Disillusioned, A Stan Turner Mystery Vol 2

by William Manchee

  Chapter 18

   

  Stan went upstairs to pack a few things for his weekend trip to San Antonio del Mar. Rebekah was furious about the trip, so Stan didn’t want to hang around the house any longer than he had to. Once he’d gathered his things, he kissed the kids goodbye and left. From the airport, he called Paula to enlist their help in the rescue. After listening to what a great time they were having, he explained to her his rescue plans and what he needed her and Professor Hertel to do.

  “This sounds like fun,” Paula said. “I’ll go get Harry, and we’ll get started right away.”

  “Good. You can’t let them know who you are, or they’ll immediately be suspicious.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I just hope Brad Thornton picks up on the con and doesn’t give it away.

  “Me too.”

  “I’ll make sure we’re alone when I explain what’s happening.”

  “Good. Tell Professor Hertel I’m sorry for messing up his holiday.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. He’ll love this charade.”

  “Good. Eight o’clock tomorrow night, Pacific standard time. Don’t be late.”

  “Got it. You be careful.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  After Stan hung up the telephone, he called another number. A bored sounding man answered the telephone. “Horizon Charters.”

  Hi. This is Stan Turner. I was referred to you by Ruth Rutledge.”

  “Oh, right. We’ve got most of the details worked out for your tour of Baja.”

  “Good. What am I going to have to do?”

  “Ah. We’ll talk about it when you get here.”

  “Okay, I’m about to board my plane.”

  “You have our address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alright then. See you tomorrow. Ask for Brett.”

  “Thanks, Brett.”

  Stan hung up the phone and took a deep breath. He could feel adrenaline flowing into his blood just from the anticipation of the rescue. He wondered how the extraction would work and what he’d have to do. There were a lot of things that could go wrong, and if they slipped up, someone could be killed. He played Paula and Snake’s part of the plan over and over in his head and couldn’t see how Paula or Professor Hertel could get hurt unless Morales’ men realized who they were. That seemed unlikely, and Paula and Professor Hertel were well aware of that risk and knew they’d have to have a quick escape plan ready after the ruse had played out.

  More worrisome possibilities were that the cartel would have a boat handy to pursue them once they realized Brad Thornton was gone, that Brad Thornton didn’t want to be rescued, or that Paula and Harry’s cover might be blown. Stan felt sick after thinking of all these possibilities and wondered if he should abort the mission. He could still call Paula and Professor Hertel and call the whole thing off. He was contemplating this possibility when his plane was called.

  He boarded Flight 422 from Dallas to San Diego at 6:00 p.m. Due to the two time zones they’d be crossing, they’d arrive in San Diego at 7;20 p.m. Stan hadn’t reserved a motel room, as he wanted to stay close to the private airport where he’d be meeting his team. After they took off, a stewardess delivered a light dinner and a cold drink. He ate appreciatively since he’d skipped lunch. After dinner, Stan fell asleep and began to dream.

  In his dream, he was rowing a raft toward the shore when he saw the tail fin of a shark circling him. He saw himself rowing faster and faster, trying to outrun the sharks, with no success. Finally his pace became so frantic he didn’t see an approaching wave. Suddenly, the raft was flipped over, sending him naked into the warm water. He felt a fin graze his leg, and he screamed in terror.

  The stewardess shook him. “Sir? Are you alright? Sir!”

  Stan opened his eyes and looked up at the stewardess, much relieved. He sighed, “Yes, sorry. Just a dream.”

  “Can I get you a glass of water or something?” she asked, seemingly concerned.

  “No. I’m fine,” Stan said. A little embarrassed he looked around and noticed people staring at him. “Sorry,” he whispered.

  Intense dreams weren’t unusual for Stan. He had a vivid imagination and often had intricate dreams that he later made into short stories for his kids. They loved to hear his bizarre tales of strange creatures and great adventures. Rebekah, of course, said she’d always known he was crazy. Stan wondered what his kids would think of this real-life adventure he was about to embark upon.

  They arrived in San Diego right on schedule. It was fifty miles to Brown Field, the small airport where Stan was meeting the extraction team, so he rented a car and bought a map of Southern California. When he arrived at the airport, he located the hangar for Horizon Charters and then went back to a Best Western motel he’d passed about four miles earlier. Once he was settled, he called Rebekah to tell her he had arrived safely. She was cool to him, but he could tell she was glad he had called. After he had talked to Reggie, Mark, and Peter, he hung up the phone and went to bed.

