Free The Pharaoh's Secret by Clive Cussler

built to last.
    He took a puff on the cigar, enjoying the aroma and then exhaling a lopsided ring of smoke. A few furtive glances came his way. Smoking wasn’t allowed on Air Force Two, but no one was going to tell the Vice President that. Especially when they’d been sitting on the taxiway, going nowhere, when they were supposed to be winging their way to Rome for an economic summit.
    Truthfully, they’d only been holding for ten, maybe fifteenminutes, but Air Force One and Air Force Two never waited on the ground unless there was a mechanical problem. And if that was the case, the Secret Service would have made the pilots taxi back and taken the Vice President off the plane until it was fixed.
    Sandecker pulled the cigar from his mouth and looked over at Terry Carruthers, his aide. Terry was a Princeton man, incredibly sharp, never one to leave a job undone and outstanding at following orders. In fact, he was too good at following orders, Sandecker thought, since it seemed to mean taking the initiative was not a big part of his vocabulary.
    â€œTerry,” Sandecker said.
    â€œYes, Mr. Vice President.”
    â€œI haven’t sat on a runway this long since I flew commercial,” Sandecker explained. “And to give you some idea of how long ago that was, Braniff was the hottest thing going at the time.”
    â€œThat’s interesting,” Terry said.
    â€œIt is, isn’t it?” Sandecker said in a voice that suggested he was getting at something else. “Why do you think we’re delayed? Weather?”
    â€œNo,” Carruthers said. “The weather was perfect up and down the Eastern Seaboard when I last checked.”
    â€œPilots lose the keys?”
    â€œI doubt that, sir.”
    â€œWell . . . maybe they forget the way to Italy?”
    Carruthers chuckled. “I’m fairly certain they have maps, sir.”
    â€œOkay,” Sandecker said. “Then why do
you
think the second-most-important person in America is cooling his heels on the taxiway when he’s supposed to be flying the friendly skies?”
    â€œWell, I really wouldn’t know,” Carruthers stammered. “I’ve been back here with you the whole time.”
    â€œYes you have, haven’t you?”
    There was a brief delay as Carruthers processed what Sandecker was getting at. “I’ll run up to the cockpit and find out.”
    â€œIt’s either that,” Sandecker said, “or I’m going to have a level-three conniption and put you in charge of a nationwide review of the country’s entire air traffic control system.”
    Carruthers unlatched his seat belt and was off like a shot. Sandecker took another draw on the cigar and noticed the two Secret Service agents assigned to the cabin trying to suppress their laughter.
    â€œThat,” Sandecker said, “is what I call a grade A teaching moment.”
    A short time later, the phone in the arm of Sandecker’s chair began to flash. He picked it up.
    â€œMr. Vice President,” Carruthers said. “We’ve just been told about an incident in the Mediterranean. There’s been a terrorist attack on a small island off the coast of Italy. It resulted in a toxic explosion of some kind. All air traffic is being diverted, grounded or rerouted at this time.”
    â€œI see,” Sandecker replied, serious once again. There was something in Carruthers’s voice that suggested more. “Any other details?”
    â€œOnly that the first news of this came from your old outfit, NUMA.”
    Sandecker founded NUMA and guided the organization for most of its existence before accepting the offer to become Vice President. “NUMA?” he said. “Why would they be the first to know about this?”
    â€œI’m not sure, Mr. Vice President.”
    â€œThanks, Terry,” Sandecker said. “You’d better come back and have a seat.”
    Carruthers hung up and