by Tom Hansen
“Hit the floor, all of you!” screamed Tyrus, then fired a round at the ceiling. “Now! Face down! Move it!”
Instinctively, the FBI agents and Johnny Murphree raised their arms then dropped to their knees and finally laid down on their stomachs, noses resting on the linoleum. Otis, Lance and Pancho dove to the ground, all fearing this was the last minute of their lives. Lew got down on all fours and began having heart palpitations. Willy raised his arms and dropped to his knees, but then paused and lowered his arms. His back was to the armed intruder.
“Hands back up in the air or you’re a dead man!” shouted Tyrus to Willy.
“Tyrus, is that you? It’s me, man. Your brother, Willy.” Slowly Willy turned around on his knees to face Tyrus.
Tyrus tossed the gun on the floor and bear-hugged his little brother. Willy rose and squeezed back. Otis popped his head up and said, “Tyrus, you here? You not dead, bro? Man, I ain’t seen you in a whole bunch a years!”
Tyrus broke Willy’s embrace and lifted Otis off the floor, then crunched him to his chest. “Otis, what you doing here?”
Agent Jones pulled a revolver out of the holster that was tucked underneath his windbreaker and aimed it at Tyrus’ temple. “Sorry to break up this family reunion, but you are under arrest.”
Willy quickly stepped between Jones’ gun and his two brothers, then raised his arms up over his head. “Sir, my brother’s weapon is lying on the floor and he’s greatly outnumbered here. He isn’t going anywhere, so please put your weapon down and let’s get some answers.”
Tyrus stepped around his brother with his hands reaching high above his shoulders. Each of the FBI agents now had their weapons drawn. “I don’t have time to explain, but we all need to get away from here quickly. This place and the DNR office will soon be destroyed by an aircraft carrying incendiary bombs. I didn’t see any cars out front. How did you get here?”
“Not so fast, Tyrus,” replied Agent Jones, still refusing to lower his aim. “It is Tyrus, if I heard your brother right, correct? But we’re not going anywhere until you answer some questions.”
Lew interrupted, “Come on, Jack. Put cuffs on him or whatever, but if he’s telling the truth, none of us should be here. There’s been two mid-air crashes in the last month in Florida and you just saw what those remote controls can do. Let’s get out of here!”
“Our cars are back at the DNR,” said Agent Jones as he pulled out his handcuffs and snapped them on Tyrus’ wrists. “How much time do we have?”
“Not enough to get to the DNR. I have a Jeep Wagoneer that seats six and we can cram another three in the rear compartment. The other two of y’all will have to climb on top and hold on to the luggage racks.”
“That’ll have to do. Let’s go!”
With cuffs tightly grappled to his wrists, Tyrus hustled Willy, Otis, Lance, Pancho, Lew, Johnny and the five FBI agents to the Jeep. Agent Jones ordered Willy to drive with Tyrus in the front middle seat and Agent Tecka by the passenger side window. Jones offered to ride on the roof with Agent Brewer.
Willy floored the Jeep down the driveway and turned abruptly onto the road headed for the Nike base in Key Largo, then slammed on the brakes. Jones and Brewer slid off the top and rolled onto the hood, while Pancho flew from the cargo hold into the back seat.
“What the hell are you doing?” yelled Tecka as Willy jumped out to check on the condition of Jones and Brewer who were shaken up and visibly upset.
“The guard!” shouted Willy. “We left the guard locked up inside Agent Jones’ car back at the DNR. He’ll be killed. We need to get him out of there.”
“Collateral damage,” clamored Agent Brewer. “We ain’t got time and the man worked for Daughtry. Leave him!”
“No way, man. This is America and he’s innocent until we prove him guilty in a court of law. We’re gonna get him, so get back up on the roof.” There wasn’t time to argue. Jones and Brewer climbed up on the roof, this time grabbing the rack as tightly as possible, and Willy U-turned the Jeep around and bolted for the DNR.
CHAPTER 74
Sunday, March 14, 1982
3:00 a.m.