  He slept soundly but had more dreams about the raft. In one of them, he was nearly at the plane when a speedboat came bearing down upon him, guns blazing. Just as he was about to climb aboard the plane, it started up and took off without him. In yet another version, they made it to the plane and Brad Thornton climbed aboard, but then the speedboat showed up and he was shot in the back. Needless to say, Stan was somewhat nervous when morning rolled around, but he kept telling himself they were only dreams and soon forgot them.

  There was a small diner near the motel, so Stan walked over to it, bought a newspaper from the stand out front, and went inside to have breakfast. The waitress brought him a cup of coffee and took his order. When she’d left. he started to read the newspaper. Buried deep in the San Diego Union, he found an article about the Shepard murders and how the police had reopened the investigation and the Medical Examiner had revised his report to eliminate any reference to a suicide. Stan was a little surprised, but he was pleased the story had made it all the way to San Diego.

  At eleven thirty, Stan packed up his things and checked out of the motel. He drove to the airport and parked near Horizon Charters. The front door was wide open, so Stan walked in and looked around. He approached a stout man in overalls inspecting a plane.

  “Hi. Is Brett around?” Stan asked.

  The man looked up and gave Stan a once-over. Then he pointed and said, “In the office over there.”

  Stan looked in that direction and saw a door with a sign on it that read PRIVATE. He walked over to it and knocked on the door.

  A man with an athletic build and a sober demeanor opened the door. “What do you want?”

  “Brett. I’m Stan Turner.”

  “Oh. Welcome, Mr. Turner. Come in.”

  Stan stepped inside and looked around the cluttered office. The place stunk of oil and burnt coffee.

   “I have your plane all ready. Why don’t we go take a look at it?”

  “Sounds good,” Stan replied.

  Brett walked over to a golf cart, got in, and then drove it up to Stan. “Hop in.”

  Stan sat next to Brett and they were off. They drove all the way around the terminal to where a small Piper Cub J-3 was parked.

  Stan looked at the plane and frowned. “This can’t land in the ocean,” he noted.

  “No. We’ll fly this one up to Lake Cuyamaca, where the extraction team is waiting with a Cessna A185F.”

  “Oh,” Stan said. “I see.”

  “That’s why I got you here early. I’ve got to brief you on the details of the extraction and then get you up to the lake to join the extraction team.”

  “Right,” Stan said nervously.

  “Let’s go to the office and get started,” he said as they took off back to the front of the hangar.

  Brett drove them up to a chart room with a long walnut table occupying one end. A map of Baja California was spread out on the table. Brett picked up a ruler and drew lines showing their expected flight path.

&
nbsp; “We leave from Lake Cuyamaca and fly west out over the Pacific Ocean about four miles. Then we turn south and fly toward San Antonio del Mar. We have to stay at least three miles from the coastline in order to be in international waters. When we are directly west of San Antonio del Mar, we’ll fly low toward the coastline and set down about a mile from shore. You and Paul will have to row the raft to shore, pick up your package, and row back. It will be dark, so it’s not likely that you’ll be seen.”

  “If it’s dark, will we be able to find the plane coming back?”

  “I’ll turn on a small running light. If anyone sees it from the shore, they’ll just think it’s a fishing boat.”

  “Is there much current? Will we have trouble landing at the right spot?”

  “The Rosarita Beach Hotel will be all lit up. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.”

  “Okay,” Stan said nervously. “Let’s go.”

  Brett nodded, folded up the map, and handed it to Stan. “Alright. I’ll fly you up to Lake Cuyamaca. Your team will meet us there.”

  Ten minutes later, Stan climbed into the plane, buckled his seatbelt, and put on his headset. Brett did his pre-flight check, and they began taxiing down the runway. Soon they were airborne. While they were flying, Stan played over the plans in his mind. He was worried about the mile row into shore. He’d done plenty of rowing when he was young and knew it was more difficult than it looked. He remembered his father getting caught in a strong current on a river in northern California and nearly being washed out to sea. He imagined a sea current could be just as powerful.

  Then, he worried about visibility. Having lived near the sea as a child, Stan knew fog could be a problem. If a fog bank drifted between them and the sea plane, he knew they’d lose sight of the plane and may never find it. He felt a sharp pain in his stomach and wondered how he’d been so stupid to volunteer for such a rescue. It had seemed like a great adventure when it first came up, but now it seem like pure foolishness.

