One of the downsides to the Learjet, Jennlynn had discovered years before, was that it was a real problem to take out of the country. Actually, taking it out of the country wasn’t the problem, but bringing it back in created big hassles. Before she had acquired it, it had hauled innumerable loads of cocaine. As far as she knew, everything had been sealed up pretty well, and after she bought the plane she had a HAZMAT cleaning crew go through the cabin thoroughly to make sure any perceptible traces of coke were removed.

But none of that meant anything to a drug dog with a good nose; let one of them near the plane, and the dog went off like it was a major drug bust.

To say that things got inconvenient would be to vastly understate what happened – the aircraft was given a major search, and the second time it happened, none too careful searchers raised hell with the interior. It cost Jennlynn $8,500 to have the seats reupholstered and the cabin redone, and the lawsuit to recover the damages was still pending.

But that taught her a lesson: even though there were times it would be inconvenient, Skyhook was not going out of the country again. Most of the time it wasn’t a problem, for most of the places that Lambdatron people had to go outside of the country were pretty well out of the Learjet’s easy range, anyway – places like Europe and the Far East.

But Mexico City was not on that list, and were it not for the drug dogs, Jennlynn would have preferred to take Skyhook on this particular trip. As far as that went, it was a trip she really would rather have not taken in the first place. She would have been quite content to just stay at a computer screen at Lambdatron and concentrate on engineering, but as time went on customer relations and management began to eat into her time more and more. She was good at customer relations; she knew her stuff, was friendly and personable, and being a good-looking woman didn’t hurt at all, although most customers weren’t aware of her affiliations with the Redlite Ranch.

With the exception of an occasional item that could be run off in limited numbers in the company shops, Lambdatron did little manufacturing. But there were often companies that asked for help in producing an item beyond their own technical capabilities, and Stan and the other Lambdatron management people could usually find a place to get the work done. This particular trip was to evaluate a potential production company on the outskirts of Mexico City, to see if they were capable of meeting the quality control standards needed for a new controller unit Lambdatron had designed for a Seattle company. Since she had been involved with bringing the business in to Lambdatron in the first place, Jennlynn was the logical person to go do the evaluation.

It had taken several days, and Jennlynn’s conclusion that the company was not up to the quality control standards necessary was a useful piece of knowledge, if a negative one in a way. The next place to be checked out would be in Taiwan, and that meant a long, long flight.

But, first things first. There was an industrial electronics show in Chicago starting the next day, and it was an important one, where a lot of Lambdatron business had been initiated over the years. Again, Jennlynn’s detailed knowledge of the field, personable manner, and good looks had made her an important adjunct to the Lambdatron booth. It was worth the trip; even though she really didn’t care for trade-show work that much anymore, it was good for the company.

But the timing of the evaluation and the need to be in Chicago on this Sunday afternoon had blown up a perfectly good weekend at the Redlite, and the week-long show would mean that the next weekend was shot in the butt, too. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to cancel the Redlite, but at least this time, it had been enough in advance that her appointments could be rescheduled. But the timing also meant it wasn’t worth the trouble of stopping in Phoenix at all, and it was simpler to just go direct to the Windy City from Mexico City. Thanks to security issues, she did not often fly on airlines anymore – that was why she had Skyhook, after all – and the trip to Mexico City had been the first time she’d flown commercial since the September 11 terrorist attacks in New York and Washington. That made flying the Learjet even more advantageous. It had been a major hassle with a lot of time to kill just to get on the plane to Mexico City in Phoenix, and by the time it was over with, Jennlynn was wishing that she’d just flown Songbird instead, despite the fact it would take even longer.

Lambdatron was picking up the cost of a coach seat, but since she could afford it, she saw no reason to have to ride in a cramped seat designed for midgets on the Southern flight to Chicago. She upgraded to first class the first thing, putting her into the very front row and avoiding most of the hassles and crowding of boarding and disembarking. Security did not seem to be as much of an issue in Mexico City as it had been at Phoenix, but still a little irritated at having two weekends in a row blown up, she ignored it. She settled into her seat with the idea of going over some outstanding company paperwork, and perhaps taking a nap to rest up for the hassles of a week-long industry show.

The front rest rooms were not far away, and a couple hours out, she saw a familiar face come out of one of them, and brightened a little bit. "Why, hello Mallory," she smiled. "How have you been?"

