The General once again seemed his vibrant self, perking up. “Damn it! Put it on the main screen! Quiet everyone!”
The crew huddled around the 13-inch screen, all jostling for a decent view of the picture. Only the pilot stayed at his post, monitoring communications with the airport control tower.
“CNN has just received updated information on an aircraft explosion from one of our sister stations located out of Philadelphia,” the portly commentator said. “We now go live to WPVI.”
The location changed from CNN’s Atlanta studio to show a live feed of a middle-aged, yet attractive female, reporter standing a half-mile from a fire. The only way to realize it was an aircraft was the tail section protruding through the flames.
“This is Monica Torri of WPVI News reporting live from Millville Airport in Southern New Jersey where a mid-sized jet aircraft has exploded on the ramp.” She now referred to her hastily prepared notes, hoping she could read her own chicken scratch. “Our sources say they heard an aircraft flying low over the area five minutes before the explosion. They also saw four parachutists descend to the aircraft tarmac before the parachutists charged to the aircraft located behind me. Shortly after, an intense gun battle erupted, then within a minute of the gunfight a loud explosion ripped through the aircraft, destroying it in the process. We are only speculating about possible motives, but this could be drug-dealers with an FBI capture gone astray. Again, we are only speculating. We really don’t have anything concrete at this time. WPVI will keep you updated as we receive additional information.”
Upon hearing the news report, General Parker collapsed into his seat, his hands covering his face in disgrace.
In the cockpit, the pilot was busy stalling the Newark Control Tower, time was of the essence until they heard from their SAS ground troops. “Sir,” the pilot began, “the Americans would like confirmation of our planned departure or if we are requesting transient ramp space for the night.”
General Parker allowed a full 30 seconds to elapse before responding, staring at the floor in disgust. “Inform them of our intention to depart after we refuel, Captain.”
The pilot and SAS commander were friends, having served together in the Gulf War. He couldn’t just abandon his friend. Gathering enough bravado to confront his commanding officer he said. “But sir, what about our troops on the ground? Should we at least give them a few hours to communicate with us? We can’t leave them for the wolves, sir.”
The General slowly looked up at the pilot, staring intently at him as if he were going to rip his head off, his face changing from peach to the color of a deep crimson. “I said now. Those boys are dead. D.E.A.D. Dead,” he barked. “You just saw it for yourself on their television network. If Commander Robinson were alive, he would have communicated with us by now. Captain, you will notify the control tower that we are departing.”
The General quickly rose from his chair, marching solemnly off to the plane’s lavatory. Upon closing the lavatory door, he extracted his service revolver, staring at the aged image in the mirror. Is this how my career is to end? He saluted the image as the aircraft’s number one engine was starting.
CHAPTER 42
SOUTHERN NEW JERSEY
“Dan, I think our bullet holes are going to get us a little unwanted attention in the daylight hours, so what’s your big plan?” Jim asked, fingering one of several well-placed holes in the windshield.
Dan placed the plastic lid back onto his coffee cup, sliding it in the holder he had pulled out from the dashboard. “We can go to a shopping mall just a little north of here and find a new vehicle in the parking lot,” he said, pausing to see if Jim was catching on to where the conversation was heading.
Jim grinned in acknowledgement.
Dan continued. “The parking lot will have a few available SUV’s. We can drive our new truck behind the mall and exchange plates with this one and reload our product. We then torch the old truck to get rid of the evidence. After that festive bonfire, we head south on Interstate 95 to Florida, home free.”
MI-6 Headquarters, London
Sir Robert shuffled through the last remnants of the day’s paperwork when Rufus Sneed interrupted him.
“Sir Robert, I have a secure phone transmission from one of our special mission aircraft. It’s concerning your American operation.”
“Put it through,” Sir Robert said, quickly picking up the receiver on his Marconi scramble phone, a remnant of the cold war days, but still handy for operations such as this. “With whom am I speaking?”
With the message being electronically scrambled from phone to phone, it was still possible to intercept the signal and achieve some partial translation. Due to this, the operators were ordered to speak in a collection of “reference phrases.” This would provide anyone who did have the capability to intercept certain words with a jumble that would be impossible to break.
“This is the lead truck driver, sir. I have updated information on our Irish package. We are reporting four of our packages lost, and the postmaster has resigned.”
Sir Robert referred to his notes he had fastened under his calendar blotter on his desk for the quick translation. “What happened to the Irish package? Did it get shipped?”
“We suspect that since the vehicle was lost, all packages were also lost.”
“Until we get a positive address on our package, we will keep the slot open. And as far as the postmaster is concerned, he experienced a heart attack during a mission and died in the line of duty. Upon your return, we will have a crew meet you to take care of the situation.”
”Yes, sir. Over and out.”
CHAPTER 43
ARCHDIOCESAN HOME FOR ABUSED CHILDREN – NEW YORK CITY
The early morning streets of the North Queen’s business district were nearly deserted on this, the first Sunday of July, with one notable exception. A group of young children played hopscotch on the trash-laden sidewalk in front of a dilapidated brick building. The building appeared out of place in the center of a city block dominated by merchandisers of dollar store products, cheap liquor, and check-cashing outlets.