Y ears ago, Yussef and Hank Daughtry had enrolled in an elective course at Yale called Genetic Reproduction, only because it was held at a time during the day that didn’t interfere with soccer practice. The chapter in their textbook that provided an overview of the female reproductive system now came in very handy. Together, they delivered a tiny, red-faced baby boy with a small patch of shiny black hair on the crown of his head. Although he was a month premature, his lungs were certainly in proper working order. Screams were echoing off the cylindrical walls of Oliver’s private jet.
“Give that child something to eat, damn it!” ordered Oliver. He was frustrated and anxious. Delivering a baby onboard his private aircraft at this critical moment in time was not in his master plan.
The infant’s mom held the newborn tightly to her chest, feeding and securing him at the same time. This was her only child and her motherly protective instinct kicked in. She feared for her own safety, but trembled at the thought of what might happen to her son.
“I will take care of my grandson,” announced Roy as he stood over the boy and his mother. “As for you, young lady, you were promised to Prince Adil for his harem, so you will be flying on to Al Qadir.”
Roy waited for a few moments for the baby to finish his first meal, then tried to lift him off his mother. But mom refused to let go of her newborn son. Yussef pulled back her right arm while Hank clutched her left arm, then Roy picked up his grandson and departed down the gangway.
The boy was wrapped in towels that were stored in the cargo hold, then carried to the airport infirmary. Roy was an expert liar, a grand champion in that arena. He explained to the nurses that the baby was born while in the air, and told them the mother was being cared for by a doctor who was onboard. He assured the medical staff that he would reunite the infant with his mom and the doctor as soon as they cleaned him up. The nurses bought the story: hook, line and sinker.
Meanwhile, Oliver’s jet taxied to the runway and moments later was airborne, destined for Al Qadir. One passenger was feeling immense pain, not from the miracle of childbirth, but from a broken heart.
CHAPTER 75
Sunday, March 14, 1982
9:00 a.m. (Baku Time Zone)
Y akov Slivko had piloted the Mig-25 Foxbat for the Russian Air Force many times, but never with a cargo of nuclear weapons. And he certainly never dreamed of betraying his country and stealing one of its most prized military possessions. That was until he met Jim Brown and was handed a check for 800,000 Soviet Rubles written from a Swiss bank account. He would redeposit the check in a new Nassau bank account for a little over one million Bahamian dollars, and then spend the rest of his life fishing for blue marlin in the Bermuda Triangle.
It was 9:00 a.m. in Baku when Yakov achieved Mach one speed on the supersonic interceptor as the mighty jet circled over the Caspian Sea bearing south-southwest towards Baghdad, then in a westerly direction over the Mediterranean Sea. Nearing the Jordan border with Iraq, Yakov pushed the throttle down to provide full thrust and the plane glided through the thin cirrostratus cloud layers towards the edge of the atmosphere. As the Mig-25 began to level off, Yakov felt an enormous shaking and the shrieking sound of stress on the airframe. He gripped the wheel with all his strength and tried to throttle down, but the controls were unresponsive. The autopilot was always disengaged when Yakov was piloting the aircraft because he enjoyed the thrill of flying the Foxbat himself and performing a few barrel rolls to alleviate boredom. But now Yakov had mysteriously lost all control, yet, the jet was engaging its ailerons and banking back towards the east at a steep angle. He hit the kill switch on engine number one to slow the jet down, but nothing happened. Yakov was much too high and going way too fast to eject now. For the first time in his military life, Yakov was scared.
Jim Brown had his right hand on the joy stick while he examined the rad
ar control screen in front of him. With a few strokes of the keyboard with his left hand, he locked the coordinates onto the target. After sneaking on board the MiG, Jim didn’t have enough time to reconfigure the fighter jet’s auto-guidance system, so he would have to manually guide the plane to its destination.
To ensure that his strategy would work, Jim told no one about his redirected plan. He had even lied to Tyrus, making his colleague think the jet was re-rigged with incendiary bombs and on its way to Florida to destroy the evidence left at the governor’s house and the DNR office. Instead, the two nuclear bombs were fully engaged and ready for some massive destruction.
Suddenly, the Foxbat fell into a nosedive. Yakov pressed the ejection seat button, but to no avail. He closed his eyes and said a prayer.