"Jennlynn!" the big black woman smiled; they knew each other well from the Redlite Ranch. There were enough men coming through who liked to be physically dominated by women, that George had found it worthwhile to keep a professional dominatrix on the staff. Mallory had been the Redlite’s specialist for a couple of years; she was actually pretty friendly off duty, but on duty was another story – Griz may have been nicer to opposing quarterbacks. "I’ve been fine, how are you? And how are George and Shirley?"

"Still hanging in there, both of them," Jennlynn smiled. "They’ll be there until they carry them out. So what are you up to?"

"Oh, I have a studio of my own in Chicago, now," Mallory laughed. "Doing pretty well, actually. Hey, did you ever hear anything about Colonel Hawkins?"

Oh, yes, Jennlynn thought, Mallory probably would have been one of those watching the battle between Nighthawk and Skyhooker fourteen months before. "Only secondhand," she replied. "Don’t look for him to make general any time soon."

"Bummer," Mallory laughed. "He was pretty . . . " She never got the chance to finish her sentence, for all of a sudden behind her, an uproar exploded. There were four men who had been standing, waiting for rest rooms; two of them grabbed Mallory, one holding a knife to her throat, while the other two headed for the cockpit.

The two hijackers using Mallory as a shield to protect the two assaulting the cockpit had unknowingly made a serious mistake: a muscular, six-foot-two professional dominatrix with a mean disposition and a black belt does not make the best of all possible hostages. In fact, in hindsight, she was the worst possible choice. Mallory said afterward that at that instant she wasn’t even thinking hijacking; all she saw was a threat, and she reacted – violently. In less time than it takes to tell it, she knocked the knife hand free, reached over her shoulder, grabbed a ham-sized handful of hijacker and used him as a bludgeon to hit the other one.

And again, in less time than it takes to tell, most of the first class section reacted. September 11 had taught people one thing: it doesn’t pay to sit back and let airplane hijackers have their way. It doesn’t matter whether you die rushing an armed hijacker or die when the plane crashes into a building, you are just as dead. In the former case, however, there’s a chance of living or at least saving other lives, so it’s better to take the chance. Within five seconds, both "cover" hijackers were buried in passengers, and Mallory and an elderly but athletic-looking man from the other side of the front row seats were charging after the two who had headed for the cockpit. Jennlynn was third in line, right on their heels, carrying a weapon that she’d thought about ever since September 11.

The hijackers in the cockpit were not yet aware that their rear was no longer covered, and didn’t pay attention to the approaching rampage. They only became aware of it when Mallory grabbed one off of the copilot and threw him backward physically into the arms of the oncoming elderly man, then turned and slapped the last hijacker off the pilot, just as Jennlynn, holding her high-heeled shoe by the toe, swung it like a cargo hook at his throat. Blood spurted; she yanked, and in an instant he was on the floor as more passengers came up to help.

Still moving quickly – it was less than ten seconds since the fracas began – both Jennlynn and Mallory turned to the flight crew. The copilot was groaning – a knife sticking from his chest – and the pilot was bleeding profusely from the throat. "Shit," Mallory said, then yelled, "We need medical help up here, right now!"

"Right here," the elderly man who had charged the cockpit behind Mallory said from behind them, where he had the hijacker in a hammerlock while a couple of other passengers were beating him into submission. "You guys, I’m gonna give this shithead to you."

In only seconds, the man had squeezed past Jennlynn and Mallory. "Oh, shit," he said at the first sight. "That’s not good."

"Are you a doctor?" Jennlynn asked.

"Veterinarian," the man said. "But it’s close enough to know how bad things are. We need to get ’em out of the seats and on the floor. Pilot first, he’s worse."

Mallory and Jennlynn helped the veterinarian drag the pilot from the seat, and by then there were others around to help get them back into the cabin. "Jennlynn, can you fly this thing?" Mallory asked.

She looked at the cockpit; the plane seemed to be in a normal pitch attitude, flying level, so the autopilot must still have been on. "Going to have to, I guess," she replied, and slipped into the pilot’s seat. The cockpit was unfamiliar, but there were enough similarities to the Learjet that she wasn’t totally lost. Taking a deep breath and praying to a God she hadn’t given a thought to in years, she slipped the pilot’s headphones with boom microphone over her head, and punched the radio button on the yoke. "Any station on this frequency," she called. "This is Southern one-eleven."

