by Glen Robins
“Yeah, right,” said Reggie, catching Spinner’s wry smile. “Not too many for-hire bush pilots can get the surveillance cameras shut down for a landing. We’ve got to figure out his endgame. I think our first source is his family and girlfriend, don’t you?”
“Sure,” said Spinner, still pacing and rubbing. “He’s obviously hatched a plan with somebody’s help. Maybe they’ll know something. Let’s get them on the phone right now.”
“No. This would be better handled in person.”
“We don’t have time. With traffic, we’ll burn three hours just trying to get down there.”
“It won’t be a total waste. You can work the phone while we drive. We’ll get more and better information from the Cook family with a surprise visit than we would if we called them. There’s no substitute for being able to read their expressions and body language.”
****
In the air above Southeastern Mexico
June 17, 3:08 p.m. Central Time
“Your A/C isn’t working at all. It’s just blowing out hot air,” said Collin.
The pilot jerked his head to the right and squinted at Collin as if trying to regain focus.
“You’re right, it’s blazing hot,” he said with a voice that sounded far away. His gaze wandered around the instrument panel before he started jiggling the knobs and switches that controlled the air conditioning unit, but nothing changed. He tried pounding on the dash with his fist, but there was no strength in the blow. Weak attempts at jiggling the knobs didn’t help, either. He cursed and finally shut it off completely.
“We’re going to cook in here,” said Collin. The air conditioning had worked more than not during their journey thus far. But even when it was working, it only managed to keep the air in the cabin hovering near eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit. But now, with it not working at all, the temperature had climbed well into the nineties and showed no signs of slowing.
“Open your window,” the pilot said, showing him how it was done by sliding the locking device, then pushing the window open on his side. Collin followed suit, but it didn’t help much. The air outside was just as hot and humid. The only change was that there was now some movement of the otherwise stifling air, like blowing a fan in a sauna.
Collin put his face out the window to try to cool down, but it was no use. There was no relief, just heat whipping up more heat. He used the shoulders of his already damp shirt to wipe his forehead and brow.
That’s when he noticed the right wing starting to dip. He yelled to the pilot, “Hey, what’s going on.” There was no answer. Collin turned to his left. What he beheld caused his stomach to tighten and flip. His pilot was slumped over the wheel.
Collin reached over and pushed the pilot back against his seat back, then pulled on the controls in front of him, since the Cessna was equipped with dual controls for pilot and copilot in the front seats. Recalling what he’d learned by watching the two pilots he had flown with in recent weeks, he quickly regained altitude and leveled the wings. After checking the indicators as the pilot had shown him on the way to Belize, he confirmed the wings were level and altitude was steady at 830 feet.
He glanced over at the pilot, whose face had turned pale and clammy. Collin noticed that the perspiration that had been beading up on his forehead and brow was no longer there. It had dried up and his eyes were glazed over. He was conscious and breathing, but not focused. His headed lolled from side to side and his body twitched involuntarily. “Hey, man, you all right?” Collin shouted. “Pull out of it, man. I need you. I can’t fly this thing on my own.”
Collin checked the controls again. Altitude was 815 feet. Heading was 303.5 degrees, meaning they were going north by northwest. He had no idea if that was the right direction, but he would figure that out later. For now, he had to keep the plane in the air until the pilot came back around.
From what he could see and based on the first aid training he had once received, Collin surmised the pilot was suffering from dehydration and possibly heat exhaustion. The lack of sweat was a huge concern. That meant his body had locked down all fluids to keep the vital organs functioning. He also knew the first and best thing to do was to give him water, but they had none left in the plane. Their water bottles had been finished off an hour ago, before the air conditioning went caput. Without water or medical attention, the pilot’s core body temperature would rise. In these conditions, that rise could be precipitous and dangerous. Trapped in a metal box flying over the jungle with no air conditioning, he had no way to stop the increasing body temperatures for either of them and nowhere to land to find help. His brief tutorial on landing a plane would most likely not be sufficient to bring them to the ground safely. This was a bad predicament. Both of their lives were now in jeopardy.
Collin began to wonder why he was not in as bad a shape as the pilot. Then he remembered: the pilot had been drinking Red Bulls all day. Collin had stuck to drinking just water, other than the one swig of Red Bull the pilot had shared. There were at least four empty cans of the stuff, maybe five, rolling around behind the seats, all of which had been drunk within the past two hours or so. To boot, the pilot hadn’t eaten anything. Perhaps those drinks had done more harm than good. On an empty stomach, who knew how one’s body would react to that much artificial stimulation. No matter. He had a crisis on his hands and no real way to deal with it.
Chapter Nine
Interstate 405 southbound en route to San Diego
June 17, 11:23 a.m. Pacific Time
Reggie Crabtree and Spinner McCoy were embroiled in a conversation about how they were going to get more cooperation out of Emily Burns and the Cook family when Reggie’s phone began to buzz. Reggie looked at the screen, smiled, then held it up for Spinner to see. Nic Lancaster obviously had something to report. Any progress at this point made Reggie happy.
“What is it, Nic?” asked Reggie after tapping the speaker button.
