What Others Are Saying
About Jack Patterson
“Jack’s storytelling feels as natural as James Patterson’s, and the short-chapter setup is the literary answer to Lay’s potato chips: you just want one more and before you know it, you’ve gone through the whole thing.
-David Bashore
The Times-News, Twin Falls, ID
“Jack Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”
-Aaron Patterson
bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS
THE WARREN OMISSIONS
“What can be more fascinating than a super high concept novel that reopens the conspiracy behind the JFK assassination while the threat of a global world war rests in the balance? With his new novel, The Warren Omissions , former journalist turned bestselling author Jack Patterson proves he just might be the next worthy successor to Vince Flynn.”
- Vincent Zandri
bestselling author of THE REMAINS
CROSS HAIRS
“Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer Jack Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Cross Hairs. It’s that good.”
-Vincent Zandri
bestselling author of THE REMAINS
“You can tell Jack knows what it’s like to live in the newspaper world, but withCross Hairs, he’s proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery. With a clever plot and characters you badly want to succeed, he is on his way to becoming a new era James Patterson.”
-Josh Katzowitz
NFL writer for CBSSports.com
& author ofSid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game
“Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”
-Richard D., reader
CROSS THE LINE
“This book kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I didn’t really want to put it down. Jack Patterson has hooked me. I’ll be back for more.”
-Bob Behler
3-time Idaho broadcaster of the year
and play-by-play voice for Boise State football
“Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn’t put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 A.M.
-Ray F., reader
THE COOPER AFFAIR
Book Three in The James Flynn Series
Jack Patterson
Other titles by Jack Patterson
Cal Murphy Thriller series
Dead Shot
Dead Line
Better off Dead
Dead in the Water
Dead Man's Curve
Dead and Gone
Dead Wrong
Dead Man's Land
James Flynn Thriller series
The Warren Omissions
Imminent Threat
The Cooper Affair
To my dad,
for always stirring my imagination with history and science
Conspiracy theorists of the world, believers in the hidden hands of the Rothschilds and the Masons and the Illuminati, we skeptics owe you an apology. You were right. The players may be a little different, but your basic premise is correct: The world is a rigged game.
— Auliq Ice
CHAPTER ONE
UP UNTIL NOW CARLTON GORDON had not considered making the drunk, homeless man everyone called Doc an accomplice in his lifelong dream. Gordon would thrust the unsuspecting soul—usually found a couple of blocks away from his sometimes girlfriend Felicia’s apartment on the corner of 22nd and Capp Street—into a world of scrutiny he most certainly wouldn’t welcome. But he could live with the guilt.
He watched as Doc slowly raised the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag, releasing the smoke slowly and looking skyward. Doc’s steady gaze on a plane soaring overhead gave off the impression that he seemed interested in it.
“I always wonder where they’re going, too,” Gordon said as he glanced at his watch.
Doc took another drag and shook his head. “I never think about where they’re goin’,” he said as the smoke rushed out of his mouth and swirled upward. “I always wonder why anyone on board ever left.”
Gordon looked at his watch again, the Rolex sparkling from the late afternoon sun. “Perhaps they have business elsewhere.”
Doc shook his head again. “Well, Mr. Money Bags, I’m of the opinion that nobody has any business gettin’ on an airplane unless they have a death wish.”
Gordon smiled at the nickname Doc had bestowed upon him several months ago, but he couldn’t wait on the old man any longer. Gordon snatched the cigarette from Doc’s hands just as he was about to take his final drag. He snuffed it out against the wall behind Doc.
“Hey! What’d ya do that for?” Doc protested. “That Raleigh still had one more good drag left.”
“Sorry, Doc. I’ve gotta catch a plane.”
***
TWO HOURS LATER, Gordon settled into the plane, though it was his first time flying in such a unique position. He didn’t hold a ticket, though he almost wished he had one as a memento; anything with the date November 24 on it would suffice. But he didn’t—and if truth be told, it was hardly that important to him. What he was about to do was something he’d dreamed about for much of his adult life ever since he read about the infamous D.B. Cooper, though he was well versed enough with the case to know that Dan Cooper was the infamous hijacker’s nom de guerre, not D.B. The initials were the result of a simple miscommunication during transcription of the criminal mastermind’s name used to board Northwest Orient Airlines Flight 305 from Portland to Seattle more than 40 years ago. Gordon jammed his earplugs in and closed his eyes while a smile swept across his face.
Prone and stiff, Gordon shifted as the plane’s engines roared. This wasn’t the first time he’d been on his back in a jet. He never traveled to Europe without purchasing a first class ticket, usually two—the second designated for his girlfriend of the week. Women, like most things, never held Gordon’s interest for long. D.B. Cooper, however, served as the rare exception.
