by Paul Byers
“No! I want Rambo’s girlfriend here and I’m taking her with us.”
“Leave her or I’ll leave you.” Neo pumped the shotgun and fired a round into the side of the counter right next to his friend. “Your choice, man.”
Ponytail man stood there and shook with rage. He looked at Boss man, then the hole in the wall, then back to Jenkins. Unable to contain his building rage any longer, he exploded like a volcano, letting out a huge, prolonged yell, then turned to Jenkins and shot him in the chest.
“Let’s go.” Ponytail said as he grabbed the pillowcases full of money and headed for the door. Steve Hertz was standing at the other end of the counter and as Ponytail walked by, he shot him in the leg without even slowing down.
“Crazy idiot.” Boss man said shaking his head. He whistled to the other two men and they all left.
Mary came running from behind the counter and knelt beside Jenkins and cradled his head in her arms, tears flowing.
“I’m one for two now.” He coughed, seeing she was safe. “Tell my wife I’m going to be late for dinner.”
Chapter Five
Pike throttled back and a brought the Yankee Clipper down to 8,000 feet and set the auto-pilot. He reached under his seat and grabbed a sandwich. His stomach was still a little queasy from the dogfight but he was hungry none the less. The roast beef was a little dry so he reached back under and grabbed a fruit drink pouch. He would have preferred a cold bottle of water or tall glass of milk, or better yet, a frosty mug of root beer, but none of those traveled well in his cramped cockpit.
With steely-eyed determination he took off the little straw and prepared to try and poke it through the tiny serving hole. He could pilot a fighter jet, decipher blueprints that would drive DaVinci mad and balance his checkbook at the end of the month, yet there were two things in life he couldn’t do: figure out what made women tick, and how to put the straw in a juice pouch without spilling it all over himself. After four failed attempts, which were two more than he usually tried, he reached into the shoulder pocket of his flight suit and pulled out a small Swiss Army Knife.
This was one of the more unusual of the Swiss knives; this one didn’t have all the gizmos and gadgets: it actually had a blade that he could use. He’d learned from years of experience and dozens of dry cleaning bills just how to open one of these things without getting juice all over himself. He flipped out the blade, then carefully grabbed the top of the pouch with his left hand. With the skill of a surgeon, he inserted the blade into the pouch and began cutting.
The tab was removed and surgery was almost complete; all he had to do now was insert the straw, and enjoy. Just as he was putting in the straw, the Clipper hit a pocket of rough air and bounced up and down harder than a Model T Ford on a washboard road. As he bounced, he accidentally squeezed the pouch, sending the straw shooting out like a missile and juice gushing out like a geyser. Some of the juice hit the top of the canopy then started “raining” down in tiny droplets while more splattered on his flight suit, but the majority of it landed in his lap. Pike looked down and shook his head, hoping it would dry before he had to land and refuel. No amount of explaining would curb the snickers and laughs he would get as he climbed out of the cockpit if his suit were still wet. He ate his sandwich and downed what was left of the juice.
There were advantages to having your own private jet to fly in, but there were also disadvantages too, one being boredom. He hadn’t quite figured out how to get a stewardess on board yet. He began tuning the radio to see if he could find anything interesting to listen to and help pass the time. He passed over two country western stations, one song was about getting out of prison and the other was about a dog and an old pickup truck. Next, he scanned across a soft rock station that almost put him to sleep on the spot.
Suddenly something up ahead caught his eye, so he decided to drop down and take a look. He leveled off at 5000 feet and tipped his wing down as he did a fly over. There were two high school busses parked on the side of the road with four cars pulled in behind them. Several men were standing around the front of the lead bus while the drivers were working on changing a flat tire. Cheerleaders, football players and students were milling around the busses, cell phones in hand, no doubt relaying their harrowing plight to friends and families.
