glanced up at the crowd. Seemed to be looking their way, a little near-sightedânot enough for glasses, she insistedâprobably wondering if Riley was going to show up at all. Riley lowered the camera and thrust a fist above his head, thought he saw her smile, and looked through the camera's lens again to confirm. But the smile had been brief. Eden was poised (it seemed to Riley as he studied her through the telephoto lens) on the edge of her seat; her hands were folded, but tautly, in her lap beneath the golden ropes and tassels that signified her academic achievements.
"Well, she looks"âRiley faltered and glanced at Betts, smiling tentativelyâ"distracted. Nothing wrong, is there?"
"That we know of," Betts replied, curtly, which made Riley feel as if he'd been left out of something. He handed Geoff's Nikon back to him and made himself as comfortable as possible on the slab of aluminum bolted to concrete. The cheap way to do stadium construction. Only two years old and already lawsuits had been filed, because one side of the stands was sinking, eight inches so far. He'd left the house in a hurry after whipping on a tie, forgetting the stadium cushion that might prevent his hemorrhoids from flaring before they even began to hand out diplomas.
Restless, he glanced at Betts and saw that not only had she remembered her own cushion, she had brought the back rest, like half of a director's chair, that clamped on to the bench seat. Riley sighed. Betts looked at him, already knowing what it was about. The dialogue of a slightly raised eyebrow, a hapless tuck to the mouth, a penitential shuffling of his feet. Betts relented and raised her broad beam, turning her attention back to the field as she did so. Riley reached out and slid the cushion from under her, let his hand rest on her thigh when she sat down again. She caressed his knuckles with her thumb.
The Chancellor, a short tanned man with a vain pompadour like the crest of a Roman general's helmet, introduced the Dean of Students, a man of wit and, thank the Lord, brevity. In turn he introduced the Vietnamese boy, who spoke to the students of learning to steer themselves in journeys to great places. The actor got his honorary degree, cracked a couple of jokes that everyone laughed at because they knew he was a funny man, he had the Emmys and the bankroll to prove it.
Then it was Eden's turn.
Â
CHAPTER 6
Â
2110 HOURS ZULU
Â
"W hat do you mean, you can't fly the plane anymore?" Darkfeather said to the captain of the TRANSPAC DC-10. "Did your retirement kick in when we changed time zones?"
Neither of the two pilots nor the engineer on the flight deck were amused. Darkfeather remembered the captain's name, or nickname. "Dutch." Captain Dutch van der Veek.
" TRANSPAC 1850 heavy, this is L.A. Center. Verify flight level and confirm destination ."
The aircraft was descending slowly, Darkfeather was aware of that much. They were just under thirty-five thousand feet over the Pacific, 220 miles northwest of the San Francisco Bay Area. Sun glazed the flight deck windows. Outside, in a world of blue, it was fifty-seven degrees below zero.
"L.A. Center, this is TRANSPAC 1850 heavy. We are descending from our assigned flight level at three hundred feet per minute and are deviating from programmed coordinates by zero five degrees right. We are checking GPS and a possible malfunction of R-NAV."
" Roger, TRANSPAC 1850. Keep us informed ."
The autopilot was a box of instrumentation by the pilot's right knee. Darkfeather glanced at it; saw that the level-change button wasn't armed. Clearly the autopilot wasn't flying the plane. The yokes were moving, slightly, although neither the captain nor the first officer was in manual control. That raised goose bumps on Darkfeather's forearms.
"Can you reprogram the autopilot?" she asked.
The first officer was thumbing through a thick tab-indexed manual. "It's not taking commands," he said.
"Shut it down, then. I
"Well, she looks"âRiley faltered and glanced at Betts, smiling tentativelyâ"distracted. Nothing wrong, is there?"
"That we know of," Betts replied, curtly, which made Riley feel as if he'd been left out of something. He handed Geoff's Nikon back to him and made himself as comfortable as possible on the slab of aluminum bolted to concrete. The cheap way to do stadium construction. Only two years old and already lawsuits had been filed, because one side of the stands was sinking, eight inches so far. He'd left the house in a hurry after whipping on a tie, forgetting the stadium cushion that might prevent his hemorrhoids from flaring before they even began to hand out diplomas.
Restless, he glanced at Betts and saw that not only had she remembered her own cushion, she had brought the back rest, like half of a director's chair, that clamped on to the bench seat. Riley sighed. Betts looked at him, already knowing what it was about. The dialogue of a slightly raised eyebrow, a hapless tuck to the mouth, a penitential shuffling of his feet. Betts relented and raised her broad beam, turning her attention back to the field as she did so. Riley reached out and slid the cushion from under her, let his hand rest on her thigh when she sat down again. She caressed his knuckles with her thumb.
The Chancellor, a short tanned man with a vain pompadour like the crest of a Roman general's helmet, introduced the Dean of Students, a man of wit and, thank the Lord, brevity. In turn he introduced the Vietnamese boy, who spoke to the students of learning to steer themselves in journeys to great places. The actor got his honorary degree, cracked a couple of jokes that everyone laughed at because they knew he was a funny man, he had the Emmys and the bankroll to prove it.
Then it was Eden's turn.
Â
CHAPTER 6
Â
2110 HOURS ZULU
Â
"W hat do you mean, you can't fly the plane anymore?" Darkfeather said to the captain of the TRANSPAC DC-10. "Did your retirement kick in when we changed time zones?"
Neither of the two pilots nor the engineer on the flight deck were amused. Darkfeather remembered the captain's name, or nickname. "Dutch." Captain Dutch van der Veek.
" TRANSPAC 1850 heavy, this is L.A. Center. Verify flight level and confirm destination ."
The aircraft was descending slowly, Darkfeather was aware of that much. They were just under thirty-five thousand feet over the Pacific, 220 miles northwest of the San Francisco Bay Area. Sun glazed the flight deck windows. Outside, in a world of blue, it was fifty-seven degrees below zero.
"L.A. Center, this is TRANSPAC 1850 heavy. We are descending from our assigned flight level at three hundred feet per minute and are deviating from programmed coordinates by zero five degrees right. We are checking GPS and a possible malfunction of R-NAV."
" Roger, TRANSPAC 1850. Keep us informed ."
The autopilot was a box of instrumentation by the pilot's right knee. Darkfeather glanced at it; saw that the level-change button wasn't armed. Clearly the autopilot wasn't flying the plane. The yokes were moving, slightly, although neither the captain nor the first officer was in manual control. That raised goose bumps on Darkfeather's forearms.
"Can you reprogram the autopilot?" she asked.
The first officer was thumbing through a thick tab-indexed manual. "It's not taking commands," he said.
"Shut it down, then. I
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