The helicopter intercepted them and kept pace with the Comanche no matter what twists and turns Forrest executed. Flagg threw up and his vomit struck the side windows and Hicks and seemed to have a life of its own, hobbling about between surfaces and air. Hicks wiped it away frantically with his hands. Morris yelled and cursed.

The Cobra quickly outmaneuvered them. A uniformed and helmeted copilot in the rear seat gestured for them to land.

"Where's your radio?" Hicks demanded. "Turn it on. Let them talk with us."

"Hell no," Forrest said. "I'd have to acknowledge—"

"Goddammit, Frank, they'll shoot us down if you don't go where he says," Morris said, beard curling up and then back with the aircraft's motion.

The helicopter's copilot meticulously pointed down to the road below. Green cars and camouflaged trucks raced along the highway.

"We'd better land," Forrest agreed. He peeled away from the helicopter, descended with astonishing speed, pitched his Comanche nose-high, and brought the aircraft down with at least four hard jounces on the gray asphalt airstrip.

Quietly heaving without issue, Hicks tried to control himself. By the time they were surrounded by what he took to be Secret Service men—in gray suits and brown— and military police in dark blue uniforms, he had his nausea largely under control. Flagg had bumped his head and lay stunned in his seat.

"God damn," Morris said, none the worse for wear.

Chapter 15

15

Arthur, stooped even more than usual, walked down the inn's flagstoned hallway, barely glancing at the adobe walls and black, white, and gray Navajo carpets hung above antique credenzas. He knocked on Harry's door and stepped back, hands in pockets. Harry opened the door and swung his arm impatiently for him to come in. Then he returned to the bathroom to finish shaving. They were all joining the President for dinner in the resort's spacious dining room within the hour.

"He's not taking it well," Arthur said.

"Crockerman? What did you expect."

"Better than this."

"We're all staring down the barrel of a gun."

Arthur glanced up at the bright open doorway of the bathroom. "How are you feeling?"

Harry came out lifting one ear to poke the razor beneath it, his face lined with remnants of shaving cream. "Well enough," he said. "I have to leave in two days for treatment. Warned you."

Arthur shook his head. "No problem. It's scheduled. The President's leaving day after tomorrow. Tomorrow he confers with Xavier and Young."

"What's next?"

"Negotiations with the Australians. They show us theirs, we show them ours."

"Then what?"

Arthur shrugged. "Maybe our bogey is a iiar."

"If you ask me," Harry said, "the—"

"I know. The whole thing stinks."