Pike brought the Clipper around for another pass, only this time he came in low and fast. He skimmed over the desert floor at about 500 feet and pushed the airspeed up to 400 knots. Every eye on the ground was watching as he roared by. Pike smiled to himself; this was one of those times when it was good to have your own jet. A couple of the football players raised their helmets and cheered as he went by while several of the cheerleaders shook their pompoms and did a quick cheer. As he streaked by the two drivers gave him a wave and he returned it with a quick salute and waggle of his wings. He smiled as he did a quick snap roll and then pulled up and out. Tom Cruise, eat your heart out.
The small adrenaline rush soon faded and he was back to channel surfing again. He found two rock stations, one classical, a talk show talking about the economy, what else? With nothing he really wanted to listen to, he was about to turn the radio off when the last station caught his ear.
“Breaking news. Police have just reported that the US Bank in Logandale has been robbed at gunpoint. One bank guard has been killed and another teller has also been shot and is in critical condition. Nevada Highway Patrol reports that the suspects are driving a dark green, late model Dodge Charger, and they are in a high-speed pursuit heading north on Highway 93. Suspects are armed and considered extremely dangerous. Anyone traveling north or south bound on Highway 93 between Ash Springs and Las Vegas should use extreme caution.”
Pike frowned as an uneasy feeling crept into the cockpit with him. He had all the latest GPS navigational equipment but sometimes plain, good old-fashioned paper maps worked best. He unfolded one and quickly checked his location against his GPS, then turned the Clipper south and followed the road, hoping all the while that he was wrong. A few minutes later his worst fears were confirmed. In the distance he saw a trail of flashing lights following about a mile behind a dark sedan moving faster than a bat out of hell. They were on a collision course, heading straight for the stranded school busses. These criminals were desperate men who had already killed, Pike shuddered to think what would happen if they got their hands on a bus full of hostages.
There were only a few minutes before they would reach the kids; he had to do something, but what? If he were in his car, he would have hit the steering wheel out of frustration, since there was no wheel; he did the next best thing and slammed his fist against the side of his canopy. He pulled back up to 5000 feet and swung back to the north, towards the buses. Time was running out, and he still didn’t have any ideas of what he was going to do and he could only hit his canopy so many times. What could he do? It’s not like he could dive down and strafe the bad guys…or could he?
Suddenly, the seed of a wild thought was sown. He knew he should have stopped and torn it out by the roots, but instead, he watered it with desperation and a plan soon began to flourish. Quickly he found the busses and surveyed the surrounding area. The vehicles were behind a small outcropping at the top of a slight rise. Pike banked hard around and saw the suspects coming up over a small hill. Soon they would drop down into a large, shallow draw. It was perfect.
He would probably lose his pilot’s license for this but he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He pushed the throttle forward nearly to the stops and brought the Yankee Clipper out wide and flew down the middle of the draw, heading straight for the bandits’ car. He concentrated as he flew down the draw, keeping a careful eye on the altimeter and air speed indicator as he put the plane in a shallow dive. For a moment he had visions of himself as William Holden in the movie Bridges at Toko-Ri or as the young Luke Skywalker as he focused on lining up on the car. He swore that if he heard the words… “Use the Force Luke,” he was bailing out. The Clipper quickly gained speed and reached 6
00 mph in a matter of seconds. He was down to 2500 feet and still descending, still picking up speed.
The bank robbers had widened the distance between themselves and their pursuers to nearly a mile and a half now; timing would be everything. Pike continued to dive and was at 1500 feet and pushing 725 mph, just a little lower, just a little faster. At a half-mile out, he pushed the throttle to the stops and nudged the stick forward.