Gordon’s fingertips tingled as the plane rumbled along, gaining speed with each passing moment. After what felt like minutes but was surely only seconds, the nose of the jet tilted skyward and the plane lifted off the ground. He glanced at his watch and marked the time. In a hundred minutes, he would prepare to exit the plane. One minute after that, he’d leap to safety before anyone could figure out what was happening. That is, if his calculations were correct—and he knew they were. He’d spent the better part of a decade devising a scheme to emulate his criminal hero. It felt old hat to him, like he’d done this a hundred times before. And he had—in his mind. Every detail crafted with exquisite precision. That is, every detail except Doc.
Employing the old man’s lungs was an afterthought, the one thing he’d forgotten to plan for. He couldn’t believe he could be so careless, though this wasn’t crucial to his crime—just a touch of craftsmanship. That’s how he felt in his mind anyway. If he wanted to pay homage to his hero, Gordon needed to add style, something that proved he was more than an average criminal. He prided himself on being a thinking man, one whose intelligence always made him the smartest man in the room. After h
e pulled off this stunt, he’d be considered the second man who outsmarted the FBI after jumping out of a plane with stacks of cash, all while paying tribute to the first.
If Gordon were greedy, he could make off with far more. The shipment from the U.S. Treasury in San Francisco to Seattle during the burgeoning holiday season appeared to be close to eight million, give or take a few hundred thousand. If he weren’t shoehorned into the aft cargo hold, he might be able to make a more accurate estimate. As a manager for Seattle’s biggest downtown branch for Bank of Olympia, he’d seen pallets of money during visits to the U.S. Treasury branch in San Francisco and the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Fort Worth, Texas. He always asked how much was on the pallet until he started to judge for himself and would bet lunch on the fact that he could guess within ten thousand dollars. He won three lunches off his liaison in Fort Worth before the man started refusing to play Gordon’s game.
But there could’ve been twenty or thirty million in the cargo hold of this jet and it wouldn’t have mattered to Gordon. This wasn’t about the money. He only cared about experiencing what D.B. Cooper experienced when he disappeared over southeastern Washington with twenty-two pounds of twenty-dollar bills. When it came to hundred-dollar bills, Gordon’s weight was the same for a million dollars as it was for Cooper’s two hundred thousand.
Money meant nothing to him, not now anyway. Years ago, it was his life pursuit. He amassed his fortune first as a small business owner serving the niche equestrian market, then as a day trader. But the boredom of being his own boss grated on him until he decided to merge his expertise of both running a business and understanding the financial market. The result was his current position with his bank. Yet the folded-up medical report in his pocket served as a constant reminder that money didn’t matter now. He only had a few months to live, according to his doctor. And he wasn’t going to exit the world without emulating his favorite villain.
It wasn’t a perfect replication of Cooper’s infamous 1971 crime; that was something Gordon deemed impossible after terrorists’ actions on 9/11 resulted in the closure of every loophole. But his way would be close enough. And anyone paying attention would understand what he was doing.
Gordon checked his watch. Seventy-five minutes to go. He sighed and wondered if he could wait that long, though he knew he must, especially if he was going to truly honor his hero.
***
GORDON FELT A CHILL, though it was nothing close to the freezing air he’d experience when he jumped out of the plane in three minutes. He fished the plastic bag out of his pocket that contained the eight Raleigh cigarettes Doc had smoked. He wedged it beneath one of the cargo containers so it wouldn’t be lost in the violent windstorm that would strike the aft cargo the moment he blew the doors open.
He checked his watch again and noted the time. He didn’t have a moment to spare. Slithering through the cargo hold toward the center of the plane, Gordon got onto his knees and hid behind a container. He pushed a button on the small device in his hand, blowing open the door.
On his hands and knees, he scurried toward the door. Before he left, Gordon glanced once more at the plastic bag lodged beneath a container. It was his care package for the feds once they inevitably tore the plane apart looking for clues. He knew they wouldn’t find anything that would lead to him, but they would find something that pointed to someone who admired D.B. Cooper. It’d be a big middle finger at the Bureau. The one skyjacking case that had never been solved—and never would be solved as long as they continued to ignore all credible evidence that a guy named Kenny Christensen was likely behind it all—was about to be repeated.
But Gordon didn’t care who they chased or who they ignored. A new generation of Americans was about to have a fresh appreciation for D.B. Cooper’s ability to pull off the perfect crime—along with a new criminal to admire. It was a byproduct of his crime that he was prepared for, one that he expected. And like Cooper, Gordon wanted to avoid getting caught. Just one misstep and he’d be headed for federal prison—but he had a backup plan for that, too.
Gordon edged closer to the door. He secured his gear before placing both hands on the sides of the opening and pulling himself forward. He went head over heels into the crisp Washington air. He’d leapt from this height before and knew what it’d feel like, though he was convinced it was something nobody could ever truly prepare for. The blast of cold air and the sensation of hurtling toward the ground always felt new even though it wasn’t.
