The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

  Elias’ mouth dropped.

  “Suck it up, Elias,” Tasker demanded with authority. “Show us what you’re made of.” He turned to the purser and pointed at Bauman. “He’s your responsibility. See to it.” He put his hands on Elias’ shoulders and steered him toward the cockpit.

  Chapter 9

  We had cleared security and were now in ICE district headquarters, which is not a cooling facility but the home for US Immigration and Customs Enforcement at JFK. It looked pretty much the way you’d expect an underground security complex to look, with bad lighting, cheap furniture, and dusty air vents. Actually that was a lie. It was clean and modern and resembled Dr. Evil’s secret underground lair. We were shown to a conference room, where we were instructed to wait. A Keurig coffee service looked inviting, so I wasted zero time in brewing a cup. The conference room was cold, and Cabrera looked like he was shivering. I handed him the first cup and waited for the Ready-to-Brew indicator to relight.

  “Thanks, for the joe, Mather. Are they storing meat down here or what? For Christ’s sake, my nipples are getting hard.”

  I did some serious eye rolling. “That’s exactly how I pictured you last night, with hard nipples, wearing a leather thong, and screaming out, ‘ Beat me, Abebi,’ while a statuesque Nubian woman pleasured you with her whip.”

  He chuckled. “You’re a keeper, Mather. Is that what you do to your weatherman boyfriend?”

  “Only when I’m feeling passionate.”

  I think I shocked him with that one. Anyway, that blue light on the Keurig began to flash, and the last thing I needed was to titillate Cabrera with hard nipples of my own, so I brewed a cup, fixed it up, and began to sip. “I’m dreading this,” I said as I took a seat at the conference table.

  “Yeah. It’s nasty business,” Cabrera said, “a young woman getting chopped up that way. This is gonna go over about as well as a Michael Vick appearance at an ASPCA fundraiser.”

  “I’d watch the visual metaphors around the Israelis, Cabrera. They might not find them funny.”

  He shrugged.

  “I think if I had a bible, I’d say a prayer.”

  A dude named Nelson Potts had been caught illegally fishing when the victim’s torso was discovered. The details of his testimony as they had been reported began to swirl in my head as I prepared myself for the briefing with Elias.

  ~~~

  The waters off Shinnecock, Long Island, were still frigid, and it would be months until summer’s heat warmed them to a comfortable temperature. Potts strode out into the bay in the pitch black, wearing reef waders and a bulky turtleneck sweater. Two bushel-sized buckets jammed into the center of discarded tire tubes floated gently in the rippling water behind him. As with the tire tubes, the tong-like device that Potts had handcrafted to harvest clams from the bay floor was tethered to him with an old clothesline.

  With each step on the soft seabed, Potts could feel clamshells colliding beneath his feet. The breeze coming off the water began to whip up, and the cold air bit his skin through his sweater. The 4mm neoprene waders that he had purchased from Orvis kept his lower extremities warm and dry. It was the only piece of paraphernalia that he had actually purchased. The other makeshift devices he used had all been acquired at no expense. At first he had refused to pay $259.00 for the waders. Except for his car, a 1972 Buick Riviera, he had never spent as much money on anything in his entire life.

  He would be able to clam in shorts or a swimsuit throughout the summer, but for now, the frigid temperatures presented a serious challenge. Once, at the tail end of April, he’d stayed in the water too long and had come down with hypothermia. He spent an entire day in bed, wrapped in blankets, waiting for the shivering to stop.

  Nelson was averaging a hundred dollars a night for the clams he sold to local restaurants and fish stores. It was a damn good return for the few short hours it took to harvest the shellfish. More importantly, it kept his days free and put food on the table. He was amazed at how willing the retail fish stores and restaurants were to do business with a total stranger.

  Potts and his girlfriend, Sandra, lived a meager existence in the basement apartment of a dilapidated three-family house. There was enough money for rent, food, cheap wine, and gas for the car. They slept in every morning. Sandra was six months pregnant, and they were still enjoying each other sexually. For the moment life was good.

  A branch snapped, causing his heart rate to quicken. He was always worried about getting caught by the police. There were a couple of close calls during the prior year, but he had gotten away each time. He traveled lightly, knowing that his ability to make a hasty departure might keep him out of jail.

  Clams continued to clunk together beneath his feet. There must be millions, he thought. There was talk about hepatitis, but that was just another medical condition that Nelson considered lightly, something akin to the flu—something that would go away on its own after a few days of bed rest. Potts reasoned that the restrictions were political, a scheme hatched by the town’s politicians and businessmen to keep supply low and prices high. If we’re eating them and not getting sick, they must be okay, he reasoned. “Millions of clams.” He wondered how old the baby would be before he could eat them too. A picture developed in his mind, and brought him a smile.

  The buckets were now full. Nelson was about to quit for the night when his clamming tongs snagged on the bay floor. The light was very dim, and Nelson could only guess at what he had snared. The object’s considerable weight caused Nelson to concentrate on what he had found. He could feel the fingers of his tongs gripping the soft object. Nelson wondered if he had poked the tender underbelly of a large sea turtle that had died and been carried into the bay.

