By Clive Cussler
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His copilot, Jack May, began running through the emergency procedure checklist. “James Bay Tower, this is Canada One. We have a problem here and are turning back,” Emmett said in a calm monotone. ” the controller asked routinely. ” “We will clear runway twenty-four. ” “Negative, James Bay,” answered Emmett. “I have two engines out, one on fire. ” “Fire, rescue equipment rolling, Canada One. You are cleared to land. ” The men in the control tower, knowing the pilot of Canada One was under severe stress, would not break his concentration with further talk.
He held out his hands. ” “No . . ” The throaty tone in her voice gave away an awakening passion. ” she suddenly cried out. “Don't you understand? ” “I know,” he said without emotion. The bedsprings creaked as he stepped to the floor and padded across the carpet. He possessed a formidable body; the huge, swollen muscles, symmetrically formed layer by layer over years of disciplined exercise, rippled and strained beneath his skin. He reached up, ran a hand through his hair and removed it. The skull was shaven, as was every inch of his body.
A hundred questions were shouted in chorus and a forest of microphones thrust at her, but she serenely ignored them. Four gargantuan Mounties forged a path to the hospital elevator. On the fourth floor the medical chief of staff stepped forward and introduced himself as Dr. Ericsson. She looked at him, holding back the dreaded question. Ericsson anticipated her apprehension and smiled his best professional smile of reassurance. “Your husband's condition is serious, but not critical. He suffered abrasions over fifty percent of his body but there are no major complications.