by Glen Robins
The plane bounced hard a second time, causing the comatose pilot’s body to pitch forward into the yolk on his side. Collin felt the increased pressure on his controls and fought to limit the effect, but it was too late. The sudden movement caused the plane’s nose to point downward and its wings to pitch at an angle. The right wing hit the ground first, causing the plane to flip and spin in the air before it sheared off with a horrendous, metallic screech. He felt another shuddering crash. The roof smacked against the earth with a loud clap. The impact violently jolted his upside-down body against his shoulder-and-lap restraints. With his head dangling in midair, he looked out his side window and realized the plane was sliding sideways on its wings and roof toward the large boulder at the end of the landing strip.
Collin squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for the final impact, sensing that this might be the end for him. The plane stopped sharply. The pilot’s side lifted into the air a few feet. All momentum stopped and the left side of the plane slammed back down to the ground.
Opening his eyes, Collin realized the barbed wire fence had arrested their slide just before impact with the big rock. He closed his eyes again and said, “Thank you, God.”
He could hear the urgent voice of Miriam Hastings in his ears, pleading with him to share information. Collin first leaned over to the pilot and checked his pulse. Then he pressed the button on his headset wires, which dangled in front of his face, and said, “I’m OK. We’re upside down and tangled in the fence, but we’re alive.”
Miriam gasped, held her breath as he spoke, then blew a sigh of relief through his earphones when he said he was OK. A tense and awkward laugh escaped her before she gathered her composure and congratulated him on his first landing.
“Thank God you survived,” she said.
“I already did,” said Collin dryly. His voice was strained, made weaker by his inverted position.
Lukas chimed in, too. “You gave us quite a scare, buddy. Are you hurt?”
Collin struggled to suck in a deep breath. He blinked hard to try to focus, then kept his eyes closed to fight back the nausea. Though he felt like he’d been through the rinse cycle in a washing machine, his sense of irony was still intact. “You should’ve been here to film it, Lukas. I’m sure it was a spectacular sight to see. Worthy of a Jackass episode, no doubt.”
Lukas let go of a stymied half laugh, half sob that expelled the tension in the air. Miriam made another, similarly nervous sound and Collin knew it was a miracle he was alive.
Just to further break the tension, Collin added, “I’d like to try it again. I’m sure I can do better in the style department next time.”
“We’ll have to work on your technique before we let you get your license,” she quipped. “But any landing you survive, I guess, can be considered a good landing.”
“I’d suggest your next flight be in a simulator, for everyone’s safety and well-being,” said Lukas.
Collin chuckled a nervous, pained chuckle. “Roger that. But, seriously, thank you for your help, both of you.”
The relief in Miriam’s voice was palpable. “Don’t thank me too much. I don’t know if I want this to go on my resume.”
“Don’t worry, Miriam, I’ll take the blame for this one, being a rookie and all.”
“I have to admit, that was one of the most frightening experiences any pilot could have. For a first-time flier, you handled it as well as could be expected. Things could have turned out much worse.”
“And for that, I am truly grateful. I’d better work on getting the real pilot taken care of, though.”
Collin tried to focus his attention on the pilot suspended by his harness next to him. He pushed his head back against his seat and felt his face. It was pasty white and clammy. His breathing was fast and shallow and his pulse was galloping.
Becoming aware of movement and activity outside the plane, Collin wiped sweat from his face and peered through the cracked glass. A late model Ford pickup truck moving toward him. There were four gunmen in the back, two standing in a ready-to-fire position, and two sitting or kneeling along the side, scanning the perimeter of the airfield. They, too, looked ready to shoot.
The truck pulled up alongside the inverted airplane. Collin’s view was both distorted and limited by his position. He watched closely as a door on the far side of the truck opened and a set of shiny black boots hit the ground. Three other pair of boots—all desert camouflage in color—landed, one after the other, from the back and side of the truck and began to approach cautiously.
