The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"Fifty-five?" Brad asked with some surprise.

"Roger."

He punched in numbers. "Maximum climb is forty-three hundred fpm; we'd burn a lot down here, but after thirty-five thousand the efficiency goes way up. We could power back . . . "

"Go to one engine?"

"Sure. We could do that."

He tapped in more numbers. "That scenario, we'd deplete about eighty-three miles short. But, of course, then we'd have altitude."

Percey Clay, who got A's in math and physics and could dead reckon without a calculator, saw the numbers stream past in her head. Flame out at fifty-five thousand, sink rate of twenty-three . . . They could cover a little over eighty miles before they touched down. Maybe more if the headwinds were kind.

Brad, with the help of a calculator and fast fingers, came up with the same conclusion. "Be close, though."

God don't give out certain.

She said, "Chicago Center. Lear Foxtrot Bravo requesting immediate clearance to five five thousand feet."

Sometimes you play the odds.

"Uh, say again, Foxtrot Bravo."

"We need to go high. Five five thousand feet."

The ATC controller's voice intruded: "Foxtrot Bravo, you're a Lear three five, is that correct?"

"Roger."

"Maximum operating ceiling is forty-five thousand feet."

"That'

s affirmative, but we need to go higher."

"Your seals've been checked lately?"

Pressure seals. Doors and windows. What kept the aircraft from exploding.

"They're fine," she said, neglecting to mention that Foxtrot Bravo had been shot full of holes and jerry-rigged back together just that afternoon.

ATC answered, "Roger, you're cleared to five five thousand feet, Foxtrot Bravo."

And Percey said something that few, if any, Lear pilots had ever said, "Roger, out of ten for fifty-five thousand."

Percey commanded, "Power to eighty-eight percent. Call out rate of climb and altitude at forty, fifty, and fifty-five thousand."

"Roger," Brad said placidly.

She rotated the plane and it began to rise.

They sailed upward.

All the stars of evening . . .

Ten minutes later Brad called out, "Five five thousand."

They leveled off. It seemed to Percey that she could actually hear the groaning of the aircraft's seams. She recalled her high-altitude physiology. If the window Ron had replaced were to blow out or any pressure seal burst--if it didn't tear the aircraft apart--hypoxia would knock them out in about five seconds. Even if they were wearing masks, the pressure difference would make their blood boil.