"Southern one-eleven, this is New Orleans Center, go ahead," a voice replied immediately.

"New Orleans Center, Southern one-eleven has been hijacked," she said. "The passengers have retaken control of the aircraft, and the hijackers are in custody. We appear to be in normal flight conditions. The flight crew is seriously injured and incapable of handling the aircraft. I have an ATR in the Learjet, but this is the first time I’ve ever been up front in anything this big."

There was a brief silence on the frequency as the controller realized the size and temperature of the hot potato that had just been dropped in his lap on an otherwise quiet Sunday afternoon. "Ah, roger, one-eleven" he finally replied. "Understand you have an averted hijacking, passengers in control of the aircraft, and flight crew injured. We show you two seven five miles south of the Abbeville VOR, indicating flight level 330 and steady."

"Affirmative, Center," she replied. "I’m showing course zero one five, altitude three three zero, speed five zero zero. The aircraft appears to be on autopilot, so we’re OK up here for the moment."

"Very well, one-eleven. Maintain course and altitude while we get things up to speed on this end."

"Roger, maintaining course and altitude," she replied, then leaned back to get more of a look around the cockpit. The flight group of instruments was right in front of her, and those were much the same as Skyhook’s; now that her heart rate was dropping a little, about half of the cockpit was understandable.

"Ma’am?" she heard a nervous voice over her shoulder. "The black woman says you know how to fly this plane."

"Sort of," she looked up, to see the chief steward. "I have an ATR in the Learjet, but I’ve never flown anything this big. With a little bit of help, I should be able to get us down all right, but canvass the passengers and see if there’s anyone on board with any kind of large airplane experience, prop or jet."

"We’ve already been looking," he told her in slightly Spanish-accented English. "So far, we haven’t found anyone. The doctor says that the pilot, the copilot, and the one injured hijacker are still alive, but the sooner they get to a hospital the better."

"No hope of help from the pilot or copilot, right?"

"No, ma’am," he replied.

"All right. I’m in contact with the ground, I’ll tell them to get hot. Go back, and make a cabin announcement that things should work out all right, but it’ll help considerably if people stay calm and in their seats."

"Right away, ma’am." he said as he turned to go.

She thumbed the button on the yoke again. "Center, one-eleven," she called. "I’ve just been informed that we have three serious injuries, the two flight crew and one hijacker. The doctor’s opinion is that the sooner they see an ER, the better."

"Roger, confirm three serious injuries," the voice replied from the ground. "We’re still working on it. You’re still far enough out that you’ve got to get to us first, and you were routed east to avoid traffic in the DFW area. We’re now showing you two five zero miles south of the Abbeville VOR."

"One-eleven, roger," she replied, and returned to her study of the cockpit. By now, she’d figured out how to turn off the autopilot, but there was no point in doing it now, she had more important things to do than to hand-fly the airplane just yet – mostly just get familiar with the cockpit and the controls. This was a lot worse than when Mike put her in the seat of the Learjet for the first time; then she’d had time to study the handbook, time to get familiar with the controls, and it was a lot simpler, anyway.

In a minute, the steward was back. "Everything’s under control back there," he said. "We found a couple of single-engine private pilots, but no one with heavy airplane experience."

"Send whichever one seems more experienced and level headed up here," she said. "I don’t know how much help they’re going to be, but you never know."

A couple of minutes later, a tall, solidly built, calm-looking man came into the cockpit. "Ma’am?" he said. "I’m Jeff Waldemer. The steward thought I might be of help."

"Jennlynn Swift," she said by way of introduction. "You ever flown anything this big?"

"I was right seat in a DC-3 a couple times," he said. "But I’ve got thousands of hours in a Cessna 207, flying missionaries around in Bolivia."

"Have a seat, Jeff," she said, pointing at the co-pilot’s seat. "I’m not going to be in quite as far over my head as you are. I’ve got plenty of Learjet time, but nothing as big as this. I don’t know what they’re going to have us doing yet, but it would surprise me if I can’t use an extra set of hands."

"You’re a professional pilot?" he asked, sitting down and picking up the co-pilot’s headset.