The building was referred to as the “last stand” by most of the cities social workers. The New York Archdiocesan Home for Abused Children being the only difference between the children and the city’s mean streets. Unfortunately for the Archdiocesan Home, its interior matched its aged exterior in the areas of plumbing, air conditioning, and electrical wiring. The building lay on the verge of being condemned by the city’s license and inspection bureau, literally taking away shelter for its 24 children in residence. For the poor children to once again face a sense of uncertainty, having already been abandoned and abused once in their young lifetimes, they were now on the verge of abandonment for a second harrowing time.
Thomas Jankowski was the home’s group leader or “head dude” as the children would endearingly refer to him, having worked in the home in one capacity or another since graduating from NYU ten years before. At 6’4” and 250 pounds, he could command the children’s attention through sheer intimidation, if he so chose. But to them, he was a gentle giant, a teddy bear, always ready to lend a hand or listen to someone’s problems.
His college friends shook their heads at his choice of careers. “You could be making the big bucks” the most frequent comment he would hear from his Wall Street friends.
What they couldn’t understand is that he actually enjoyed his work in the home. He could see progress and results each and every day. How many of them could say that? Most of his friends already had ulcers, downing containers of anti-acids just to make it through their workdays. The worst scenario he faced was the occasional fight or shoplifting charge. No big deal to him. Just an average day dealing with the constant tug-of-war the streets provided.
He sat finishing his traditional breakfast of four pieces of bran toast and a bowl of Wheaties as he eyed the New York Times box scores for the previous night’s Mets game. After seeing the Mets dropped another close one to the
Phillies in 10 innings, he tossed the sports page to the floor in disgust. “When are the Mets going to get some decent pitching,” he said aloud, only to be interrupted by his older assistant, Mrs. Klein. She held a rather large envelope for him.
“Tom, Federal Express just left this package for,” she said.
“Fed Ex delivers on a Sunday morning at 7:30 a.m.?” Tom asked, looking at his watch in amazement. “And I thought we were the only ones with horrible hours. Thank you, Mrs. Klein. You can leave it on the table. I’ll get to it as soon as I find out if the New York Times offers any hundred-dollar vacation deals. That’s about all I can afford right now.”
“You don’t have the time, Tom,” she said with a mysterious grin. “You also have a phone call in your office. The man says it’s important. He wouldn’t tell me a thing. Should I tell him you’re still sleeping?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll get it. But just once I want to be able to sit and eat my breakfast in peace and quiet,” he said directing a smile at Mrs. Klein.
JIM WAITED PATIENTLY IN his car across the street from the children’s home, watching the children play on the sidewalk, ready to uncover another piece of his father’s past.
“HELLO,” TOM SAID, “What can I do for you on this lovely morning?” The sarcasm clearly evident in his voice, wondering what one of his kids did this time to piss somebody off.
“Sir, this is going to sound a little crazy to you, but please bear with me,” Jim said, taking a deep breath to try and calm his nerves. “You don’t know me, and we have never met but I am hoping to fulfill a last request from my recently departed father.”
Jim looked at the building’s crumbling façade, a smile now creasing his face before continuing. “Let me provide you with a little background information so you know I’m not pulling your leg. Before my father died, he informed me about the rather large donations he had been providing to your institution. Usually once per year, he would send a check for the amount of $60,000 to cover your expenses. Now as far as I know, only six people are even aware of this information. Counting the two of us, that sure narrows the list down even further, doesn’t it?”
Tom stared at the phone for several seconds before responding, wondering where the man was heading. “I guess that would be a correct assumption.”
“Good. If you would kindly open the Federal Express package that was recently delivered to you, I will proceed.”
“You’re not joking with a man whose job is on the line, are you?” Tom said, having already received his layoff notice due to the home’s expected closure. “My life is already in turmoil over what’s going to happen to my kids. I can’t even sleep at night.”
“Tom, this is no joke. Please open the package. I think you will enjoy what you find,” Jim said. He looked once more at the children playing across the street, thinking back to his father’s ordeal in leading orphaned children from Berlin in its dying days, rescuing them from certain death. Sixty plus years latter his father was once more reaching out to administer aid, only now from his grave. A tear ran down his cheek wishing his father could be standing there beside him. Then again, who said he wasn’t?
“All right, all right. I’m opening it now,” Tom said, ripping open the red, orange, and blue envelope, extracting a single sheet of paper with a check attached via a paper clip. Tom stood staring at the check and its seven zero’s, still wondering if he were on the receiving end of a practical joke. But it couldn’t be. Who else knew of the $60,000 donations? Surely none of his friends was aware of the generosity from the anonymous stranger. Gathering his thoughts, he finally responded. “Oh, come on now. Who is this? Tell me the truth because you can’t be serious—a certified check for twenty million dollars? You can’t,” he said, pausing for a moment. “It can’t be real. No one can write a check for this amount unless he’s Bill Gates, and you don’t sound like Bill Gates.”