“You’ll never believe this. Belize, as you know, is a member of the League of Nations—essentially part of the British Empire, as it were. So, there’s a lot of cooperation back and forth.”
“Yes, I’m aware of the relationship there,” said Reggie, only partly bluffing.
“Anyway, I got a return call from one of the folks there just now. Do you know what he told me?”
“Of course not,” said Reggie, allowing Nic his big moment. “I’m guessing you called to tell me, though.”
Without missing a beat, Nic continued with his narrative like a go-kart racing down a hill. “He told me that Cessna flew into the municipal airport ‘in the dark,’ so to speak. The dark landing was requested by someone at the NSA—no names or details, of course—and sanctioned by the Ministry of National Security there in Belize. That’s why the cameras were shut off and no documents were checked. These guys were flying extremely low, like around eight hundred feet so they wouldn’t be picked up on radar. And they had no flight plans. They refueled and left within thirty minutes. Hardly spoke to anyone and never wandered very far from their plane. The only thing they did was buy some snacks from a vending machine. Again, no flight plan and no information shared before takeoff. Apparently, this sort of thing is not entirely uncommon at their airport. They always assume the Americans are doing some kind of undercover operation.”
“NSA? Wow. That’s news. Someone in the NSA is helping our boy, Collin? That explains a lot.” Reggie chewed on his lower lip while he mulled this new information. “The next question is: who is it? And why are they aiding a fugitive?”
“The description from the ground crew matches Collin’s, unless he’s changed it again.”
“Did anyone get a photo by chance?”
“No. All security cameras were turned off and the only people allowed to get close had to leave all electronics behind before going out to the plane.”
“That makes sense if they were cooperating with the NSA,” Reggie said.
“There’s something else,” Nic said with a measure of pride.
/> “What?” said Spinner, leaning toward the phone. “I don’t suppose your contact person spoke to him, did he?”
“No. Only two crew members were allowed to even go near them or their plane: the guy who drove the fuel truck and the guy who pumped the fuel. But the guy who pumped the fuel said he thought they were on holiday because all he saw was scuba gear in the back seat. There may have been other stuff in the cargo hold. We don’t know because they obviously didn’t check in there. The guy just peered inside the plane out of curiosity and thought it strange that a couple of scuba divers got such treatment.”
“I’d say that’s more than a coincidence, wouldn’t you?” said Spinner.
“There’s one more coincidence. They said the younger guy looked like he’d been in a fight. He had bandages on his arm and his face was bruised and cut.”
“Interesting,” added Crabtree.
“That corroborates the stories we heard from the Asians rescued off Providencia Island. They mentioned struggles belowdecks with Cook,” Nic said. “I’m willing to bet that this pilot is the same guy that shot the guy on the boat. He’s definitely part of this whole thing.”
Spinner cleared his throat. “Nic, did any of those guys get the tail markings from that plane? Certainly, it had to have something to identify it.”
“That’s what I would’ve thought, too. But when I asked about them, they indicated that there were none. The plane was a very nondescript color, like a drab gray color. Obviously painted over and no tail markings.”
“Cessna’s don’t come in gray and they don’t come without markings. Someone painted over those letters, so this plane must get lots of use in similar situations, would be my guess,” said Spinner.
“We’ve got some work to do,” said Reggie. “Spinner and I will start making some calls. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find someone who knows something about this whole secret operation going on down there.”
“I’ll see if I can find some likely landing spots within the plane’s projected range,” said Nic.
“That’s a great idea. There can’t be that many places in the region where an unmarked plane with no flight plan could get the kind of cooperation they got in Belize,” said Nic.
“Either of you familiar with what kind of operational support your NSA might have in Central America or southern Mexico?” asked Nic. “They can’t get too far beyond that on one tank of fuel, I’d imagine.”
“No clue. But we’ll get on the phone and start trying to figure it out. Thanks for the call and the information, Nic. This is big stuff, game-changing, really. We’ll sync up later when we know a little bit more,” said Reggie.
After ending the call, Reggie turned to Spinner. “Not sure if it’s good or not, but it’s news. What do you make of that?”
Traffic began to slow down again as they approached the merge of several freeways and the exit for a very popular shopping mall in the Costa Mesa area.
Spinner shook his head. “All the pieces are coming together, aren’t they? The plane, the scuba gear, two Americans flying under the radar, coming from the south and continuing north. It’s got to be Collin and that pilot has got to be some sort of contractor.”
“Yeah, but how are we going to find out what’s going on and why no one has bothered to tell us about it?”
“Do we, meaning you, know anyone at the NSA? The best I can do is a friend from college who is some sort of analyst at the CIA.”
“That’s better than nothing. I’ll check and see if a guy I used to know is still at the Pentagon,” Reggie said with a hitch in his cadence. “Haven’t spoken to him for years.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that about?”
“Nothing, really. He’s got a big mouth and doesn’t know when to shut it, that’s all.”
“I sense something more.”
“He made a comment about my son getting into Georgetown because of my position at the Bureau and my friends in high places. Pissed me off.”
