Walt McArthur awakened early that Monday morning, flicked on his bedside lamp, grabbed his cell phone, and scheduled an Uber to take him to San Francisco International Airport in time for his flight to El Paso. He padded down the hallway into the bathroom. As he entered, he quickly sneaked a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror. Staring back at him was a DEA Special Agent with a sagging face, a full head of wavy hair now almost completely white, and a stomach that hadn’t felt a sit-up in years.

The mirror also reflected the two lumpy scars running across the top of his chest, armpit to armpit, courtesy of the ’91 firefight in Mogadishu where he found himself lying on a concrete floor while a Delta Force medic frantically worked to cauterize both bullet wounds before he bled out. Thankfully, that image morphed into one where his eleven-year-old son, Kenny, frolicked on the bed with him while he plucked at the bullet-wound scars as if they were guitar strings.

Those images quickly disappeared, however, under an avalanche of unwanted memories—starting with his wife, Betty, who divorced him when their son turned seventeen and had the audacity to move with him to San Diego.

Walt dried himself and made sure he had all his papers with him when the Uber pulled up in front of his house. Arriving at SFO, he boarded United Flight 560 to El Paso. At precisely 10:00 a.m., the big plane rolled down the runway and glided gracefully into a sky heavy with clouds. Banking left, the plane headed over the West Bay hills as the pilot’s calm voice announced they were passing through 10,000 feet on their way to a cruising altitude of 36,000. As soon as I get back from this trip, Walt murmured to himself, I’m going to call Kenny and tell him I’m retiring from the DEA . . . effective immediately.

He leaned back in his seat and smiled, knowing it wouldn’t be long before his son, his only son, would be coming back home . . . and this time to stay.

* * *

DEA Special Agent in Charge, Bill Gilardi drummed his fingers on the desk while glancing at the clock hanging on the opposite wall. 10:10 a.m. “Come on, come on, you SOB,” he shouted. “Answer your damn phone.”

“Federal Aviation Administration . . . Phil Cruz speaking. Can I put you on hold?”

“NO, YOU CANNOT PUT ME ON HOLD,” Gilardi said with all the venom he could muster. “This is DEA Special Agent William Gilardi online in San Francisco.  The Deputy Director in DC gave me your name and phone number.” Gilardi went silent for a few beats, then said, “United Airlines’ Flight 560 took off not more than twelve minutes ago from San Francisco International. You’ve got to get that plane to return to SFO . . . IMMEDIATELY!”

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t authorize anything like that unless—”

“Please don’t interrupt me, Mr. Cruz. There is no time for I can’t authorize it! You’ve got to get that plane back on the ground. Immediately!” There was a slight pause, then . . . “there’s a bomb on board that aircraft.”

Gilardi heard Cruz suck in a deep breath and knew he was pulling up Flight 560 on his computer screen. “The plane had wheels up at ten-ten,” Cruz told Gilardi . . . “and has just now cleared the coastline over Pacifica. I’ve already alerted the pilot to return to SFO immediately.” Gilardi could hear a few faint clicks from Cruz’s keyboard in the background. “Thank God he got the message,” Cruz said. “That plane has already started to turn.” He paused, then said, “how much time do we have?”

Gilardi peeked at his watch and shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

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