Alpha Kat

by William H. Lovejoy

  “It looks to me,” Crider said, “as if they’ve been confiscated.”

  “Or impounded,” Adage said. “Maybe they didn’t pay their fees. Or take their shots.”

  “What now?” Gart asked.

  Crider thought it over. “This may make it easier than we thought it was going to be. I don’t see any one other than the local cop.”

  “Let’s give it a try,” Gart said. “We can always tell the cop we’re here to correct the problem. He probably doesn’t know shit about the problem.”

  Crider led the way to the employee entrance, manned by an employee of the airport security force.

  He held up his clipboard for the guard to see a thick wad of red baht notes peeking from under the paper on the clipboard.

  “What is this?”

  “We’ve got some parts to deliver.”

  “Parts. What kind of parts?”

  They opened the carry-alls and let him take a good look in each.

  “Those are squawk-ident transponders,” Crider explained patiently.

  The guard reached inside Crider’s valise and fingered the black box. He’d probably never seen anything like it before in his life.

  He looked at the clipboard.

  “Okay,” he said.

  He took the clipboard, initialed the bottom line, and gave the clipboard back.

  Minus the baht notes.

  The rest of it was even easier.

  *

  Jimmy Gander and Ito Makura, who had drawn the first six-hour stint of guard duty, had spent the first three hours of their tour confined to a small, drab room in the terminal building.

  As soon as they had exited the Starlifter with their M-16s, a Thai policeman, one of two left to watch the aircraft, had yelled at them, drawn his pistol, confiscated the rifles, and led them away.

  Gander protested all the way, but in vain. The cop didn’t understand English. And couldn’t read it, either, when Gander forced his copy of the weapons permit on him.

  The supervisor in the security office could speak English, but he had motioned them into the little room, said he must examine the permits and make some telephone calls, and locked the door.

  Gander fumed, demanded the use of a telephone, and got nowhere.

  Makura climbed on a chair to peer through the single small window, hut he couldn’t see the aircraft from where they were confined.

  After a mere two hours and fifty minutes, the supervisor came back, smiling. “All is in order.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Yes. But you may not carry the weapons more than twenty meters away from the airplanes.”

  “I knew that,” Gander said.

  “The officer will carry them back for you.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “You are free to go.”

  Smile.

  Gander followed the policeman carrying their weapons down a maze of narrow corridors in the administrative section. When they reached a door onto the tarmac, he said, “Ito, go find a phone and tell Kim what happened.”

  “Got it, Jimmy.”

  As he and the cop neared the impounded planes, Gander scanned the area. It didn’t look any different than when they’d been taken away from it. The Alpha Kats and the Kappa Kat were still buttoned up.

  He walked alongside the yellow tape and took the assault rifles from the cop, who ducked under the tape and went to join his partner.

  Gander rounded the corner stanchion and approached the Starlifter.

  The hatch into the crew compartment was closed.

  He distinctly remembered leaving it open, in the hopes that the heat wouldn’t build up inside.

  Gander stopped where he was and rotated.

  The Americans exiting through the employee gate stood out like three sore thumbs. They were a full head taller than the Thais milling around near the gate.

  Gander yelled, “Hey!”

  The Thais all looked his way.

  The Americans didn’t. They slipped through the gate and began walking north.

  Gander ran to the crew hatch, shoved the rifles inside, and then loped toward the gate.

  The guard was only there to keep people out, not in, and he didn’t give Gander a second glance.

  His quarries were running now, headed for the parking lots, but they were tall enough for him to track.

  Gander went to full gallop.

  *

  Except for Gander, all of the pilots and Tex Brabham were crammed into the room shared by Soames and Billingsly when Kimball got back. He had been using the telephone in his own room.

  “All right,” he said, “I’ve made some headway.”

  Soames hoped so. The atmosphere was definitely dampened by pessimism. There were no jokes today, off-color or not. He asked, “Did you find Jimmy?”