His hands were sweating and he could feel his heart racing, pounding out a beat that any punk-rock band would have trouble keeping up with. His mouth was dryer than the sands of the Nevada desert below and forget about even trying to describe how his stomach felt. Was this what it was like to go into real combat? Playing tag with the F-15s earlier had been fun and exciting, but nothing was really at stake, no lives to be saved or lost, only pride and egos, but this was different. Here, now, there was a very real threat, with the very real possibility of lives being lost, not only to the kids if they were taken hostage by the murderers, but to himself. One wrong move, one mistake at this speed and altitude and he wouldn’t even have time to say “Oh crap” before he would plow into the desert floor.
Just before he reached the car, Pike took one last deep breath and leveled out at 500 feet and watched as his air speed reached 767 mph. That’s when it happened.
Slumbering dust and dirt particles now bolted up and swirled and mingled with leaves ripped from the desert plants. They formed a storm cloud that swarmed and engulfed the car in a chaotic mass. The windows on the bandits’ car were shattered and the car jostled violently as if shaken by a giant, unseen hand. It swerved off the road and the right front tire dug into the soft sand, flipping the car twice before it came to rest on its side. The sonic boom had lacerated the valley floor and the car as the silver F-86 Sabre streaked overhead, breaking the sound barrier.
Blowing out several deep breaths to calm himself, Pike gently pulled back on the stick with a shaky hand and circled the area. He felt such a rush that he felt like he didn’t need the Clipper to fly right now. He felt like he had thrown the winning touchdown pass at the Super Bowl or hit a grand slam in the bottom of the 9th to win the game. Four Highway Patrol cruisers quickly surrounded the wrecked car and the troopers jumped out guns drawn and ready. The lead cruiser’s windshield was shattered but was still intact; fortunately it had been far enough away from the sonic boom just to have it fractured and not blown it out completely. As he swung over the buses, Pike could see that some of the kids appeared scared but none seemed to be hurt. The slight roll of the draw and outcropping help shield the kids from the effects of the sound blast.
“Yankee Clipper, this is McCarran International, you are requested to change your flight plan and return here immediately.”
Pike sighed, like he didn’t know that was coming. No good deed goes unpunished he thought, it was time to pay the piper now. “McCarran, this is Yankee Clipper, roger on your request, ETA in thirty minutes.” Pike banked his Sabre around and passed over the swarm of police cars and the two news helicopters that were hovering over the scene. He circled one more time then pointed the Clipper’s nose towards Las Vegas. At least he’d be there in time for the evening buffet, if he wasn’t in jail.
Chapter Six
The bright red helicopter with the flashy logo of a large number eight inside a diamond, and the catchy phrase “News You Can Trust,” circled high overhead, swarming like locust with the other dozen or so news station helicopters. Below, twice that many number of boats of assorted sizes filled the crowded waters. You could tell who the big news stations were by the size of the yachts they had chartered to cover the event.
The big three major American news networks each had chartered large, spacious yachts, sleek and modern with well-appointed interiors, projecting a sense of power, authority and believability when they flashed to their news anchors seated inside, surrounded by teak and polished brass.
The British and French networks, having a more classic sense of style, showed up with their own yachts. Older, traditional looking vessels with straight bowlines that parted the water rather than slashing at it like the stiletto bows of their American counter-parts. But they too projected their own image of a regal, elegant time gone by when you could trust what you heard.
From there, the rest of the circling boats ranged in size, depending on the bank accounts of the news stations renting them. They varied from the family cabin cruiser to the weekend runabout and the YouTube amateur trying to make the next big viral video.
A few of the larger yachts came close to each other, each skipper displaying his seamanship in a show of one-upmanship. Not to be outdone, a few of the smaller speedboats intentionally soaked their neighbors in their wake, but all in all, it was an almost carnival-like atmosphere as everyone jockeyed for the best angle, the best shot to show their audience.
And at the center of this three-ring news circus was a huge iceberg, half a mile long and nearly that wide… being towed by ten oceangoing tugs.
