Harold ended the call and abruptly threw his cell phone into the wall, shattering it. I run an airport, for crying out loud, he inwardly fumed, not a Ritz-Carlton.

There was a knock at the wall. Jenny Saunders was standing in the doorway with a pained, exasperated look on her face. “The people are agitated,” she said.

Harold started to smile, then figured that trying to keep up appearances could go to hell, and sighed. “What else is new?” he queried, running his fingers through his hair.

“They want some place to sleep.”

“They can sleep in the main thoroughfare in the terminal.”

“How?”

“Break out the cots.”

“I did.”

Harold began to say something when Marcia ran up to the door. She was out of breath and panted as she spoke. “I tried…tried calling you, b-but…but you…your…your cell was…was…was not…”

“Get on with it!” he spat.

Marcia drew in a deep breath. “Flight diverted from London. It’s an A380, packed to the gills.”

Harold swore. Where was he going to put five hundred fifty-five more people?