by Marc Cameron
They moved him to a new cell with tile floors instead of rough concrete. Measuring ten by ten feet, it was palatial compared to the one that had been his home for the past month, and boasted a metal sink with running water. It had an actual bed—though the blanket was still filthy from the last prisoner to use it. A day later, they’d moved him up to the ground floor. His new place had all the amenities of his previous cell, with the most welcome addition of a small slit window. It was too high to see out of, or even reach, but it let in light and, more important, air.
Later that same day he’d been moved again, this time to a cell with a window overlooking a dirt courtyard. Best of all, there was a metal toilet attached to the base of an upright pedestal sink-and-water-fountain combination. A bucket and dipper took the place of toilet paper. Father West had uttered a silent prayer of thanks, and then cried like a baby.
Around midday, he got an actual chicken thigh on top of his rice. It was greasy, and small, as chickens tended to be in Indonesia, but the meat was identifiable—and delicious. West had eaten every grain of rice and all but the jagged center inch of the chicken bone. He was working on that when a guard came and removed his metal bowl.
He’d not seen Ajij or Jojo again after they inadvertently sent the text message from his phone.
With a little food in his sunken belly, West found himself thinking clearly for the first time in weeks. The movement to increasingly better cells was curious. It was as if the Indonesian authorities knew they were in trouble, but couldn’t quite admit it. No matter how good the accommodations became, he was still in prison.
A guard informed him he was going to get a visit from the embassy, but two uniformed men wearing berets and the owl insignia of Detachment 88, the law enforcement version of Indonesian Special Forces, had come into his cell. The men put shackles on his wrists and ankles as politely as one can shackle a person, and led him without a word of explanation to a garage, where he was stuffed into the back of an armored tanklike police vehicle called a Barracuda.
One of the most insidious things about being a prisoner was never knowing where you were going, what was coming next, what was about to happen. Sometimes this was by design, to keep the prisoner from making escape plans; sometimes it was meant to weaken the mind and induce cooperation. More often than not, though, it was simply because the guards felt a prisoner wasn’t worth the time it took to explain things.
The inside of the Barracuda had been like his first cell—hot, cloyingly humid, and dark. He could see one of the guards’ watch and noted they were on the road for just under two hours, traffic presumably clearing out of the way for the menacing armored vehicle and accompanying motorcade.
It was not until Father West was ushered out of the Barracuda and seated in a wobbly plastic chair on a small ferry that he realized where they were going.
Nusa Kambangan. Execution Island.
He’d always believed that God had a sense of humor. He had plenty of sins in his past life that should have landed him in a place like this, enough, at least, that he could never honestly say he was anything close to innocent. And yet he’d remained free and happy until he tried to do something good with his life. It was such a great cosmic joke.
As far as he knew, there had been no trial. Even in Indonesia, where the law sometimes bent to the will of the angry masses, death warrants didn’t happen quickly. Still, his was an unusual case. From his experience, sentencing, if not justice, was carried out most quickly to those who were wrongly arrested. It was embarrassing for the regime to keep such people around for very long.
Father West closed his eyes and breathed in the hot and fishy air as the ferry putted across the narrow estuary toward Execution Island. He couldn’t help but wonder if the greasy chicken thigh might have been his last meal.
48
The Hawker screamed past less than a hundred feet off the left wing, thirty-eight minutes after the Piper Cheyenne departed Manado. The stubby jet’s lights cut a trail in the darkness over the ocean. Chavez crouched between the pilots at the rear of the cockpit. Adara knelt on the aft-facing seat on the right side of the airplane, bracing herself on the backrest behind the copilot. She was just far enough from Chavez to split the pilots’ attention, helping to keep them in line, with the added stress of having the Hawker find and intercept them. It was imperative that they remain more afraid of Chavez and Adara than they were of Habib and the other men on the Hawker.
A scant half-mile ahead, the blinking lights of the Hawker cut directly in front of the Cheyenne’s flight path, then broke right, making a tight circle to come straight at them, this time on the left side of the airplane.
“That son of a bitch is trying to fly a business jet like a fighter,” Adara said.
Chavez felt the Hawker roar by, this time off the left wing.
“And doing a good job of it, too,” he muttered to himself.
The aircraft had a closing speed of roughly eight hundred miles per hour. The wake turbulence of the passing Hawker threw the Cheyenne around like a rag doll.
The copilot sputtered in his right seat, trying to contain his nervous laugh. Deddy had sweated completely through his shirt. He looked like he might get sick to his stomach at any moment as he glanced up at Chavez. This Habib guy had gotten into his head somehow.
The radio crackled to life, spewing what sounded like very angry Bahasa Indonesian.
“He is ordering me to return to Manado,” Deddy said.
“Tell him you’re unable,” Chavez said. “Tell him his shipment will remain intact, but you have a stop to make first. Tell him in English. Do it now.”
Deddy tentatively relayed the information. He released the mic and shook his head. “Habib is from Maluku. People from that island can be very rough. He is a pilot, but he is also—How do you say it?—an enforcer. If he had guns he would shoot us down right now.”
