The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

Percey's eyes were on the taxiway, checking left and right, always vigilant. To Brad she said, "I'll do the briefing now. Okay?"

"Yes'm."

"This'll be a rolling takeoff with flaps set to fifteen degrees," Percey said. "I'll advance the throttles. You call airspeed, eighty knots, cross-check, V one, rotate, V two, and positive rate. I'll command gear up and you raise it. Got that?"

"Airspeed, eighty, V one, rotate, V two, positive rate. Gear."

"Good. You'll monitor all instruments and the annunciator panel. Now, if we get a red panel light or there's an engine malfunction before V one, sing out 'Abort' loud and clear and I'll make a go/no-go decision. If there's a malfunction at or after V one, we will continue the takeoff and we'll treat the situation as an in-flight emergency. We will continue on heading and you'll request VFR clearance for an immediate return to the airport. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Good. Let's do some flying . . . You ready, Roland?"

"I'm ready. Hope you are. Don't drop your candy."

Percey laughed again. Their housekeeper in Richmond had used that expression. It meant, don't screw up.

She wobbled the throttles a little closer to the firewall. The engines gave a grinding sound and the Learjet sped forward. They continued to the hold position, where the killer had placed the bomb on Ed's plane. She looked out the window and saw two cops standing guard.

"Lear Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo," Ground Control called through the radio, "proceed to and hold short of runway five left."

"Foxtrot Bravo. Hold short of zero five left."

She steered onto the taxiway.

The Lear was a ground hugger, yet whenever Percey Clay sat in the left-hand seat, whether in the air or on the ground, she felt that she was a mile high. It was a powerful place to be. All the decisions would be hers, followed unquestioningly. All the responsibility was on her shoulders. She was the captain.

Eyes scanning the instruments.

"Flaps fifteen, fifteen, green," she said, repeating the degree setting.

Doubling the redundancy, Brad said, "Flaps fifteen, fifteen, green."

ATC called, "Lear Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo, turn into position. Cleared for takeoff, runway five left."

"Five left, Foxtrot Bravo. Cleared for takeoff."

Brad concluded the takeoff checklist. "Pressurization, normal. Temperature select is in auto. Transponder and exterior lights on. Ignition, pitot heat, and strobes, your side."

Percey checked those controls, said, "Ignition, pitot heat, and strobes on."

She turned the Lear onto the runway, straightened the nosewheel, and lined up with centerline. She glanced at the compass. "All heading indicators check zero five. Runway five L. I'm setting power."

She pushed the throttles forward. They began racing down the middle of the concrete strip. She felt his hand grip the throttles just below hers.

"Power set." Then Brad called, "Airspeed alive," as the airspeed indicators jumped off the peg and started to move upward, twenty knots, forty knots . . .

The throttles nearly to the fire wall, the plane shot forward. She heard a "wayl . . . " from Roland Bell and repressed a smile.

Fifty knots, sixty knots, seventy . . .

"Eighty knots," Brad called out, "cross-check."

"Check," she called after a glance at the airspeed indicator.

"V one," Brad sang out. "Rotate."

Percey removed her right hand from the throttles and took the yoke. Wobbly until now, the plastic control suddenly grew firm with air resistance.