it past my attorney."

"That would take time we just don't have, Mr. Thorne," Castillo said.

"You don't look stupid," Thorne said. "What part of 'No fucking way' don't you understand?"

"Mr. Thorne," Miller said, courteously. "Can I have a private word with you?"

Thorne looked at him with contempt.

"Please?" Miller asked.

Thorne shrugged his massive shoulders.

"Thank you," Miller said, courteously. "Over there, maybe?" he asked, indicating the space between two of the hangars.

Thorne shrugged his shoulders again.

"Make this quick," he said. "I have business to attend to."

"I'll try," Miller said with a smile.

Thorne walked a few steps into the space between the two hangars and turned.

"Okay, brother," he said. "Like I said, make it quick."