"Semi-pro," she said. "I own Skyhook Aviation out of Phoenix; we run the Lear and a 310. It’s just a sideline, but I do about half the flying, mostly in the Learjet. I’m a research engineer on my day job."

He looked about the cockpit. "Thank the good Lord you’re here," he said, shaking his head. "I’m totally lost. I mean, if I was the only chance here, I’d do my best, but I’m sure glad there’s someone else."

"I hope you’re right," she sighed. "How are things in the back?"

"Pretty much under control now," Jeff told her. "It was crazy there for a few minutes. That big black woman has the hijackers tied up in the darndest way I ever saw, and they don’t look like they’re enjoying it one bit. One of them told her they were going to take this thing to Daytona."

"Daytona?" she frowned. "Why there?"

"She didn’t say, but the Daytona 500 is today, with a couple hundred thousand race fans in the stands."

"What a mess that would be," she said, shaking her head. "Worse than 9/11." She thought about it for a moment, then thumbed the microphone button on the yoke. "Center, Southern one-eleven," she called.

"One-eleven, go ahead."

"I was just informed that one of the hijackers told one of the passengers that the plan was to take this plane to Daytona," she told him. "I’m thinking there might be a backup out there."

"Roger, one-eleven, we’ll pass the word. Stand by, word coming through now."

"One-eleven standing by."

The seconds seemed to drag on interminably before the controller’s voice spoke up again. "Southern one-eleven, this is Center," he said. "We’re going to vector you to Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi. We are currently on one eighteen dot three seven five. We suggest you use your other radio to contact Keesler on one twenty-one dot five. If you do not make contact, contact us again on this frequency."

"Roger, Center. Southern one-eleven to contact Keesler on one two one dot five. Thank you for your assistance, and good day, sir," she said, tensing just a little at the thought of Keesler. That was where Will was stationed, of all places!

"Air Force Base?" Jeff asked as Jennlynn reached up to spin the dials.

"What do you want to bet they don’t quite trust us?" she said, "I’ll give you good odds that somewhere between here and there right now there are a couple F-16s on burner that will follow us in just to make sure."

"No bet," he smiled. "I mean, I don’t bet, but I wouldn’t take that one if I did."

"Keesler," she said into the microphone, "Southern one-eleven."

"Roger, one-eleven," came a different voice. "We have a reserve officer coming to the tower who is a captain on an Airbus 300 in his civilian job. He should be here in a couple minutes. Center reports you one seven five miles south of the Abbeville VOR. Maintain course and speed for now."

"Keesler, did Center inform you that we have three serious injuries on board?"

"Affirmative one-eleven, we will have medical standing by for you. Can you say the nature of the injuries?"

"I don’t know the details," she said. "The pilot had a cut throat, don’t know how deep. The copilot took a knife to the chest, and one hijacker had a hole punched in his throat when we retook the airplane."

* * *

"SHIT!!!" the assignment editor yelled into the Channel 5 Newsroom in Biloxi. There was a scanner there that covered police frequencies; one of the buttons was on the aircraft emergency frequency, just in case. "Did she say hijacker?"

"Sounded like it to me," the shift producer said, realizing instantly that a peaceful Sunday afternoon of watching the race was shot in the butt. "Holy shit, who do we have out around the base?"

"Remote two is out that way, Bishop is with them," the assignment editor said. "Give me a second; I’ll get them moving toward the base."

"They won’t be able to get on base unless they’re cleared on," the producer shook his head. "Shit, PIO’s closed on Sunday." He turned to a notebook and thumbed through to the page on the base information office and quickly dialed the home number for the Public Information Officer, but got no response.

The phone had not rung more than four times before he was dialing the off-duty number for the Public Information NCO on a second phone. There, the phone was answered on the second ring: "Sergeant Hoffman, sir."

"Sergeant Hoffman, this is Dan Riordan at WOXI," he said. "We’re hearing over the aviation emergency frequency what sounds like a hijacked airplane heading for the base. If I heard the conversation correctly, the passengers have taken the airplane back, but the flight crew is injured. We’ve got a unit headed toward the base. Can you get them cleared through the gate?"

"Sir, I can’t authorize them onto the base myself, but I’ll see what I can do," the sergeant said in a relaxed drawl.

"Thanks, Sergeant, we owe you a big one," Riordan said, then hung up the phone to call network news in New York.

