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Imagine! You're at the controls of your Lockheed Super Electra, slicing your way through miles of low-lying clouds.

You take one hand off the wheel to scratch the stubble on your hollow cheeks, then grab a handkerchief to mop the sweat trickling down your grease-spattered brow.

Through throbbing bloodshot eyes, you look down at the polished aluminum nose of your aircraft, glimmering and shifting patterns of shadow and light.

Your narrow, chopped lips break into a grin.

You're on top now. The head of everyone. That's not merely one man's opinion, it's a fact. No one can possibly deny who's boss.

You grab the radio mic. FB1, this is WF-39.

Copy WF-39. Situation on the ground under control. Repeat, under control.

Copy that, FB1. Well, that's one hell of a relief.

It ease up on the throttle as you continue your descent toward the same New York airfield you took off from.

When was it?

You check your watch.

Oh yes! Exactly three days, 23 hours and three minutes ago.

Now, doubt about it, you'll be touching down in record time.

You dip below the cloud line into the middle of a gorgeous July afternoon. Right skies, gentle breezes, crystal clear visibility.

Until your wings to get a better look at what's going on down there.

And here's stomach, drops.

Thousands of rabid fans clogged the streets of the surrounding neighborhood. They stand on roofs, wobble atop street lights and telephone poles.

There are hundreds more swarming around the welcome stand, where New York's mayor and a few cops are waiting for you.

Right next to where they told you to land.

There's no way you're getting out in the middle of that chaos.

WF-39, this is FB1, do you copy?

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