by Bob Finley
"Captain Carruthers, I'd like a flight of birds in the air ASAP to take a look-see at these terrorists. And I think we'd better check on winds aloft. We don't want a hot cloud catching us off guard, in case there's fallout in this direction. You may commence operations." He returned the captain's salute and made himself scarce. He had sufficient confidence in his officers' training and abilities to get out of their way so they could do their jobs. He left the CIC and went up to the Pry-Fly level where the Air Boss and the Mini-Boss gave him surreptitious glances, then pretended he wasn’t there. He walked out onto vulture’s row where he could catch a breath of fresh air and take consolation from the vast flight deck spread out below him. The peacetime Navy sometimes made him wish for just a little walk on the wild side.
Chapter 60
"Are you sure? Are you sure?" Jeff Valance strained to hear the sat’ phone connection as it hummed and warbled with strange background noises over the four thousand miles of ocean. "When? Say again? Alright...alright...can you uplink to satellite? You can? Great! That's great! Okay, but give us some warning, can you? Fantastic! Go get 'em, girl!" He slapped the receiver into its cradle and pivoted to look for Keith Presnell. He didn't have to look far. Presnell had caught snatches of the conversation from across the room, interrupted a discussion, and was staring at Valance with a hopeful expression on his face.
"Jackie's got a plane!" Valance's face split into a grin, mirrored a moment later by Presnell's.
"And that's not all...she picked up a freelance cameraman and all his equipment! Aaaand, there's more! She sweet-talked some local yokel into loaning her a portable satellite hookup."
"How'd she do that?"
"I didn't wanna know."
"Uh-huh." Presnell didn't push it. "What kind of plane? A helicopter?"
"No. A twin-engine something-or-other. Pilot's a part-time smuggler. Knows all the short cuts."
"A smuggler? Are you serious?"
"You know Jackie. She gets the job done." He shook his head. Keith wasn't sure whether it was in disapproval or admiration.
"When do we get something?" he asked, ever the pragmatist.
"When she does. If the batteries in her sat’ phone hold out, she'll give us a warning. Otherwise, we warm up the satellite, point it in the direction of this Centinela Seamount, and wait for her to go live with a feed. Pilot says maybe...maybe...hour-and-a-half, two hours max. Depends on...I don't know what it depends on."
"So," Presnell shot his sleeve cuff back to check his watch, "what does that make it? Nine-thirty, ten o'clock our time? What's that? Four hours difference...five-thirty to six p.m. there. Will it still be daylight?" They both turned to look at Alan White, the meteorologist on temporary loan.
"Yeah. Yeah," he said, thinking out loud, "it won't be dark there 'til about seven. They'll be pushin' sundown, but they ought to make it."
"Alright, do it Jackie!" Valance burst out exuberantly. We're gonna make it! We're gonna scoop the whole cotton-pickin' world on this one!" He was beaming.
"Maybe," Keith said, always the reluctant one of the pair. "A lot of things could go wrong before then. Let's just wait and see. And hope."
"Not this time, ol' buddy. This one's ours! We're gonna ride this one all the way to a Pulitzer!"
Presnell smiled. But his friend's enthusiasm was contagious and it was hard not to catch it.
Chapter 61
"And so it begins." Jambou sat enthroned in his command chair. On the wall before him was a panoramic display. He was no longer surrounded by visions of the encompassing sea. Instead, the panel to his far left was a radar display, filled with digital graphics being fed directly from the SPS-79A radar array mounted on the surface tower above him. The square planar antenna on its high perch reached out three hundred nautical miles so that he could know not only what traffic was within his self-proclaimed two-hundred-mile domain, but what might be approaching it from as much as a hundred miles beyond. It wasn't cutting edge technology, but the price had been right. No matter that the arms dealer had mistakenly believed it was being sold to a middle-eastern nation as a loss-lead item, in hopes of generating more sales. His eyes skipped the second panel, which was not active, and glided to the third panel. A high-definition television camera automatically panned the sea around him. The 15-by-10 foot wall panel showed only an unoccupied expanse of rolling sea at this moment. Jambou smiled. He knew from the radar that this would soon change. The radar and camera were synched, but since the ships were still out of visual range, he had overridden the lock-on function that would point the camera where radar said there was a target so that the camera would continue with a three-sixty search. The view was less boring. The next panel was a sonar display. Data from the ten camouflaged sonar/camera units that surrounded his fortress was integrated through a serial processor that displayed in three-dimensional format anything that moved in the sea that was at least eight feet long...the size of the smallest minisub...and within 5,000 yards. It also differentiated between living flesh and inanimate objects. So far, the display showed nothing. But he wouldn't be surprised at anything those approaching ships might try to sneak over on him. He smiled again. If anyone was to be surprised, he didn't intend that it be him.
His eyes wandered back to the first panel. Seven objects headed his way. And only a couple of hours away. That many ships could only be military. And coming out of the west, most likely American. Good. He'd hoped they'd arrive first. They were more likely than some other nations he'd targeted to talk first and shoot last. And they'd have the clout to convince the others...and there probably would be others...to negotiate instead of seeking a purely military solution.