Seconds later, an explosion erupted sending a dense cloud upward and outward that could be seen for hundreds of miles. The ground shook from Dubai to Tel Aviv. Arab geologists hypothesized that an earthquake of substantial magnitude had just occurred, while newscasters and reporters hustled to their vans to try and find the epicenter.
The video camera that Jim Brown had installed on the nose of the Mig-25 stopped abruptly upon impact, but he could see from the radar screen that the Foxbat had hit its target dead center. Prince Adil’s palace and communications center would be no more. Jim lamented for a moment as he pondered the collateral damage that had been done: the Prince’s harem and innocent workers from Pakistan being paid slave wages. But he couldn’t let that cloud the bigger picture. He turned to the man who was chained and gagged lying on the floor of the O’Sullivan Center control center, aimed the Beretta pistol at his forehead and pulled the trigger four times, spattering gray matter all around the room.
Roy Jackson was now an only child.
CHAPTER 76
Sunday, March 14, 1982
3:30 a.m.
I t was 3:30 a.m. when the Jeep screeched to a halt in the DNR parking lot. The FBI agents raced to their cars, Jones and Tecka getting into the front seat while Daughtry’s guard sat cuffed in the back. Agent Brewer’s team of techies hopped into their car, while Lew, Pancho, Otis and Lance loaded into the Trans Am. Willy and Johnny both filed into the front seat of the Jeep with Tyrus. All four vehicles spun tires violently, then wildly fishtailed down the service road, kicking up dust and gravel. A rock hit Lew’s rental and cracked the windshield, but he stayed with the pack as the four cars screeched out onto the main road.
Willy turned to Tyrus and gave him an inquisitive look. “What are you involved in, Tyrus? What happened to you man?”
“I’ll tell you and the FBI the whole story when we get to the Nike base. Just hang in there, okay Bro?”
“Okay,” replied Willy as he and Johnny braced themselves on the dashboard.
“But Willy, just one question,” said Tyrus somberly. “How is Abby and my baby boy? What does he look like now?”
Willy pulled out a cracked and faded picture from his wallet taken two years ago when Tyrone was in junior high. “Abby is as gorgeous as ever, Ty. Never did get married. She never found anyone to love like she did you. And Tyrone, he’s quite an athlete. But more than that, he’s quite a good man. They live with me, Ty.”
Tyrus didn’t respond. He held the picture in his right hand and steered with his left. Tears were dripping down onto his cheeks.
After a few moments of complete silence, Tyrus glanced at Willy and said, “Hold the wheel, Willy. I got something to show ya.” Willy reached over and placed his hands on the steering wheel while Tyrus took a worn down and slightly ripped envelope from his back pocket. He handed the envelope to his brother, then took control of the wheel. “I’ve carried this on me everywhere I’ve been for the past sixteen years, Willy. It’s the only thing that’s kept me going.”
Willy opened the unsealed envelope and pulled out a Polaroid instant photo and a note. The colors had dissolved into a dull reddish-orange tone, but Willy knew right away what he was looking at. It was Abby in the hospital maternity ward with newborn Tyrone. The baby was grasping a miniature cloth basketball with his tiny fingers and his eyes were closed. Willy then read the note:
bro, yur an uncle and baby name is Tyrone and now yur uncle willy and abby is good and they come home tomoro.
“My God, Ty, why didn’t you mail this?!” asked Willy. “I was in Nam at the time, but I still would’ve gotten it.”
“That’s where my story begins, Bro. But I need to tell the FBI, too.”
* * * * *
The four cars wound through the swampy underbrush path to the hidden Nike base. The men exited their vehicles and Tyrus motioned frantically with his arms and pointed to the metal door that was built into the ground. “Get in there, fast! Bring the guard. I’m hoping we’re far enough away from where the MiG will crash, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
Everyone climbed into the Nike facility and stood with their mouths wide open. They were marveling at this high tech operations center built into an old, deserted and dilapidated missile launch site from the Korean War era. The video equipment rivaled what they saw at Daughtry’s house. Tyrus flipped a switch on two TV’s, then punched in some numbers on a computer keyboard. The video feed began to sweep the skies.