“Well, he doesn’t,” Adara said.
Chavez squeezed Deddy’s shoulder. He was shaking like an aspen leaf in the wind. “We’ll be fine as long as you fly this airplane. Why are you so scared of this Habib character?”
Deddy took a deep breath. “He is my brother-in-law.”
“That’s good,” Adara said. “He won’t harm family, right?”
“He has never liked me,” Deddy said. “This will be a good excuse. Whatever happens, I am dead.”
Chavez wanted to say, That’s what you get for peddling the shit you have in the back of the plane, but he kept it to himself.
“One thing at a time, Deddy,” he said instead. “Worry about flying the plane for now. I don’t want to have to depend on Chuckles over there if I don’t have to.”
Chavez keyed the mic, transmitting on Guard—a frequency military and civilian aircraft alike would monitor. He spoke rapid-fire English using the hey-you-this-is-me pattern aviators and war-fighters understood.
“Justice One, Cheyenne. You have an ETA?”
The leader of two F-15 Eagles answered quickly. “Cheyenne, Justice One.” The pilot sounded young, maybe thirty, but probably not even that. Young and earnest. The mixture of cocky humility common to most pilots Chavez had ever encountered came through clearly in his voice. Just a kid, really, but an old soul, living his dream entrusted with a multimillion-dollar airframe over a dark and lonely ocean on the far side of the world. Chavez imagined him building models of F-15 Eagles a decade before. Hell, he was not likely much older than Chavez’s son in the great scheme of things.
“We’re four minutes, your position,” Justice One said. “Radar shows you have company.”
“Roger that, Justice,” Chavez said. The two fighter pilots knew they were to have picked up a high-value item in Manado, and now that item was with Ding and Adara. Chavez had been able to brief them on the threat of the Hawker without talking about Calliope on an open radio frequency.
The F-15 leader spoke again. “Cheye
nne, squawk 1500 for me so I know who’s who.”
Chavez bumped the seat back until Deddy adjusted the transponder.
“Tally ho,” the flight leader said. “I have you. We’re three minutes . . .” He paused. “Tricky. The other aircraft just squawked 1500 as well, and then disappeared from my screen.”
Adara moved to look out the right window, then the left window, before turning to shake her head at Chavez. “I don’t see it.”
Chavez pointed up. “I think he’s flying above us.”
“Or below,” the younger Indonesian pilot said between nervous hiccups.
“That is not likely,” Deddy corrected his protégé. “Habib can still maintain distance and separation above us. Below, he would be blind.”
Chavez put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “Keep her straight and level. And slow us down. That should make it more difficult for him to maneuver his jet.”
Deddy shook his head. “The Hawker is faster than us, but it can fly almost as slowly. And we are heavy with product.”
The F-15 came across the radio again. “Piper Cheyenne, Justice, your company is camped out on top of you about thirty meters. Are there any friendlies on board the Hawker?”
“That’s a negative, Justice,” Chavez said.
“Copy, Cheyenne,” the F-15 leader said. “Stand by . . . Hawker, Hawker, this is a United States Navy aircraft over international waters. You are endangering the lives of United States citizens. I order you to turn left ninety degrees immediately.”
In the aircraft world, immediately meant just that.
Justice One spoke again, a hint of the barrio in his accent now.
“Cheyenne, Justice One, are you familiar with a head-butt maneuver?”
“I am,” Chavez said.
“Stand by to see one up close.”
Chavez barely had time to explain to a sweating Deddy and his hiccupping copilot before the F-15 looped in front of the Cheyenne, cutting directly across the nose in full afterburner, flaring to display the array of missiles under the wings as it shot by. The roaring Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines shook the much smaller aircraft in a terrifying show of force.
“He’s sticking with you, Cheyenne,” the F-15 pilot said. “Rules of Engagement are crystal clear on this. Stand by to decrease throttle and break right on my mark, going for avoidance. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Wilco.” Chavez made sure Deddy understood the plan and then grabbed a handful of seat leather.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . . mark!”
Deddy did what he was told and banked the Cheyenne 60 degrees to the right. The G-force of the skidding turn felt as if it might drive Chavez’s feet through the cabin floor.
A moment later, Justice One crackled over the radio again. “No go, Cheyenne. He’s sticking tight with you. Too close for a shot with a Sparrow. The missile wouldn’t be able to differentiate.”
Chavez had thought about asking for the M61A1 Vulcan rotary cannon, but he didn’t like the image. The F-15 Eagle had to really put on the brakes to get back down to the speed of sound, and Chavez didn’t relish the idea of eating any stray 20-millimeter rounds when they came screaming by.
He was struck with a sudden idea. “Justice One, Cheyenne.”
“Yes, sir, go for Justice One.”
Damn, this kid is calm.
“You speak Spanish?”
“Affirmative, sir,” the F-15 pilot said. “I’m with you there. Stand by.”
Deddy gave Chavez a shaky thumbs-up to show he understood the plan.
Justice One gave the preparatory command to break right again on his mark, only this time, he gave it in Spanish.