"The more negotiations the better," he thought. It was easier to wear down someone's resolve if they were first wearied by arguing. Eventually they would give in. They wouldn't like it. But, what were their options? After all, the only ones he'd blown up weren't even a major power. ‘Better them than us’ would be the reasoning. Back in the last half of the twentieth century, hadn't Russia and the United States constantly threatened each other with nuclear weapons? But they'd learned to live with it. And then it would all come down to money. It always did. What was that saying a few years ago? ‘Better to pay and stay than choose and lose’.
And speaking of choosing...there would probably come a time, he knew, when he'd have to prove his resolve. Somewhere in the negotiations would come demands that he release hostages as a condition of yielding to his demands. That would most likely happen early on in the process. He would have to convince someone that he intended to have his way. He'd have to kill a hostage. But, who? He considered each one in turn. Not Justin. He was worth billions. His company would probably be willing to buy his release for a hefty price. The Navy brat? No sense in further angering the U. S. military. They might do something rash. The old man? Hardly worth it. Besides, he might be of some use, with his scientific background. Same for the old volcano nut. It would be good to pick his brain before deciding what to do with him. The woman. He smiled. Not likely. She filled out that uniform very well. And it had been a while, hadn't it? Besides, she might be just naive enough to believe that her ‘sacrifice’ would save somebody's life. He chuckled aloud at that. And that narrowed the field to...one. That troublesome Japanese assistant of Justin's. He'd been nothing but trouble since he got here. And the only reason he was still alive was so that Justin would make the broadcast. Well, now that was done. And there was no more reason to tolerate such a troublemaker. Should he let Banner do it? Or Leo? No, not Banner. It would give that two-faced bigot too much pleasure. In fact, Banner didn't know it, but he wasn't too far down the list of people who had to go, once things had settled down a little. No, better to let Leo handle it. And then an idea occurred to him. One that, the more he thought about it, the more he liked. He'd use Kim what's-his-name to not only show the world he meant what he said, but to make sure everybody else, including his own guards, stayed in line as well. He'd have a public execution. He'd have Leo execute th
e little Japanese...or whatever he was...on television! That ought to get some attention! Oh, yeah.
Pleased with himself, he checked the progress once again of the group of ships that was moving his way.
"Yes. It has begun."
Chapter 62
The twin-engine Cessna plummeted out of the hot sky over the Sado River valley and careened onto a narrow dirt airstrip above Ourique that looked to Jackie Darlington like it was narrower and had more potholes than a Brooklyn side street. The pilot rolled out and pivoted to the right just before crashing through a corral with one scrawny donkey in it. The engines gave a final wheeze and stuttered to a stop.
"Why are we stopping here?" she demanded, while she really wondered which was more plastered to her body, her grungy red hair or her two-day-old blouse.
"Last chance for gas, senora," the pilot called over his shoulder as he clambered out. A sweltering blast of heat and dust punctuated the slamming of the door.
"I'm not a ‘senora’, I told you...I'm a senorita! I haven't been married for three years!" If he could hear her with the door closed and twenty yards already between them, he gave no indication.
"Where's he goin'?" the young man behind her asked, sitting up and yawning.
"I...don't...know!" she growled irritably. How anybody could sleep on this kamikaze air taxi was beyond her understanding. But that's what Jerry, the long-haired, unshaven man-child with the beat-up camera cases behind her had been doing since they'd left Lisbon. "He said he has to get gas."
"Yeah? I could loan him some, if that would help. This food down here's done a number on my stomach!"
Jackie rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Thanks so much for sharing that with me." She suddenly bolted out of her seat and shoved open the door, clambering out onto the wing and awkwardly climbing to the ground. The heat couldn't be much worse than staying inside with that unkempt hippie re-run. She shaded her eyes with cupped hands and peered around her. They'd flown southeast out of Lisbon and then abruptly dropped down in a valley with steep mountains on each side. Then they'd caromed down the valley, barely tree-top level above the Sado River, until they'd reached this place. Ahead, the valley appeared to open up. But at the far end, at right angles, was a wall of mountains. She assumed they would continue along the valley floor as they had for the past thirty or forty minutes.. At least out here there was a breeze, even if it was a hot one. She decided to find a bathroom and something cold to drink. The donkey lifted his head momentarily as she passed by, then went back to snuffling the packed earth. There was nothing to do, she decided, but walk in the same direction that Enrique-the-pilot had gone.
She hadn't gone fifty yards when a rattletrap pickup truck, trailed by a column of thick dust, bounced her way. With a grinding of gears, the truck drew even with her and stopped. Enrique leaned past the driver, a gaunt, bronzed old man with a hat that drooped as much as his mustache, and asked, "Where do you go?"
"To find a cold drink and a restroom. Is that okay with you?" she added sarcastically.
