Great Exuma. The private airstrip owned by Vanguard Longevity.
"Who is listed on the flight crew manifest?" Arthur asked, leaning over the screen.
Nora tapped the crew verification tab. "Captain Robert Vance and First Officer Tyler Hayes. Both names were entered with verified FAA commercial certificates."
"Tyler Hayes is Marcus Hayes's younger brother," I said, cold dread tightening in my chest like a steel band. "Marcus told us Camden threatened his family's livelihood. Camden didn't just fire Marcus to silence him. He coerced the brother into flying the second extraction bird."
I pulled my personal phone from my pocket and dialed Marcus Hayes, who was still sitting in our second-floor boardroom with his external hard drives.
He answered on the first ring. "Mrs. Pierce?"
"Marcus," I said, my voice steady, sharp, and commanding. "Did your brother Tyler tell you where he was flying this weekend?"
A terrible, suffocating silence stretched over the phone line. When Marcus spoke, his voice cracked with raw, suffocating panic.
"Mrs. Pierce... oh God. Camden told Tyler that if he refused the repositioning leg from Exuma, he would notify the FAA that Tyler failed a mandatory drug screening six months ago. Tyler was terrified. He thought he was just bringing back empty executive luggage."
"He isn't carrying luggage, Marcus," I said. "He’s flying tail eight-four-two directly into a Department of Homeland Security trap at Stewart."
"Can you divert them?" Marcus pleaded, openly weeping. "Please, Mrs. Pierce. Tyler is twenty-four years old. He didn't know what Camden was doing."
I looked up at the sky above Teterboro, where the scattered winter stars were being swallowed by a wall of heavy ocean clouds rolling in from the east.
"Arthur," I said, hanging up the phone and turning to my attorney. "Stewart Airport is an international port of entry with a permanent Customs and Border Protection tactical unit."
"If that jet lands at Stewart with biological contraband under an Alden Meridian operating certificate," Arthur said, his jaw tightening into iron, "the FAA won't just suspend Camden. They will issue an emergency revocation of our entire Part 135 air carrier certificate by sunrise."
"Then it cannot land at Stewart," I replied.
I handed my empty coffee cup to Nora and unzipped my coat, reaching for the company radio clipped to my belt.
"Nora, get dispatch back online," I commanded. "We are declaring an in-flight operational emergency on tail eight-four-two and rerouting that bird directly to our private runway at Atlantic City before federal customs intercepts them."
Chapter 10
The communications room of the Alden Meridian flight operations center was buried in the concrete basement of the terminal.
It was 1:15 AM.
Three dispatchers sat in front of a curved wall of flight telemetry monitors, their headsets glowing with active communication channels. Marcus Hayes stood in the corner, chewing his thumbnail until it bled, watching the red icon of tail N842AM slice through the Virginia airspace.
I took the primary console chair, pulled a heavy aviation headset over my ears, and clicked the transmit switch.
"Tail November-Eight-Four-Two-Alpha-Mike, this is Vivian Alden, Chief Executive Officer of Alden Meridian Aviation, broadcasting on company secure frequency one-three-one-point-eight. Tyler, do you read me?"
Static hissed across the frequency for five agonizing seconds.
Then, a trembling, youthful voice broke through the channel.
"Mrs... Mrs. Pierce? We are currently in cruise under air traffic control direction with Washington Center. Mr. Pierce instructed us to maintain radio silence on company channels."
"Mr. Pierce is currently sitting in the back of an FBI transport vehicle in handcuffs, Tyler," I said, my voice level, authoritative, and entirely calm. "His executive authority was terminated at six o'clock yesterday evening. You are currently operating an aircraft carrying hazardous biological contraband across an international boundary without a valid customs clearance."
A sharp, ragged gasp echoed over the frequency, followed by the muffled sound of a microphone being covered by a hand.
"Contraband?" Tyler’s voice returned, high-pitched with pure terror. "Mrs. Pierce, we didn't load the aft compartment! Two men in white hazard suits loaded three aluminum crates in Exuma while we were completing our exterior pre-flight! They told us it was temperature-sensitive pharmaceuticals for Mount Sinai Hospital!"
"Those crates contain unlicensed genetic vectors from an unregulated offshore research clinic," I said, leaning toward the microphone. "Customs and Border Protection has a tactical interdiction team waiting for your wheels to touch down on runway two-seven at Stewart. If you land in Newburgh, you and Captain Vance will be placed in federal custody before your engines spool down."
"What do we do?!" Tyler cried out. "Washington Center just cleared us to descend to flight level two-four-zero!"
"Take the controls, Tyler," I instructed. "Declare an emergency squawk seven-seven-zero-zero. Inform air traffic control that you have an unverified cabin pressurization warning and request an immediate divert to Atlantic City International."
"Atlantic City?"
"Our maintenance base at Atlantic City has a private taxiway that connects directly to the state police hangar," I said. "Special Agent Miller is already redirecting a federal hazmat containment unit to meet you on the ramp. If you divert voluntarily, you are cooperating with an active federal investigation. If you continue to Stewart, you are an accessory to international smuggling."
The cockpit voice channel went silent.
On the center radar display, the small red icon of the Global 6000 continued tracking north toward New York for three miles. Four miles. Five miles.