A tanned and well-manicured hand picked up the remote off the podium and turned off the huge projection screen covering one wall of the conference room. Another button was pushed and the automatic shades silently began to rise, revealing a sweeping, panoramic view of the New York City skyline. The room had the look and feel of a lounge of a five star hotel rather than that of a corporate meeting room. Thirty-five wingback chairs surrounded the podium in a semi-circle; all crafted from the finest leather.
Each of the chairs had been pre-assigned by random selection. Nationally syndicated columnists or TV personalities seen by millions every day could find themselves sitting next to a reporter whose last story could have been on who attended the most resent Rotary Club meeting in Small Town USA. Breaking the usual status quo like this was a practice that their host was well known for. He said he enjoyed the possibilities that it opened by defying the status quo. But despite their fame, or lack of it, every guest found on their chair a personalized press release and their favorite drink waiting for them on the solid oak cocktail tables that were nestled between the chairs. All the chairs were full, save one. The press release sat untouched in the chair and the frosted mug of root beer was getting warm.
As the lights and shades came up, so did the intensity and the anticipation in the room. All eyes shifted away from the screen and now concentrated on the man behind the podium. The room, the entire building, which he owned, reflected the presence of the man now standing before them. Physically, he was commanding, standing slightly less than six feet four inches. His dark brown hair was neatly trimmed, as was his Clark Gable mustache. By the age of twenty-five, he had made his first million in technologies; by thirty-five he had branched out and diversified. He had oil investments in the Middle East, textile plants in the Far East, manufacturing facilities throughout Europe, and agricultural interests in South America, with his technology division based in the United States. At the ripe old age of thirty-nine, Nigel Cain had become one of the ten richest men in the world.
“Thank you all for coming.” Cain said, his voice relaxed and friendly, yet projecting an air of authority and control. “That was the scene five years ago,” he continued, pointing at the screen with the remote. “As you know, the purpose of moving the iceberg was to bring safe, affordable, clean water to impoverished third world countries whose populations have either outstripped their ability to provide fresh water for drinking and farming, or whose economies have been ravaged by drought.”
Nearly every hand in the place rose like a classroom full of third graders, each one eager to have the teacher call on them first. Cain quickly scanned the room and picked a reporter sitting in the third row. The man was in his early forties, with graying hair that gave him an air of distinction. His glasses were five years out of style and out of habit, he pushed them up off the bridge of his nose before he raised his hand.
“Mr. Taylor, you have a question? For those of you who don’t know, Mr. Taylor is from the St. Helens Chronicle, covering the news f
or us in the greater Portland metropolitan area in the great Pacific Northwest.”
Taylor was in shock, surprised that Cain had actually chosen him over the famous news anchor that was sitting to his right, let alone knowing his name. Suddenly he felt very self-conscious as every eye in the room was on him. He cleared his throat and prayed his voice didn’t crack as he asked his question.
“Yes Mr. Cain.” No cracks. “You said the purpose was to bring ‘affordable’ water to these countries. Isn’t it true that you lost nearly ten million dollars on this venture with very little results?”
Cain smiled warmly and with a hint of satisfaction. It’s the kind of smile you see on a gambler playing blackjack as the house stays on 19 and he just drew a ten of diamonds for 20. “Thank you Mr. Taylor, I couldn’t have asked for a better segue question even if I had written it myself.” Light laughter floated around the room.
“Mr. Taylor, unlike a politician, I will answer your question directly.” More chuckles. “To be precise, I lost 10.3 million dollars, and yes, less than 15 percent of the iceberg’s potential translated into usable water. But, that was mostly a publicity stunt, meant to raise the public’s awareness of the plight of third world countries and the devastating effects of droughts and the shifting weather patterns caused by global warming.”
Cain paused for moment, his demeanor becoming more serious. “But now, this country, the greatest nation on the face of the earth, has begun to feel some of the very same effects of devastating droughts that our third world neighbors have felt. We have major reservoirs in several states drying up and already states are gearing up for the upcoming legal battles, preparing for the ‘water wars’ that will surely happen if we run out of water.”