  “No.”

  All they had heard from Gander was a phone message left at the desk saying that the airplanes might have been tampered with by three Americans. Gander had called it in at 4:15 P.M., three hours before.

  “So what’s the headway?” Vrdlicka asked. His depressed tone said he was worried about his friend.

  Kimball leaned against the dresser. “The Thai cops insist that no one was allowed inside the tape. But you know the power of the baht. They apologized profusely for detaining Jimmy and Ito.”

  Makura said, “Jeez, now we are getting somewhere.”

  “What about the demonstration flights tomorrow?” Soames asked.

  “Indefinitely suspended. I called Manila to delay our arrival, but they had already heard that our certificates had been withdrawn, and they postponed indefinitely. They’ll call us.”

  McEntire was stretched out across the head of one bed shoved against the wall, his head and shoulders resting on a pair of pillows. He said, “Have we gotten to the part where we’re making headway, Kim?”

  “I got some concessions. As long as we don’t start or move the planes, we can work on them. I pleaded the humidity here and the need to keep moisture out of the fuel bladders. We can refuel all of the planes, including the transports. We can do our normal maintenance.”

  “And we can see if anybody’s been fucking around with them?” Brabham asked.

  “Right, Tex.”

  “We can strip their seals?”

  “Yes. Just leave the ribbon in place.”

  Brabham climbed out of his chair, and Tom Keeper was the quickest at anticipating the vacancy. He claimed it by rolling backwards over the arm.

  “I’ll get the boys up and go on out there, then,” Brabham said.

  Kimball grabbed Brabham’s arm as he passed and leaned close to whisper in his ear.

  Soames also leaned in close and heard, “Tex, tell Carl Dent to stay out of sight inside the Starlifter, but to prepare a full ordnance load for ought-eight. He’s to be prepared to missile-up at any moment.”

  “Now wait just a goddamned minute!” Soames said.

  The undercurrent murmur in the room died away.

  “Stay out of it, A.J.,” Kimball said.

  McEntire came off the bed. “Who’s doing what to whom, A.J.?”

  Brabham started for the door, and Soames slipped in front of him and rested his shoulder against it.

  “Move, A.J.,” Brabham said.

  “In a minute. Kim, you’re not going anywhere without me. You’ll need a controller, and I’m it.”

  “Fuck this,” McEntire said. “No one’s going anywhere, or doing anything, on the spur of the moment.”

  “It’s my fight, Sam Eddy,” Kimball said.

  “You heard what I said, buddy. If we’re sticking to Mr. Washington’s plan, we’re also sticking to our plan. Admittedly, given the current conditions, we’ll need some alternative departure routes, but that’s easy enough.”

  “Damn it, Sam Eddy, I’m the president!”

  “Damn it, yourself. I think we can rustle up enough votes to oust you.”

  “Shut up a minute,” Soames said, loud enough that everyone shut up. />
  The rifts were widening under the pressure, and he wasn’t certain of some of the motives, but he wasn’t going to stand by and watch it happen.

  “We haven’t got a quorum for a shareholder’s meeting,” Soames said, “but I guess we could call this the executive committee. I’m going to want to see enough hands in the air before I go along with anything that deviates from what we all agreed on in Phoenix. Anyone object to that?”

  All he saw were heads shaking negatively.

  Except for Kimball’s.

  “Anyone want to try busting out of here?”

  All of the hands went up.

  Except for Kimball’s.

  “You’re out-voted, Kim.”

  “You’re out of line, A.J.,” Brabham said.

  “Hang on, Tex. I’m barely started. Next, I want to know just …”

  The telephone rang.

  “That’ll be Susie,” McEntire said, “wanting to know if we’re all happy.”

  Keeper grabbed the phone, listened a second, and said, “It’s Gander. He wants to talk to you, Kim.”