After letting the headphones drop to the ceiling, Collin worked on getting his door open. Before he could get the door open, the barrel of a black handgun filled his vision. It was held by a man crouched next to the plane, wearing a flak jacket, black gloves, and a camouflage T-shirt. His black hair stood up in a fresh crew cut neatly styled with hair gel to make it appear like a prickly carpet. Without a word, the man motioned for Collin to stay still. Reluctantly, he moved his hands above his head, letting gravity hold them there. “I thought you guys were expecting us,” he said, not moving.
“We have to verify your identity,” the man said in a very military-style voice. It was more of a command than a statement.
“What do you need? I’m afraid my driver’s license is in my checked luggage.” Collin was trying to blunt the rising frustration. He wanted to cooperate and be civil, but he was hanging upside down and had a man dying next to him. It was one hundred degrees and he felt like he was baking from the inside out in a pressure steamer. He was in no mood to play games.
“Show me some ID”
“You’re serious? What is this, some sort of traffic stop? Did I run a light?”
“Shut up, smart ass, and show me what you’ve got.”
“I’ve got nothing on me. It’s all packed in my bags in the back. I’m Collin Cook. Certainly someone in Washington radioed ahead to tell you we were coming and we have a medical emergency.”
The man glared at him warily, squinting his eyes. “I don’t care if you’re the pope. Until we’re satisfied that you’re not hostile and not carrying a plane full of explosives, we’re going to take appropriate measures to protect our own safety. Got it?”
There were bumps and bangs coming from the rear of the plane as compartment doors were opened and their contents pulled out.
“Yeah, sure.”
While Collin and Flat Top were arguing over proper identification, the other two had opened the pilot’s door and were disentangling him from the seat belt and shoulder harness, pulling wires out of the way, and preparing to pull him out of the cockpit. One of the men looked through the plane at Flat Top and said, “It’s him. It’s Mamba.”
“Mamba?” Collin said, screwing up his face.
“That’s his handle. We don’t use real names around here.”
“OK, but Mamba?”
“He’s a Lakers’ fan. Loves Kobe.”
“Right, I get it. But Kobe Bryant’s nickname is the Black Mamba—”
“That’s why he goes by the ‘White Mamba.’”
“Got it.” Collin studied the man for a moment.
Flat Top lowered the gun and relaxed his posture.
“We good then?” asked Collin.
“Yeah, let’s get you out of there. You look like hell.”
“Thanks, that’s what Mamba said, too, right before he passed out.”
Flat Top and another man worked carefully to extract Collin from his seat after they made sure he hadn’t suffered any head or spinal injuries. With their help, he was able to twist his body down onto the ceiling, then crawl out of the door they had pried open. By this time, his head was pounding with all the blood rushing down to his brain. He felt faint and dizzy and had trouble standing because his legs felt like jelly.
“Let’s get you in the truck and get you some water,” said Flat Top, suddenly becoming more human.
Flat Top and his partner each grabbed an elbow and walked Collin to the back of the truck and poi
nted at a cooler that was full of ice and water bottles. Collin uncapped one and guzzled the whole thing while the other men loaded the pilot into the bed of the truck. Once he was situated, the man with the shiny boots climbed in behind him and moved to his side. He fished two wet towels from the ice chest. He squeezed the cold water onto the pilot’s face, head, and chest, then applied one to his neck and one to his forehead. “Grab a couple of those ice packs in there”—he commanded one of the would-be shooters as he pointed—“and hold one on his chest and one on the top of his head.” Tapping on the back window of the truck’s cab, he said, “Come on. Let’s get out of here. We gotta get these guys out of the sun and in front of the A/C.”
The driver held up one finger and pointed with his chin to the other two men who were just finishing draping a camouflage net over the plane. He had an earpiece in and looked to be talking to no one as he sat alone behind the wheel.