“I assure you Tom, it’s real,” Jim replied, amused at his beneficiary role. “I want you to call the phone number attached to the check. It’s the number for the First Bank of New York. You will ask for the manager, a Mr. Pete Simmons, he will confirm its authenticity. I have made special arrangements for him to be at his desk this Sunday morning awaiting your call. This was the last wish of my father. He wanted his, I’m using his words not mine, ‘Angels Fallen’ to have perpetual care. Tom, please allocate these funds to your children who really deserve it. Don’t allow the funds to become lost in some internal political shuffle. Until we talk again, please take care.”
Tom was performing a little dance with the check in his hand as Mrs. Klein came back into the room. “Mrs. Klein, we are finally going to build a new house for the kids. I want you to personally telephone everyone on our staff,” before placing the check onto the table in front of her. “Someone has just saved our kids.”
CHAPTER 44
MARATHON KEY – FLORIDA
Many a worldly traveler referred to the Florida Keys as the American Caribbean Isles because they happen to feature many of the same amenities as its tropical brethren; plenty of sun, surf, sand and boozed up tourists. However, the Keys possessed a more laid-back feel then their uptight island neighbors, with a 1960’s vibe reverberating through the area. San Francisco if it were warm and had access to fabulously sunny beaches.
The Craggy Dog Marina was a suitable fit with its Keys neighbors, as it contained all the fundamentals the new generation of baby-boomer retirees necessitated for their vacation abodes: a freshwater lap pool with a swim-up bar, an on-site health club, tennis courts, private beach, and a 200-foot pier suitable for fishing. At every turn you could view palm trees softly swaying with the continuous warm ocean breeze, each tall and wide enough to provide shade where desired. To top it off, the weather hovered around a constant 85 to 90 degrees.
Life is good.
Eian exited the marina’s office dressed in sandals, baggy white shorts, and a Hawaiian print shirt, topped off with a panama hat. His arm hung precariously in a sling.
Having squared off his debt with Mike Dolan in Philly, he was free and clear of everyone but possibly the FBI, Interpol, or the British SAS.
He was following directions provided by the head Craggy Dog himself, but he had a strange feeling that the rather large boat at the edge of the marina belonged to Dan.
At the moment, only 17 boats lay moored to the Craggy Dog’s piers, a number that could easily reach a peak of 40 when the snowbirds from Pennsylvania and New Jersey returned in winter. The boats currently tied up ranged from a “low-end” 23-foot King Fisher sail boat to a “high-end” 57-foot Jefferson Motor Yacht with the name “Irish Rebel” painted conspicuously in emerald green on its stern.
The “Irish Rebel” slept six, with a full galley, three bathrooms or heads in nautical speak, teak decking throughout, and a small two-person hot tub on the stern. Rumors circulated about the origins of its owner’s wealth, something mysterious involving Nazi gold. But no one knew for sure.
A familiar Jimmy Buffet tune hung in the humid air, tracing its origins back to the Irish Rebel.
Evidently the party had already started. He approached within five feet of the boat’s stern when he heard a loud metallic click from behind, the same unmistakable click a 45-caliber made when sliding a round into its chamber. Eian dropped his bag on the dock, still facing the boat, waiting for the inevitable.
He should have realized it was too good to be true. The cops were on to Dan.
“Damn it,” was all Eian could muster in response, looking to the water as an escape route, his lame arm quickly extinguishing that notion. Just when I had a few dollars in my pocket, the clouds of illusion part to drop a bit of rain.
The gun now pressed against the base of his skull, only prolonging Eian’s agony. “Just friggin shoot me,” he said aloud, wondering where the rest of the arresting officers were placed.
Deciding it was too much for Eian to handle, but still prolonging his agony by pausing several seconds, Dan replied in a low voice, di
sguising it as best as possible: “Eian, you old sea dog, give your long-lost cousin a hug.”
Eian turned slowly to face Dan, his face now devoid of all color.
“You scared the shit out of me. Jesus, what the hell did you do that for?” Eian said, pointing to the gun in Dan’s hand.
Dan howled with laughter before extending his hand in welcome. “We’re just having some fun at your expense. Let’s go on board my new vacation home so I can show you around.”
After several hours, all was forgiven. At least it appeared so. Dan and Eian were locked in a high-stakes poker game, its conclusion riding on the next card.
Before them they eyed the eight poker cards that lay on the table, four in front of each, a small stack of fifties separating them.
Eian looks up to Jim, smiling as he triumphantly held up his final card for Jim to view, then looking to Dan, his eyes sparkling. “Beat a full-house, Danny boy,” he said in a Belfast accent softened by his 10 years of living in the US. Eian held up a red queen for Dan to appreciate before tossing it down on the table.
Dan stared hard at Eian, shaking his head before replying in an even heavier Irish brogue: “How many times do I have to beat your ass in poker until you finally learn how to play?”
Eian rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me? Are you telling me you can beat my full-house?”
Dan ran his hand through his thick white hair before holding up a black ten, placing it beside the three already showing on the table. “Four tens, my man,” he said aloud as he cracked a slight smile upon a face aged from years of hard drinking, greedily pulling in the pile of money.
“I can’t believe it, you’re the best damn liar I know. You should play in Las Vegas with the professionals.”
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