  *

  It was after midnight before they beached the Oriental Hotel. Located on Oriental Avenue, the hotel overlooked the Chao Phraya River, and was spread over enough acreage to accommodate expansive gardens, two tennis courts, and a swimming pool. Until recently, the Oriental had been considered the best hotel in the world.

  They came by the river route, using a long-tail boat, named for the absurdly long drive shaft turning the propeller, and disembarked near the Garden Wing of the hotel. Duplex rooms looking out on the river and the gardens made up the wing.

  Kimball paid the boat’s operator, then gave him another five hundred baht to wait for them. He stepped ashore, followed by McEntire, Cadwell, Mabry, and Halek, all of whom had drawn the short straws and professed to be happy about it.

  The garden’s paths were lit with small yellow lamps, but it only served to make the shadows darker. Gander emerged from the blackness near one of the duplexes, identifiable by the outline of his Stetson.

  Kimball left the path and met him in the middle of a patch of grass that would have impressed the greens keepers at Pebble Beach or Rock Creek.

  “’Bout time, boss,” Gander said.

  “We had to go back to Don Muang to retrieve the hardware,” Kimball said. “You were right, Jimmy. The gate guard didn’t check us on the way out.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “The four pistols. We weren’t about to hide an assault rifle.”

  “Okay. They’ve got six rooms. Three duplexes. They travel better than we do. You know these suckers run two hundred and fifty bucks a night?”

  “We getting a tour, Jimmy?”

  “No. I followed them back here, but didn’t pinpoint the rooms until late because they all got together for dinner. I’m hungry, by the way.”

  “I’ll buy you a cheeseburger later,” Sam Eddy said. “So, what do they look like?”

  “Hard guys.” Gander described each of the six men. “All of them Americans, I think, except for the Latino. He could be something else. And one of them’s got an Irish brogue that could be the real thing.”

  “Any names?” Kimball asked.

  “I heard Crider, Wheeler, and Gart mentioned, but that’s all. If I had to guess, Crider’s in charge.”

  “Good work, Jimmy. Any suggestions?”

  “We’re short a couple guns. Let’s try to take them one at a time, starting with the Hispanic. He’s the smallest.”

  “If somebody yells, we lose a few,” Halek said.

  “Two at a time, then,” Kimball said. “We want Crider, for sure.”

  Gander explained the layout of the rooms and who was occupying which room, and they split up. Kimball and Halek followed Gander across a sidewalk to another row of duplexes and they stepped into grass between two buildings.

  As he studiously attempted to place his feet on soft ground, Kimball kept thinking about stealthy Indians. Hiawatha or somebody from his bookish youth.

  Gander slowed as they reached the second building, sliding into the shadows next to it, putting his back to the wall. Kimball slipped around him and peeked around the corner. He saw sliding glass doors that opened on a small patio.

  And they were open, the occupant taking advantage of the balmy night.

  Kimball reached under his shirt and pulled the Browning nine millimeter from its perch in the small of his back. His thumb found the safety and clicked it off.

  He heard the snick of Halek’s pistol being armed.

  He went first, tiptoeing across the patio to stand next to the open door. The pale white curtains were drawn, billowing outward between the open doors a little.

  He couldn’t hear any noises, any movement.

  Reaching with his left hand, the pistol held muzzle-up in his right, he grabbed the fabric between his thumb and fingers and drew it back slightly.

  As he leaned his head to peer through the gap, he realized his body was probably backlit through the curtains. He hesitated, considering his vulnerability, then pressed forward to see.

  There was the bed, ghostly white.

  One form in it, lying on its side, its back to him. He stepped through the curtain onto deep, sound-absorbing carpet.

  Crossing quickly to the bed, he switched the gun to his left hand, reached over the man’s head, and slapped his hand over his mouth.

  Shoved the muzzle into the back of his neck as he came to life, struggling.

  Then Gander was there, gripping the man’s arms.

  Kimball leaned down and whispered, “Move again, hombre, and I’m going to put your lights out.”