“I get that.”
“He said it to RJ, not to me. Had him over to his house for Sunday dinner when he first got there, then proceeded to question him about how he got accepted to one of the finest universities in the country when he hadn’t attended a prestigious prep school. All of that in front of his whole family. And there’s RJ, with Tom’s two daughters, close to his age, being made to look a fool. It just didn’t sit well with me, so I haven’t talked to him since.”
“How long’s that been, two years ago?”
“Yeah, about that.”
“You’re going to have to get past it, especially if there’s a chance he could help us.”
“I’m not very good at making nice when people insult my kids, you know,” said Reggie, exasperated.
“I can only imagine. Good luck with it, though. That ought to be an interesting conversation to start.”
Another slow-down as they approached the El Toro Y where Interstate 5 and Interstate 405, two of the busiest thoroughfares in Orange County, merged. It was almost always a nightmare, no matter the time of day, and this day, nearing lunchtime, was no exception.
Reggie smirked at Spinner as they nearly came to a stop behind a long line of cars. “Might have more luck with your friend. No bad blood there, I hope.”
“Nah, nothing like that. I’ll reach out to him and see if he can dig around for us,” said Spinner as he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. “But you know how all those clandestine guys are, they never share information. No one really knows what anyone else is doing.”
“Maybe that’s true, but it’s worth a shot. If you play it right, you might be able to work the interagency rivalry to your advantage. Just a thought.”
****
In the air above Southeastern Mexico
June 17, 1:25 p.m. Local Time; 11:25 a.m. Pacific Time
The pilot’s whole body shook. He mumbled something incoherently and tried to take control of the plane again. Collin pushed him back and told him to just relax. The pilot’s condition was worsening, as were Collin’s chances of survival. Not only was the pilot not flying the plane, his mental and physical state were deteriorating. Collin realized there was no way the pilot was going to snap back to normal before it was time to land.
For now, things were fine. Collin had the plane flying level and in the general direction of their destination, but there was still the landing to deal with.
Before panic set in, Collin thought clearly enough to call Lukas. He’d know what to do. He always did.
But there was a problem. Lukas was not answering the phone. Panic welled up inside, but Collin fought through it with logic. He focused his thoughts on his assets first: We’re still fifty miles from our destination. I’ve got half a tank of fuel, so I can stay in the air a good long time. What did he say? Total range with full tanks was three and a half hours. I’ve got an hour of leeway. Worst case, I have to land this thing. How hard can it be? He walked me through it already. I’m a fast learner. As long as there’s a place to land and someone to guide me through it, I’ll be fine. Stay strong.
When the gentle Germanic voice of his good friend greeted him and asked him to leave a message, he did: “I’m in trouble here, Lukas. I need your help. The pilot is out of commission, too sick to fly this plane. Please call me back as soon as possible.”
Collin studied the instrument panel in front of the pilot and the display screen in front of his seat as he repeated positive mantras to himself, willing himself to keep his mind engaged and his fears at bay. Fuel level: good. Altitude: 865 feet. No obstacles on the horizon. But where are we supposed to land? It should be coming up here soon. Half an hour at the most.
The screen in front of him was an interactive map that showed him where he was in relation to things on the ground. Working quickly, Collin was able to locate the flag on the map that marked their destination in Villahermosa. The little white plane icon indicated his current location. A line pointed out from the front of the plane icon showed his direction. When he turned t
he wheel slightly each way, he noticed the line move. He also noticed his altitude changing each time he turned. Keeping the wings centered in the little altimeter gauge was tougher than he expected. When he steered, if he wasn’t careful, he would lose a hundred feet or more in altitude while the wings banked to one side or the other.
After he figured out the altimeter and how to fly more levelly, he started to work on pointing toward his destination. At the moment, the plane was headed too far west, so he adjusted his bearings on the map until the blinking line pointed right at the flag at Villahermosa. Cool. That wasn’t so hard. Knowing he was on target brought his anxiety level down. By using the on-screen menu, he figured out which buttons to push on the screen to learn that he had forty-two miles to go and an estimated time of arrival of 1:44 p.m. That additional knowledge bolstered his thin but growing sense of calm.
No need to panic. Yet.
****
Washington, DC
June 17, 2:25 p.m. Local Time; 11:25 a.m. Pacific Time
Lukas grabbed his cane and pushed up from his chair. Sitting too long always made his surgically repaired leg stiffen up. Missing another round of physical therapy would only prolong the pain, but he had no choice. Things were coming to a head; the critical culmination of months’ worth of work was upon him. He blew out the breath he had been holding and straightened out the grimace on his face. The darkened room, lit only by the glow of computer monitors, helped to hide the theatrics involved with standing and moving again.
“Listen up, guys,” Lukas announced to the three support staff in the room with him. “This is trouble. Rob’s phone is now moving again. We don’t want any sensitive information leaking out. We need to shut it down.” He surveyed the three faces of his close-knit, hand-picked team and confirmed, without words, their agreement and understanding. “That’s only part of the problem. The other critical issue we need to solve right away is finding Rob. We need to do both and we need to do them right now.”