“Something’s wrong,” stated Tyrus as he glanced at both television screens. “Wait here.” Tyrus grabbed a pair of binoculars off the desk and went outside. Everyone glanced at each other wondering what Tyrus was doing. Two minutes later he returned.
“There’s nothing in the sky. The Mig-25 should have crashed by now.”
“Mig-25?” questioned Agent Jones. “MiG jets are Soviet made. Are you saying the jet is being flown from Russia?” A vision of World War Three was swimming around in his mind.
Before he could respond, Tyrus noticed the red light on his answering machine was lit. He picked up the receiver and hit the play button. Tyrus cranked up the volume. Willy and the FBI needed to be in the loop:
“Tyrus this is Jim. Plans have changed. Sorry I couldn’t tell you before, but I wasn’t sure I could rig the Foxbat’s controls before it departed. We need to secure the DNR and Daughtry’s control room manually. I’m driving down, should be there by eight. Meet me there. And Tyrus, check out CNN. No need to explain, I think you’ll get the picture. Later!”
Tyrus switched on the thirty-two-inch Sony. He didn’t need to turn on CNN. Every major network’s international affiliate was broadcasting from the Middle East. It was still daytime over there, but the skies were dark. A massive cloud was blocking the sun. On the ground were fire engines, military tanks, police vehicles, ambulances and hundreds of news reporters, all scrambling chaotically in every which way imaginable.
The byline on the bottom of the screen read:
Soviet military jet on suicide mission attacks Jasurbian palace with nuclear weapons. Death toll not yet available. Prince Adil assumed dead.
CHAPTER 77
Sunday, March 14, 1982
6:00 a.m.
“W ake up, Jenny!” yelled Roy while shaking his daughter. He laid the wicker basket on the floor with the screaming newborn inside so he could use both hands to jolt Jenny from her dream world. Sunday mornings Jenny usually slept in until noon, so Roy needed both hands to arouse her. “Now, Jenny! Up!”
Jenny and Tyrone Banks spent the wee hours fishing for speckled perch out on the dock that extended about fifty yards from the north shore of Lake Okeechobee. They really weren’t hoping to catch any fish, they just wanted some time to talk about things. The second midair passenger plane disaster was in the minds of everyone who lived in and around Seminole Bend, and especially the kids from this small town were frightened by the uncontrollable loss of lives. Tyrone had asked Jenny if she thought her dad had anything to do with all the mysterious deaths in the past month and Jenny simply shrugged her shoulders. Her brother Jimmy had mentioned the same thing to her the day before and neither sibling could confirm or deny that Roy might be involved in horrible things. She had rolled aroun
d in bed since returning to the ranch around four in the morning and had just dozed off when her father’s shaking began.
“I’m up, dad, okay. Give me a minute.” Jenny turned her back to her dad, but then heard what sounded like a baby crying and she sprang to a sitting position. “What’s that sound?”
Roy reached down, lifted the basket and placed it on her bed. “It’s your new nephew. Long story, don’t ask now. But I need you to babysit for a couple of hours, okay?”
Jenny’s mouth dropped wide open as she stared at Roy with moist eyes. “My nephew? But how? Jimmy? Why didn’t he tell me?”
“I said I would tell you later. Please, just take care of him. There’s some work I need to do.”
“What’s his name?” asked Jenny. She pulled back on the towel that was covering the baby’s face, then lightly touched him on the forehead. The baby stopped crying and smiled. Jenny smiled back and the connection was made instantly. “He’s hungry, dad.”
“I woke Jimmy up and he’s out getting some formula now. He’ll be back soon.”
“Jimmy’s a dad? Who’s the mom?”
Roy didn’t bother to respond. He quickly left the room and headed for his office, which was a converted equipment shed attached to the barn. Hank Daughtry and Sheriff Bonty were waiting for him by a television set watching the live coverage coming out of the Middle East.
“They’re saying it was a Russian suicide mission meant to provoke a war between Jasurbia and the Soviet Union,” said Bonty.
“There’s nothing on the news about a jet crashing in Miami, so that must be our MiG!” added the governor.