  When they got to Lake Cuyamaca, they landed at a small airport and taxied to the south end where a Jeep was waiting for them. They deplaned, and Brett introduced Stan to the pilot, Phil, and his boatman, Paul.”

  “Nice to meet you, Stan, Phil said. “We need to get moving if we’re going to make the rendezvous on time.”

  “Alright,” Stan said as he climbed into the Jeep.

  Stan waved goodbye to Brett, who wished him good luck. Phil drove fast across the runway to a connecting dirt road. It was a bumpy ride, and Stan had to hold on tight to keep from being thrown from the vehicle. Soon the lake appeared in the distance, and then they were descending down toward the shoreline. The Cessna sea plane was floating in a cove and appeared loaded and ready to go. Stan saw the small inflatable raft tied to the pontoons, and a chill darted up his spine.

  When the Jeep abruptly stopped and Stan noticed the identification numbers on the plane tail, he remembered he needed to call Agent Rutledge and give her the ID number so the Border Patrol would leave them alone.

  “Is there a telephone around here?”

  Ruben pointed to a bait shop a few hundred yards away. “Inside the shop there’s a pay phone.”

  “Thanks,” Stan said. “I’ll be right back.”

  The FBI telephone receptionist indicated Agent Rutledge was in a meeting. When Stan told her who it was, Agent Adams came on the line.

  “So, how does your team look?” Agent Adams asked.

  “They seem capable. I just hope I don’t screw up the mission,” Stan replied.

  “Don’t worry. They’re not expecting you to do much.”

  “Right? All I have to do is help row the raft less than a mile. I think I can handle that.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  “Here’s the ID number—N275RF you wanted. We’re in a red and white Cessna A185F.”

  “Alright. I’ll pass on the info to Agent Rutledge. Good luck.”

  Stan hung up the phone and ran back to the plane. Paul helped him aboard, made sure he was buckled in, and then took his seat and fastened his seatbelt. Phil started the engine. The plane took off quickly toward the center of the lake, gained speed, and then lifted out of the water. As Stan looked down at the beautiful landscape, he wondered if he’d ever see it again.

  The plane gained altitude, rising high above the mountains. Soon they were flying over an urban area just south of San Diego. They continued until they reached the shoreline and plunged due west over the Pacific Ocean. When they reached international waters, the sun was setting, and the sea beneath was dark. Suddenly the plane banked left, and Stan could only see a few dim lights on the Baja peninsula to his left and nothing but utter blackness beneath them.

  As the minutes wore on, Stan felt more and more nervous about the mission. A sinking feeling came over him as he realized that very soon, they’d be dropped off in the middle of the ocean completely on their own. There would be no one to rescue them if anything went wrong, and if they were discovered they’d likely be killed. He thought about aborting the mission right then but couldn’t force himself to do it.

  Suddenly, the plane began to descend. Stan looked at his boatman in horror, but fortunately in the darkness, Paul couldn’t see Stan’s pale face. The plane dipped, then leveled off, and dropped into the choppy waters. Stan took a deep breath, summoned his courage, and unbuckled his seatbelt. Paul opened the cockpit door and began unfastening the raft. A strong wind whipped across Stan’s face as he struggled to get out the door. Once outside, he dropped down onto the pontoon next to Paul. Bobbing up and down in the darkness, Paul had difficulty inflating the raft but eventually got it ready for boarding. After he placed the oars into the locks on each side, he handed Stan a life jacket. Stan put it on and dropped into the raft.

   As Paul shoved them off, Stan looked toward the shore and saw the Rosarita Beach Hotel in the distance. It was supposed to be only a mile away, but it looked much farther. He looked at his watch and saw that time was passing quickly. Soon they were rowing as fast as they could toward the shore.

  It had been ten years since Stan had rowed a boat and even longer since he’d been out on the ocean. He’d forgotten how high the swells grew and what they did to his stomach. He didn’t have time to stop to puke, so he stifled his nausea and kept on rowing. Halfway to shore, his arms began to ache. He realized how out of shape he’d become in the eighteen months since he’d been discharged from the Marine Corps. Now he wondered if he’d have the strength to row all the way to ashore. He stopped a moment to rest and take a deep breath but Paul gave him a dirty look, so he started rowing again. In the silence, he heard the sound of a ship’s engine. He looked to his right and saw a large fishing boat coming straight at them.