Beneath Gordon, the Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge appeared serene, motionless. It looked like a picture, a perfect moment drawn and frozen for him to enjoy. But it was so much more. To Gordon, it was a way out, the pathway to escape and commit the perfect crime—a crime he planned to repeat in a few days time.
For now, he chose to enjoy the view as the wind whipped against him with only a few twinkling stars to keep him company as he descended through the dusky sky.
So this is what it feels like to be D.B. Cooper.
CHAPTER 2
JAMES FLYNN TOOK A SHARP RIGHT off state highway 503 and followed the signs toward the Ariel General Store & Tavern. Only a two-lane stretch of road and a meandering swath of water known as Lake Merwin parted the thick woods coating the area just an hour northeast of Portland. In his two previous trips to the area, Flynn wondered the same thing as he was at the moment—how anyone could safely land in these woods, much less do so in the dark? Though he was about to walk into a party celebrating the man who’d duped the FBI and gotten away with the perfect crime, he doubted anyone could survive such an unforgiving part of the country regardless of the time of day.
Flynn slowed his car to a crawl, creeping past the cars and trucks lining the two-lane road toward the tavern. Flynn chuckled again at the irony dripping from Ariel the moment he entered the unincorporated area. A handmade speed limit sign warned drivers: “Show some respect” sat atop a large “25,” while the phrase “It’s the law” rested below it. An odd statement for a town whose claim to fame was celebrating a man who broke the law in the grandest way possible.
After finding a spot along the road to park, Flynn hiked up a hill toward the tavern. Before he set foot inside, a man dressed as D.B. Cooper greeted him on the steps.
“The perfect crime must be celebrated with the perfect beer,” the man said. He thrust a sampler cup into Flynn’s hand. “Enjoy.”
The words “Rainier Beer” were emblazoned on the side. Flynn took one sip and nearly spit it out. It tasted like an Old Milwaukee knockoff, though he wondered why anyone would want to produce such a watered-down brew, especially no more than an hour away from one of the biggest craft beer hubs in the country.
Inside, Flynn saw a handful of other men dressed as Cooper. If they’d been in Vegas, they would’ve been Elvis impersonators; of that much Flynn was sure. Some of the men appeared as corporate shills like the Rainier Beer man, but most were there to win a contest and $200. If they had the money, Flynn figured the prize would have been set at $200,000 as just another tip of the cap to the man everyone there revered.
“What can I do ya for?” barked the bartender, sliding a napkin toward Flynn as he found a seat at the bar.
“Give me Washington’s finest,” Flynn said.
A few moments later, the man returned with a frosty mug filled with an amber-colored beer.
“This place hasn’t changed much,” Flynn said.
The bartender nodded and stuck out his hand. “Aaron Matthews,” the man said. “And you are?”
“James Flynn. I’m with The National magazine,” he said, holding fast to the man’s grip.
“Welcome to Ariel—and D.B. Cooper Days,” Matthews said. “And, yes, it hasn’t changed. Yet most days, it’s nothing more than a bunch of old loggers pining about the way it used to be—no pun intended.”
Flynn snickered. “That much fun, huh?”
“Like a barrel of monkeys.”
Flynn nursed his beer, while he looked around the room and h
oped to find enough interesting people to interview for the article his editor, Theresa Thompson from The National magazine, had assigned him. He saw a fertile field of characters to talk to, most of whom he hoped were quite soused by this point in the night to provide a little extra color to his story. As he wandered around and spoke with different patrons, no one seemed truly interested in exploring the truth. It was more like a festival to share conspiracy theories and consume the trendiest Portland or Seattle swill.
As the day transitioned into night, Flynn received more and more farfetched theories. Some tavern patrons claimed it was an inside job by an FBI agent. Others claimed an airline executive orchestrated the heist. The more cynical of the crowd said the man had died, as they refused to believe there was any way he could’ve escaped the forest.
Then at 10 p.m., the tavern fell silent.
On the screen, a newscaster shared the news of how a man leapt out of a plane with a million dollars during a flight from San Francisco to Seattle. According to the report, all passengers were accounted for, leaving officials scratching their heads as to how this man could’ve pulled off such a stunt.
The timing of the heist wasn’t lost on anyone in the tavern.
After a moment of awkward silence, one bearded man hoisted his mug in the air and yelled, “D.B. Cooper strikes again!”
“Here! Here!” said another man.
What followed next were a series of guffaws and the clinking of glasses—along with new theories hatched on the spot.
Maybe it was D.B. Cooper’s son? Could D.B. Cooper replicate his crime at 85 years of age? A copycat crime seemed to be the prevailing theory circulating around the room, but that could all change in a matter of seconds. A newscaster could debunk it all with a report centered around an interview from the FBI agent on the case. But that didn’t happen.
The Cooper Affair Page 1