The big plane leveled out again and climbed, headed due east at Mach 1, and in minutes, it was over the Atlantic Ocean.
“Charting a course now for 64.7511 north, 147.3494 west,” Nate said.
“Uh…Brooks…those coordinates, Nate…I mean, look at that map again,” Nance said.
“What the hell is that? That’s nowhere,” Banholzer said.
“That is the goddamn Arctic.”
“What’s our fuel level?”
“You mean do we have enough fuel to fly to the f*****g North Pole? If that is what you are asking, that’s affirmative, but our escort will not make it—we can get there, and then what? Fly to the South Pole and run out of fuel in the Arctic Ocean. This plane can’t fly forever. The president should use the pod. If we can level out terra firma with enough altitude, she should go.”
“I concur. Go back there and sp