Will knew that since 9/11, the base was locked down pretty tight, so his first step was to call the Security Police command center and ask the chief, "Are you are aware of the hijacked civilian aircraft that will be landing here soon?"

"I just heard about it, Chief Master Sergeant Barnes replied. "What can I do for you?"

"Chief, I was just contacted by a local TV station, and they want to come on base. I’m sure there’ll be more reporters who’ll want to come on base after that."

It took some juggling around and a call to General Ronstadt, the base commander, but soon permission was granted.

"Thanks Chief," Will said after things got worked out. "It’s going to be an interesting afternoon."

"Sergeant Hoffman, I agree with you there. It’s going to be a three ring circus. Why don’t you go to Base Ops and get set up, and I’ll arrange for the escort from the main gate for the news crews."

* * *

"Southern one-eleven, this is Keesler," Jennlynn and Jeff heard a different voice over the radio.

"Keesler, one-eleven, go ahead," she replied.

"Ma’am, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Bruce Hadley. I’m a senior captain for Southern, and I’ve flown that airplane many times. I’m here to assist you in any way I can. My understanding is that you are type-rated in Learjets, but have never flown something as big as a 300 before."

"Affirmative, Colonel Hadley," she replied. "I have about a thousand hours in a Learjet 24, and I have an ATR in that aircraft."

"Very well, one-eleven," he said. "I’ve never flown a Learjet but would like to some time. Now ma’am, just relax and be professional. I realize you’ve never flown anything like that big, but in many ways, they get easier as they get bigger. We’re not going to be doing anything complicated. I realize you’re concerned about the three injured people you have on board, but you have just as great if not even more responsibility for nearly 300 uninjured people, so we’re going to take our time and do this conservatively for their sake. Over."

"Keesler, one-eleven. Colonel Hadley, you’re thinking the same thoughts I am," Jennlynn told him. "Let’s do this right."

"Very well, one-eleven," he replied. "You are still outside of local radar coverage, but your position is being reported to us by New Orleans Center, so we’ll worry about your navigation. In a few minutes, I’m going to help you start your letdown. It’s my intention to use small turns to steer you onto the two one zero radial of the Biloxi VOR, and then transition you onto the Keesler localizer as soon as you’re in range. My thinking is that we can use the localizer and glide slope to assist you in visual cues on your runway approach. Are you going to be comfortable with that?"

"Sounds like a plan, Colonel Hadley."

"Very well," he replied. "My understanding is that you are still on autopilot. In a minute, I’ll have you turn off the autopilot so you can get used to the handling of the aircraft a little. I think you’ll find it handles slowly and sluggishly compared to the Learjet. Before we get started, change the frequency of the top VOR to one two six dot three zero, and that will be the Biloxi VOR."

"Roger, one two six dot three zero," she replied.

"Now, change the frequency of the bottom VOR to one three two dot two five. That’s the Keesler localizer, and we’re done messing with radio frequencies from here on."

"Roger, one three two dot two five, affirmative."

* * *

Will had been lying around the BEQ in his civvies that Sunday afternoon, doing a little background reading on the medieval history course that he was taking for fun, and planning on watching the race some later, unless it got a little dull. That plan had gone out the window in an instant. He hung up the phone after returning the call to the TV station, then realizing there was no time to change into uniform, he grabbed his jacket with the master sergeant stripes on the sleeves and headed out the door.

He’d known for years that most of the time the PIO’s job is dull as dishwater, but once in a while it goes nuts. It had been a long time since he’d been around this kind of crazy in the PIO shop, but he’d been in the business long enough to know what he was doing. Outside the BEQ, he hopped in his beat-up old Chevy Citation and headed for Base Operations, not taking his time. He slid to a stop outside the Base Operations building and ran inside, then went immediately to the control tower. Understandably, most of the attention in the tower was going toward the unfolding emergency, but he found a staff sergeant he’d served with in Dahrein, who gave him an outline of what was going on. Just as Will stepped outside, he saw that a reporter and cameraman from Channel 5 were being escorted to the parking lot by the Security Police; a crew from Channel 9 was not far behind them. He waved to the reporters and cameramen, calling them over to him.

"Hi, Will," one of the cameramen said. "What’s happening?"