"No, senora, it is not okay. You should not be here. And I have brought something to drink." He held up a brown bottle with illegible writing on it. "Do you wish to walk or ride back to the plane?"
She looked in the bed of the battered truck. Most of the space was taken up with what looked like a gasoline drum, with a hose and nozzle attached at the top. The rest of the space was crammed with rust-encrusted junk for which she couldn't even imagine a use.
"I'll walk, thanks."
The pilot handed a bottle past the driver. A small, glass bottle of Coca-Cola with a red top. At least, she thought when she took it, it was cold and wet.
"Ten minutes. We go." Having said that, he and his compadre rattled away.
She stood where she was, guzzling the soft drink and wishing for another, until the dust blew away. Then she walked slowly back toward the plane which was squatting strangely among the weeds and dust devils. She took a detour through the barn, such as it was. If it was good enough for a donkey, it was good enough for her. Besides, it was the only restroom in sight. When she arrived back at the plane, the pilot was up on the wing with the nozzle stuck in a hole, while the old man was methodically turning a handle on the tank in the bed of the pickup.
"How did you even know about this place?" she asked, holding up one hand against the sun that was searing her eyes.
"I have...how you say...business interests here. It is a convenient place to get gasoline."
"‘Business’," she scoffed. "What kind of ‘business’?"
The pilot turned his head from what he was doing just enough for her to see his eyes. "My business, senora."
"Oh," she said. "That kind of business." She paused to think it over. "Why did you say, back there on the road, that I shouldn't be there?"
This time he didn't turn around. "I am known here. You are not."
"Yeah, but before we landed...if you call that ‘landing’...I saw what looked like a much better airport down in the valley. Why did we land up here on the side of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere?"
Enrique withdrew the nozzle from the opening and carefully secured the cap. He climbed nimbly down and handed the nozzle to the old man. Only then did he turn, squinting, to her.
"I said I am known here. Down there," he nodded over his shoulder toward the town down in the valley, "I am perhaps known too well."
"Ah. I think I understand."
He stood looking at her for a long moment. His dark eyes searched her face. Finally, he said, "No, Senora, yo no lo creo. I do not think so." He looked out across the mountain thoughtfully and then slowly turned back to face her. "Senora, you pay me to fly, not to answer questions. The money is good. But not that good. If you like, you can pay me what you owe me now. Carlos will take you in the truck down to Ourique. It is a town of mebbe three thousand souls, so in a day or two you can perhaps find another pilot."
She knew a bluff when she heard one. This wasn't one. She handed him the empty bottle. "Thank Carlos for the drinks. We'll lose the daylight if we don't get this pile of junk back in the air." She turned and negotiated the steps back into the cabin. Jerry sat resolutely sweating.
Enrique was ten seconds behind her. He did things on the console that caused a whine and a series of coughs, followed by clouds of white smoke. The plane lurched and they turned into the wind.
"Hold on," the pilot said and the engines rose to a howl. The cabin jerked and swayed, throwing them around in unexpected directions. After maybe ten seconds...or maybe ten minutes...the jolting abruptly stopped and she heard the wheels fold up. They climbed for half-a-minute, banked sharply southwest and crossed the Mira River. Mountains filled the windshield in front of them but the nose of the plane didn't drop.
"Not that I'm complaining," she said in a voice loud enough for the pilot to hear, "but what made you decide to fly higher up instead of dragging our tails on that river down there?"
"We must get high enough to get over those mountains up there," he nodded at the windshield.
"You mean we've gotta go over those mountains up there in front of us?"
"Si, senora. Over."
"Aren't they awfully big? I mean, this plane's kind of small for that, isn't it?"
The pilot smiled easily. "No problem, senora. This airplane, he has mucho power. Also, the Serre De Monchique are only mebbe four thousand, three hundred feet. No problem."
"'Serre De Monchique'? Isn't that the last place before we get to the ocean?"
"Si, senora. We will cross the mountains and fly east of Lagos. Then we will be over the ocean."
The mountains grew in the windshield. The plane's engine labored to lift them ever higher. But Enrique seemed in no hurry to gain altitude.
"Shouldn't we fly higher, so we can clear the top of the mountain a little more?" She didn't want to seem wimpy to this pillar of machismo.
"No, senora, we just want to tickle her spine un pocito."
"That's a cute way of describing a death
wish. Didn't I read somewhere about the wind being dangerous along ridgelines?"
"Si, that is true."
"But you're not worried about it."
"No, senora."
"Well, that's one of us."
"Did you not say, senora, that you wish to not be noticed?"
"Yeah, but plane crashes usually attract a lot of attention."
He looked away, but when he turned back he was still smiling. "An airplane crossing the mountains high up would be seen a long way, mebbe in Lagos. We do not want to be seen, correct? So, we cross low and fly down the valley to the ocean. No radar. Just a few fishermen."
She thought that over and couldn't find anything to argue with. So she leaned back, which was easy with the nose pointed up so steeply, and tried to tolerate not being in control.