Chavez began to translate—and it would have worked, had they not hit turbulence, causing the Hawker, still pancaked in tight above, to drop enough that her belly struck the horizontal stabilizer on top of the Cheyenne’s T-tail.
The plane lurched and began to dive.
Deddy pushed a button on his yoke, then followed up by turning a manual wheel forward of the middle console.
His voice was quiet. Taut. “They have damaged the pushrods that control the elevators. The trim tab will help some, but we must land. Now.”
“Cheyenne,” the F-15 pilot said, surprise evident in his voice. “Did the Hawker just collide with you?”
“Affirmative, Justice One,” Chavez said. “Good chance he damaged his landing gear.”
“He won’t need landing gear if you can give me separation. Can you still control the airplane?”
“Barely,” Chavez said. “We’re going to have to put down.”
“There is an airfield two miles to the south,” Deddy said.
Chavez leaned forward, catching the pilot’s eye. “You were taking us there all along.”
Deddy nodded. “I thought my idiot brother-in-law would force us down. I did not know he would crash his plane into mine.”
Adara held up the chart for Ding, jabbing at it with her index finger. “There’s another strip closer, about five miles nearer to the ocean. The Hawker has surely called ahead. They’ll be waiting for us.”
Chavez took the chart and shoved it in front of Deddy’s face. “Take us down here.”
“I don’t know if we can make it,” Deddy said.
Chavez lowered his voice so it was just above a whisper, barely audible above the droning engines. “You know what, Deddy. My head is killing me, some guy kicked the shit out of my ribs, and I’m pretty sure I have a chipped tooth. My point here is that I’m about as pissed as a man can be. You take your hands off the yoke right now or I will personally blow your brains out the side window of this aircraft. Do I make myself clear?” He didn’t wait for an answer, turning instead to the copilot. “Chuckles. You have control of the airplane.”
The copilot hiccupped, but said nothing as he settled into his seat. He didn’t want to die. Chavez wasn’t so sure about Deddy.
“Step back here,” Chavez said. His head was beginning to bleed again. He could feel it.
Deddy’s head snapped up. “What? He is not capable of doing this by himself.”
Chavez cuffed the man hard in the side of the head. “I told you I was having a bad day. Don’t make me wait.”
Deddy rose from his seat and climbed gingerly over the small console between the two cockpit seats. Chavez pushed him facedown into the narrow aisle. Adara used a length of parachute cord to hogtie his hands and feet. A thrashing man could wreak a lot of havoc on a small airplane, even when restrained.
Reasonably certain Deddy was going to stay put, Chavez turned back to the copilot. “You got this,” he said. It was as much a question as it was a pep talk.
“I do,” the young pilot said. “But we must land. The tail is sluggish. I am afraid it may break further. Then I will have no control.”
“Okay,” Chavez said, pointing to the road below. “Take us down here.”
Chavez shot a worried glance at Adara. He could feel his stomach rising into his throat as they rapidly lost altitude. The ground was rapidly getting bigger. It was still too dark to see it very well.
“Justice, Cheyenne,” Chavez said.
“Go for Justice One.”
“Thanks for your help. Your radios are better than mine. Think you could see about getting us an exfil if we land intact?”
“Affirmative, Cheyenne,” the F-15 pilot said. “I’ll make the call now. Watch your G’s. Your elevator has some significant damage. Keep it steady so she doesn’t shear off.”
“Roger that,” Chavez said.
The copilot in front of him nodded that he understood—and hiccupped.
49
Special Agent Beth Lynch opened her credentials and pressed her Secret Service badge flat against the bullet-resistant glass of the reception window at the Ann Arbor Police Department.
�
�I’m here to see the chief,” she said. Her face was passive, but she smiled inside, thinking how her mission was going to add a little excitement to the midnight shift.
She’d been on the other side of the window—early in her law enforcement career with Amarillo PD in the Texas Panhandle, first as a dispatcher, then a patrol officer. She now took a certain perverse pleasure in dropping these last-minute-visit bombs on smaller departments. Rank-and-file officers loved the overtime, the secrecy, the excitement of doing something different to spice up a mid-shift. Patrol officers fed off surprises. Supervisors hated them. The brass who had to deal with all the logistics to make things happen for the Secret Service weren’t usually so stoked when an advance agent darkened their door.
The kid’s disembodied voice came across the speaker beside the thick glass. “Can I ask what this is in reference to?”
“Afraid not,” Agent Lynch said, smiling.
He hadn’t even picked up the phone, so he wasn’t asking for his boss. He was just curious. It was understandable, but she wouldn’t put up with it.
“Okay, well, ma’am,” the kid said, respectful, if he was the tiniest bit officious. “He’s gone home for the day. I’ll get you the supervisor on duty.”
“That’d be peachy,” Lynch said.
She stepped away from the reception window and waited in the lobby with a half-dozen other people, listening to their stories. One wanted to see if he had warrants, two were reporting thefts, and the others were trying to get an incident number for their insurance company: all things they could have done online, but that was the nature of the beast at virtually any PD she’d ever been associated with—doing things for people that they couldn’t quite figure out how to do for themselves.