A sudden, unexpected lurch threw all seven against the wall of the jetway, instantly garnering their undivided attention. The lead officer scrambled to his feet and went flying back toward the airplane in time to see the cockpit of the 737 sliding backward in his field of vision. It looked as if the jetway were being moved, but when he reached the end and braved the scream of the engines to peer around to the right, he realized that the jet was moving on its own, a maneuver that had not been covered by his orders.

“Careful, Craig!” Alastair had yelped as the captain yanked the thrust reverse levers up to a high-power setting, causing the 737’s nosewheel to jump over the single chock in its way and roll backward. Dayton cocked the nosewheel to the left, tracking the front end of the jet to the right and clear of the jetway. Just as quickly, he centered the nosewheel, rechecking the reflection of the area behind them in the windows of the terminal. They were clear as far as he could see. He held the reverse thrust at a high setting, knowing he was probably damaging the engines with debris from the ramp.

A roiling cloud of dust and dirt and a few stray papers boiled up in front of them and billowed angrily up the side of the terminal. Craig could see startled faces just inside the glass of the waiting area as people turned at the sound, wondering why Flight 42 had decided to leave ahead of schedule, and without a push-back tug.

The ground crewmen had turned in wide-eyed surprise and had stood in confusion as Craig had started the engines, but the sudden movement backward caught them unprepared. One by one they began running after the jet, waving their arms frantically at the cockpit.

Flight 42’s baggage compartment doors had already been closed, but there was an entire train of baggage carts parked on the right, and the jet blast overturned them now, spilling the contents, which skittered away, accompanied by an upended baggage handler who was rolling end over end toward the terminal.

There was a loud “thwang” as the ground power cable snapped loose from beneath the nose and snaked back toward the building, barely missing one of the ground crew chasing after them but doing no other harm.

The 737 was suddenly clear of the jetway and backing rapidly into the middle of the airport ramp, an area they couldn’t see from the cockpit.

“Craig! Stop!” Alastair yelped. “We don’t know what’s behind us.”

“It was clear,” he said. Craig could see several of the startled police officers leaning out of the end of the jetway, while two others spilled through the door to scramble down the metal stairway to the ramp with no clear idea what to do to stop the retreating jetliner.

The 737 was rolling backward at five to six knots. Craig stowed the reversers and waited what seemed like an eternity.

“Don’t touch the brakes!” Craig cautioned. “We’ll rock on our tail.”

“Right,” Alastair responded.

When the interlock had cleared, Craig shoved the thrust levers forward, waiting for the engines to come up to speed.

Slowly the big jet halted its rearward motion and transitioned to moving forward. Craig cranked the nosewheel to the left and guided them out of the ramp area toward the taxiway, aware that the ground crew was still giving chase and several police cars on their right were now moving cautiously, keeping pace, but maintaining a respectful distance.

“Call the tower for immediate takeoff clearance,” Craig barked.

Alastair complied, getting the response he expected. “EuroAir Four-Two, hold your position, sir! You were not cleared to taxi.”

Craig punched the transmit button for his headset before the copilot could reply. “Negative, tower, I’m declaring an emergency at this time. Clear us please for immediate takeoff on Runway Two Seven.”

Alastair turned toward the left seat shaking his head. “What?”

“An emergency takeoff.”

“There’s no such thing that I’m aware of. You’re going to cashier both our licenses. Come on, Craig. Stop this.”

“No. Finish the before takeoff checklist. We’re rolling as soon as we get to the end.”

“Craig,” Alastair replied, his voice deep and serious, “I beg you, don’t take off without clearance!”

“We have the air traffic control clearance?”

“Yes, but no takeoff clearance, as you well know,” Alastair said, keeping his eyes ahead and calculating the distance to the end of the runway. There were no other aircraft in the way, and the cars giving chase were behind them now. “If we take that runway without a takeoff clearance, we’re both in serious trouble, and I’d rather keep my ticket. This is insane!”

Craig punched the transmit button again. “Tower? Are you going to clear me for takeoff under my emergency authority? We do not have time to explain, and lives are at stake.”

“Ah… I… this is most irregular, EuroAir. Are you being hijacked?”

“I can’t answer that. Understand?”

There was a telling hesitation as the tower operator found the right slot for the problem. Hijacking! That must be the answer. This must be a hijacking!

“Roger, Four-Two, you are cleared for immediate takeoff on runway Two Seven.”

“The checklist is complete,” Alastair said, his voice tense and urgent as he watched Craig take the 737 at a higher-than-normal taxi speed around the end of the taxiway and onto the runway.

“Setting power. Autothrottles engaged,” Craig said.

“Roger. Airspeed alive.” Alastair waited, watching the airspeed leap to life. “Eighty knots, looking for one hundred twenty-seven.”

Craig glanced to his right, past the copilot, half-expecting armed vehicles to be chasing them down the taxiway, but they were leaving unopposed.

The powerful thrust of the engines pushed them back in their seats as the airspeed needle moved against the dial.

“Vee One, and Vee R,” Alastair stated, reporting the commit speed and the rotation speed as the terminal flashed past in the distance on their right.

Craig pulled gently on the control yoke, lifting the nose, feeling the jet come off the runway as a flying machine and accelerate even faster, freed of the constraints of wheels on concrete.

“Positive rate, gear up.”

“Roger,” Alastair replied. “Gear up.” He moved the lever to the up position, monitoring the sequence of red lights and then no lights before moving the gear handle to the off position, his mind racing through the possible trouble they had just created for themselves. At the very least, EuroAir management would be apoplectic. At worst, he and Dayton would be fired and possibly prosecuted. He was the copilot and a British subject. Why had he permitted this to happen for the likes of an American President?

“Flaps One, Level Change, N1, Two Ten, Heading Select.”

“Flaps… One, Level Change… all done,” Alastair replied. “May I ask a question?”

“Yes, if you put the flaps up now.”

“Flaps… up. Very well. Where, exactly, are we going, now that we’re fugitives?”

Craig glanced at the copilot. “Rome. As scheduled. I’m going to deliver my former Commander-in-Chief safely to his destination.”