"Got somethin’ different," Will drawled, as two cameras began to be pointed in his direction. He gave the cameramen a few seconds to get set, then turned off the Nevada cowboy accent and continued, "I’m Master Sergeant Will Hoffman, the base Public Information NCO. Lieutenant Maitland, the PIO, is off base, I believe in New Orleans. The details I have are sketchy, but apparently a few minutes ago Southern Airlines Flight one-eleven was briefly taken over by hijackers. The passengers apparently fought back and regained control of the aircraft. The flight crew was seriously injured in the process, knife wounds from what I understand, and one hijacker was also seriously injured. The crew is currently incapable of flying the airplane; a woman business jet pilot who happened to be on board is flying it. My understanding is that she has an Airline Transport Rating but is only rated in smaller jet aircraft. There is an Air Force Reserve Lieutenant Colonel by the name of Bruce Hadley in the tower who flies the same type of airplane for Southern, and he’s currently giving the woman a run-through on operation of the Airbus 300. A couple minutes ago the aircraft was still out over the Gulf, south of New Orleans. The plane was on a scheduled flight from Mexico City to Chicago. That’s about all I have for you at the moment."

"Sergeant," Barbara Bishop, a tall, blonde woman with a microphone in her hand said. "Do you know why they’re coming here?"

"I’m not clear on that, ma’am," Will told her. "If I had to guess, it’s because it’d cause less traffic disruption here than elsewhere, but please don’t quote me on that."

"Can we get in the tower?" said a shorter, well-dressed man, obviously a reporter too.

"No, sir," Will told him. "They’re busy in there, and they weren’t real happy about having me in there."

"Sergeant," Bishop said. "Is there any chance you could get them to put the conversation between the tower and the aircraft on a loudspeaker so we can hear it?"

"No ma’am, I don’t know if it can be done, and don’t want to bother them. But if you can wait a minute, I’ll get a aviation scanner out of my car, and we can try to monitor it out here."

"Excellent, Sergeant. Good idea. Do you have any idea of the identity of the woman flying the airplane?"

"No ma’am, I don’t, and as far as I know, it’s not been mentioned."

* * *

"One-eleven, this is Keesler," Colonel Hadley said. "Are you getting the feel of it?"

"Affirmative, Colonel," she replied. "You’re right; it maneuvers slowly but seems well behaved."

"It’s an honest airplane and well behaved," he said soothingly, still not knowing just what kind of a pilot he was dealing with. One who sounded very professional and very cool under the circumstances, but there was no way of knowing. She, or anyone in her situation, could fall to pieces at any time. "I’m going to start turning you toward the approach radial of the Biloxi VOR. Come right gently to a course of zero three zero degrees. Shoot for a two-minute rate of turn."

It was only a fifteen-degree turn, but would bring her across the radial at a shallower angle, and he intended to shallow it more before she got there. One-eleven was still out of local radar range, but he knew in general terms where she was, and at the moment that was all he needed to know. It was descending, the throttles pulled way back; that could be adjusted when the plane got closer. As he waited, he thought of Phil Spector and Larry Johnson, the pilot and co-pilot. He’d flown with both of them, liked them. What a hell of a thing to happen, but maybe they’d gotten lucky after all. It was thought throughout the industry, if not as well known to the public, that it seemed likely that on Flight 93 back on September 11, the passengers had probably at least partly regained control of the airplane, but apparently didn’t have anyone who could fly it. Phil and Larry had better luck than that. Hell, he didn’t even know this woman’s name!

"Course zero three zero," she reported professionally. "And we’re out of flight level two four zero and descending."

"You’re coming along just fine," he said. "We’ll stick with that course for a couple minutes, then come left to zero two zero to intercept the radial. By the way, ma’am, I don’t believe any of us caught your name."

"Roger, Colonel. I have a single-engine pilot by the name of Jeff Waldemer in the cockpit with me. My name is Jennlynn Swift."

"Hooo-leeey shit!" Colonel Hadley heard the air operations officer say after he had released the microphone button. "That’s got to be Learjet Jenn! I was there when she kicked Max Hawkins’ ass!"

"It can’t be," Colonel Hadley replied, keeping his thumb off the microphone button. He’d heard the story; it was close to an Air Force legend.

"That name, that voice, and a thousand hours in a Learjet?" the AOD snorted. "Who else could it be?"

Hadley keyed the microphone button. "Ma’am, by any chance are you the woman they call ‘Learjet Jenn?’"

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