The two men finished with the camouflage and hustled back to the truck, hopped up in the bed, and took standing positions in the front corners of the truck’s bed, leaning against the cab, with their rifles at the ready.
The man with the shiny boots who had been in the passenger’s seat seemed to be the chief medical officer of this crew. He looked at Collin and said, “Come sit inside the cab and let the A/C start cooling you down.” Then he positioned the men around the pilot, giving each instructions for the short ride back to the long tin-roofed barn at the far end of the pasture.
Chapter Fourteen
Washington, DC
June 17, 2:55 p.m. Local Time; 11:55 a.m. Pacific Time
Lukas thanked Miriam for her service and promised to put in a good word with her supervisor. Thanks to her, Collin was alive and the mission could carry on. Her service contributed to keeping our great nation safe, he told her as he walked her to the door. After she left, he used his cane to gait as confidently as possible back to the front of the room where he stood with his back to a wall full of large flat-screen monitors that illuminated the entire space with a bluish glow.
In his calm yet commanding way, Lukas asked for status updates from his team. They had not been able to communicate freely with Miriam in the room, so he was more than thirty minutes behind on the information flow. Only the pulsating of his jaw muscles gave away the pent-up nervous energy.
“Sir?” said Carmen. “Should I tell you about Rob’s phone?”
“Yes, please, go ahead.”
“It’s currently moving south on Interstate 5 toward San Diego.”
“Who has it?”
“We don’t know, sir. We just know it’s traveling.”
Lukas knit his brow. “That complicates things a little bit. Have you been able to lock it?”
“Yes, I only used sixty-four-bit encryption. Enough to stop a novice and slow down an expert, but a decent computer hack will be able to crack the code without too much trouble. Shall I take the next step and wipe the data?”
“Before we do that, let’s back up his data. He probably has stuff on there that he needs for his work. Let’s monitor it and wait to see if someone tries to get inside it.”
“Will do, sir,” she said as she resumed tapping on her keyboard.
Pointing at Kevin, the astute young hack in the middle, he asked, “What have you found out about Rob’s rental car?”
Kevin, expecting the question, tipped his chin toward one of the large monitors behind Lukas. As Lukas turned around, an image appeared on-screen. It was a map of the California desert east of San Diego with a location marker. Kevin wiggled his mouse, which made an arrow appear. “It’s right there. In a dirt parking lot on the outskirts of El Centro, California. I tracked it using the transponder the rental car company puts on each of their cars. It took a bit of doing, but once I found his credit card records online, it was pretty easy.”
“That’s great. Good work, Kevin. How long has the car been in that parking lot?”
“Looks like it’s been there about an hour.”
Lukas tapped his cane against the floor. Each tap carried a little more force. “We’re behind the curve. We might be too late . . .”
“Too late for what, sir?” asked Kevin.
Lukas turned back to face him and took a deep breath. “Well, they’ve ditched the car in El Centro, a border town. Now, we all can guess what this means, right?”
All three team members nodded in agreement.
“So, our next task is to get Rob’s picture out to the border crossing agents—now. Request a blockade. They need to be on high alert and search every car trying to get into Mexico.”
“But, sir, I thought our agents only checked cars coming into the United States,” Carmen said.
“I know. You’re absolutely right—normally. So we need to order a blockade of our side of the border. Our border control agents do, on occasion, block southbound traffic to conduct searches. It’s not entirely unheard of, especially when there’s a suspected criminal trying to flee the United States. In this case, we cannot let them take Rob into Mexico. That would complicate things and give Penh the upper hand. Even though he’s just a civilian, Rob has far too much situational knowledge about Collin Cook and the circumstances surrounding him.” Lukas sighed and ran his fingers through his blonde hair. “I shouldn’t have . . .” His voice trailed off, but he quickly regained focus and continued. “Again, this is high priority, so let’s get to it.”
