He nods. “Yes, Mr. Wilson.”
I bite back Sarge’s urge to correct him for the wrong title and follow him out the door.
* * * *
The FHP security detail runs lights and sirens to race me home first. We’re still en route there when the details about the charter waiting for me in Atlanta hit my personal cell phone. I was scrolling through news feeds that are blowing up with mostly repetitive and scant information about the missing flight. Technically, the flight is classified as missing and overdue, not crashed.
There is no land around its last reported position, and several news sites have already helpfully created graphics using the reported flight info to show its path and flight altitude.
Sarge is already grim, while the husband and Master don’t want to speculate, and the chief of staff breathes through the fear clenching my gut.
I scramble and pack in under five minutes, remembering my chargers and the power converters because I have no clue where we’re going or what we’ll be doing. I also grab my personal laptop, and ask one of the troopers have someone deliver my work laptop and charger to the Tallahassee airport.
My work laptop—and the charter plane—is waiting for me and ready to depart for Atlanta when I arrive at the Tallahassee airport. I now know that the charter plane awaiting myself and other frantic family members from nearby states will ship us all to LAX, and from there an even larger, full-sized charter jet will carry us to Manila, and then from there…
I don’t know.
Neither does the company. The initial plan is to stage us in Manila, unless further information comes to light.
I feel like shit that I didn’t take the time to see if Connie and Mike have family in Tallahassee who could’ve taken the jet up with me, so I text Dray from my personal cell to coordinate with Benchley about transporting them on a charter to LAX, if necessary, if they can’t make it to Atlanta.
And that, if I have to, I will personally reimburse Benchley later.
Dray responds with a thumbs-up emoji.
The State Department is already involved, as is the FAA, NTSB, FBI, Homeland Security, and other federal alphabet soup groups. The fact that there are literally several states in the Southeast now scrambling to figure out their line of succession for having both a missing governoranda missing lieutenant governor is…staggering.
Fuck. Me.
No one knows yet if this was an act of terrorism—because with that many state officials on board, it’s a valid concern—or a mechanical failure of some sort.
I pray it’s not terrorism, because Sarge knows their already low odds of survival go way down, if it is.
Needless to say, this is now theonlynews story in the cycle, at least for the national networks, as well as the BBC and others.
Numb functionality has set in only as an ingrained response left over from my days in the Army. I don’t even want to see the video or pictures of the fucking media ambush poor Owen suffered.
Worse, I can’t stay behind to help him through the aftermath, or bring him with me. He has a state to run, and I have a wife to hopefully find.
Thisis one of the sacrifices we make for what we do. I have to believe that my faith and trust in Dray is not misplaced, and hope he can keep my boy going for me.
I make a mental note to talk to Benchley about what he can find out regarding who led the media charge at the pool spray. I’ll fuckingpayfor intel on those fuckers, if I have to.
I want their heads, but I’ll settle for their jobs, or making their lives as miserable as possible. If it was one of those fuckers from FNB…
For the first time in my professional career, I seriously consider vengefully rescinding press credentials.
I find out who they are and can positively identify them? You can damn well bet I’ll do it, too. I’ll get their asses banned from the goddamned capitol building.
First, I need to get…there. Wherever it is they’re taking us to personally observe the SAR ops once we leave LAX.
I have to go alone. Benchley physically can’t handle overseas travel right now on his own, and I can’t be responsible for him. Fortunately, he’s pragmatic enough to know that.
Dray can’t go, because I need him to keep Owen vertical and functional and focused on running our goddamned state. He’s going to have his hands full, because my boy is rightfully going to be a fucking mess.
I’d give anything to be able to snap my fingers, right now, walk away from all we’ve worked for, and be curled up in Owen’s arms and able to fucking cry on the flight, then hold him while he cries.
I hate flying. No matter how much I have to do it, I still hate it. I’m just better at masking my terror from others now than I used to be.