  He quit struggling.

  Halek appeared, tucked his Browning into his belt, and began cutting the sheets into strips. The man was sleeping nude, and he wouldn’t like being caught that way. In the thin light spilling outside, his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. In four minutes, the captive was gagged and trussed like a rodeo calf. Gander had that experience.

  Halek rapidly went through the man’s suitcase and pants pockets.

  “Looks like he’s a pilot, Kim,” he whispered. “Got a license and log. Passport says his name is Sanchez. There’s lease papers and keys.”

  “Leave the money and bring the paperwork and the keys. Let’s make it tough for him to get out of the country.”

  Halek stuffed his pockets with documents.

  “Who’s next door, Jimmy?”

  “That’ll be Crider.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Crider was a more cautious man. His doors were closed and locked.

  Kimball was considering his next move when all hell broke loose.

  Two loud shots rang out from the next row of buildings.

  People started yelling.

  He grabbed a metal chair from next to a glass-topped table, rotated nearly a full turn, and slammed it as hard as he could into the glass door.

  Glass exploded everywhere.

  He danced through the doorframe, trying to stay away from the jagged edges.

  Crider was sitting bolt upright in his bed, his hand scrambling beneath his pillow.

  “If you find it, Crider, you’re a dead man,” Kimball said, holding the Browning steady on the man’s forehead.

  Crider pulled his hand out.

  The use of his name didn’t stop him from trying to bluff it out. “What the hell’s going on? You want money? Take it.”

  Gander and Halek came through the broken door.

  “We’d better move,” Gander said.

  “Out of the bed, Crider.”

  He slid out from under the sheet, wearing boxer shorts, and stood up slowly, keeping his hands out in front of him. Kimball had the feeling Crider had done this before.

  Halek sliced sheets.

  Gander slipped behind the man, pulled his arms behind him, and bound them tightly, from wrists to elbows.

  “Get the paperwork, Jay.”

  Halek searched the slacks and jacke
t of a suit tossed over a chair and came up with the passport and wallet.

  “Let’s roll,” Kimball said.

  Gander shoved Crider barefooted through the broken glass and out the door.

  The captive complained about the glass, but he complained quietly.

  Kimball heard feet pounding on the sidewalk. More people were screaming for the police. Lights came on in most of the duplexes.

  Somewhere to Kimball’s right, and ahead of him, somebody yelled, “Derek?”

  They ran for the river, passing the last duplex at a canter, Crider jerked along between Gander and Halek. Because of his bound arms, he couldn’t run well, but the two pilots didn’t let him lose his balance.

  Four more shots rang out behind them.

  And the more prudent hotel guests immediately shut off their room lights.

  Ahead of him, Kimball saw a shadow prancing among deeper shadows.

  And the shadow hollered, “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  Twenty-one

  “There’s three of ’em, Alan!” Crider yelled, diving for the ground and pulling Halek and Gander with him.

  Kimball, with the awareness a fighter pilot has for his tactical situation, realized he was outlined by the lights still on in a few duplexes behind him. A stand of three palm trees ten feet away on the left was his closest cover, and as he made a cut off his right foot and headed for them, he heard the sharp crack of a pistol and a bullet whistled past his head. Its sonic trail concussed against his eardrums.

  He saw the muzzle flash in the darkness ahead, and almost without thinking, squeezed off two shots in reply.

  Then hit the ground.

  Heard his shots tearing leaves.

  Rolled wildly to his left.

  Another bullet kicked dirt in his face.

  The image of the muzzle flash hung on his retina. He whipped his Browning out in front of him, gripped it in both hands, aimed to the right of the flash memory, and squeezed the trigger.

  The automatic bucked.

  The bullet hit meat.

  Deep groan.

  He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, running toward the sound.

  “Jay! Jimmy!”

  Kimball heard them hauling Crider to his feet, chasing after him.