****
Highway 111, US-Mexico border south of El Centro, California
June 17, 12:13 p.m. Pacific Time
A blockade at the border caused a backup that slowed the specially-equipped minivan to a crawl in a line of cars waiting to enter Mexico. A blue handicapped placard dangled from the rearview mirror. US Border Patrol agents, two per lane, stopped and inspected each car before waving it through the checkpoint. The sumptuous Asian girl and her perfect face sat in the driver’s seat, sporting her perfect bow-shaped smile and straight white teeth. Motorcycle dude sat in a bucket seat next to Rob’s wheelchair in the back. Just for good measure, he stabbed Rob in the arm with a syringe as they inched toward the front of the line.
Rob saw the movement and understood what the boyfriend was doing, but felt nothing. Inside, he was hollow and numb. His limbs, like dead weights, wouldn’t move, no matter how much energy he exerted. He wanted to crash the edge of his hand into the guy’s larynx as hard as he could, then jump out the side door, and run to the guard station. But his arms ignored his brain’s requests and sat motionless in his lap while his feet remained stationary on the footplates of the wheelchair. There was no way he could speak, even before the additional dosage, because the drugs had already filled his mouth with a wad of cotton balls covered in peanut butter, or so it seemed. Only grunts emerged when he tried to yell, and preventing the grunts was probably the reason for another shot. The Asian pair didn’t want him to draw any attention to himself.
The two spoke some words back and forth that Rob didn’t understand. If he had to guess, he’d say the motorcycle dude was telling the pretty girl to stay calm and act like everything was OK. He was sure they had a script and were rehearsing it. Either way, they didn’t seem particularly worked up or nervous. Her warm brown eyes exuded confidence and cool as she glanced back at him through the mirror and flashed that seductive smile. Motorcycle dude was cockier. He sneered at Rob as he made some unintelligible remark.
The driver’s window rolled down and the pretty girl played her part beautifully. She spoke in respectful, gracious tones and smiled abundantly. Probably melted the guard’s heart, like she had Rob’s. She handed him a stack of passports and explained that they were on their way to inspect a factory her father was interested in purchasing. The guard stood up straight so Rob could only see his hands flip through the documents. He then put his face back into the frame of the window. “Ma’am, mind if I take a look in the back?”
“Not at all,” she replied cheerfully.
The side window rolled down and the guard stuck his face in
and peered at Rob in the wheelchair, then at the younger man in the seat next to him. His hands opened the passports again. He seemed to be studying something, probably the photos. Rob wanted so badly to get his attention, but he couldn’t move. No sounds came out when he tried to scream. The only thing he managed was to rock his body to the side so that he slumped at an angle. The strap across his chest, hidden from view under his coat, prevented him from pitching himself forward in an effort to create a scene. The guard must have caught the movement, as did the motorcycle dude, who made a sickly sweet “uh-oh” sound as he gently straightened Rob in his chair.
The guard took a second look. Motorcycle dude waved him off like everything was fine now. The guard seemed to accept the gesture and slapped the passports shut and took a step back toward the driver’s window, returning the passports to the pretty Asian lady. “Thank you, ma’am. That’ll be all,” he said as he waved her through the barricade.
As the minivan picked up speed, motorcycle dude unleashed a brutal cross to Rob’s cheek. Rob barely felt it, but realized the inside of the car was spinning just before everything turned dark and fuzzy.
****
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
June 18, 3:27 a.m. Local Time; June 17, 12:27 p.m. Pacific Time
From the back seat of his limousine, Pho Nam Penh barked at his driver to hurry up, despite the fact that they were traveling over 135 kilometers per hour down a stretch of open freeway. His Mercedes S-Class glided so gracefully and noiselessly that he had not noticed their speed until the driver informed him. Penh sat back and drew in a deep breath as he looked out the windows at the dark emptiness that enveloped the burgeoning city as lighted buildings whizzed past. He checked his watch. He tapped his foot. It was still not fast enough. Penh would have preferred to travel the short distance to his waiting plane by air. If only he had a helicopter.