  ~~~

  In the high grass twenty yards away, two policemen watched Potts’ movements through their night vision goggles. Their squad car was parked a quarter of a mile away. They had hiked to their current location, a spot where they had seen Potts clamming before, and were feeling confident because their goggles allowed them to see Potts, and he, they reasoned, could not see them.

  ~~~

  Nelson bent as far down in the water as he could without letting the water come over the top of his waders and could now just barely touch the large object with his fingertips. His current posture made for poor leverage, and he was not strong enough to lift the heavy object out of the water. “Oops.” Too far—Icy water lapped over the top of his reef waders and caused him to shudder. He could barely move the object, but somehow found the strength to roll it, side over side, closer to shore, driven by a macabre sense of curiosity. The task slowed his exit considerably. An ache flashed along his spine as he trudged forward with his unidentified treasure.

  Two high-powered searchlight beams blinded Potts. A moment passed before he recovered sufficiently to understand what was going on. Likewise, the two police officers momentarily disregarded the object lying on the sand at the shoreline. One of the policemen finally lowered his searchlight. All three men looked down in unison and the blood drained from their faces. On the ground in front of them was the torso of an adult woman. The head, arms, and legs had been chopped off.

  ~~~

  “Uh-hum.”

  I heard a man clearing his throat, and looked up to see my boss, Special Agent Bill Wallace. He spotted the Keurig machine and smiled. “Coffee! How lucky can a federal agent get?” He walked over to the counter. “Did you read the file, Mather?”

  “I’m up to speed, sir. Kept me up on the red-eye back from the coast.”

  Like I said, he wasn’t big on small talk. He picked out a coffee pod and dropped it into the slot. “Do some damage while you were out in the wilderness, did you?”

  Hum. Wallace being social? He must’ve gotten laid really good last night. “Left lots of dead predators in our wake. Thanks for asking.”

  “Your boyfriend enjoy himself?”

  I thought about making love to him in the old truck on our last night away and found it difficult to suppres
s my grin. I’ll say. “You bet. He can shoot an ant off a toucan’s beak at a thousand yards.”

  The Ready-to-Brew light went off, and a warning popped up that flashed, “The system must be purged.”

  “Can you fix this?” Wallace asked.

  I walked over to it and smacked the side of the machine. Nothing changed. “Must be broken.”

  “Really? That’s your best shot?”

  I flipped the power switch off and on. The message on the display now flashed, “Ready to Brew.” I winked at him. “Knock yourself out, sir.”

  “I hate to break up this party,” Cabrera interrupted, “but where is this flight already? I have a hemorrhoid that needs to be brought in for a retread.”

  Wallace didn’t laugh, but his face twisted in bewilderment.

  Jeri Saunders, the ICE agent who had shown us into the conference room, rushed in. She looked frantic.

  “Is everything okay,” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” she replied. “There’s been a situation.”

  Chapter 10

  Tasker’s hands were still on Elias’ shoulders as he strapped himself into the copilot’s chair. “You can do this,” Tasker whispered into his ear to instill confidence.

  Elias glanced over his shoulder at Tasker. “No. I will do this!” He slipped on the copilot’s headset and adjusted it until it was comfortable.

  The pilot’s head slumped. Tasker put his hand under his chin and lifted his head. He patted his cheeks. “Hey! Stay with us, Ganz.” Ganz’ eyes fluttered. “Okay,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Get me something to drink with caffeine in it, okay?”

  Tasker leaned out the cockpit door and snapped his fingers to get the purser’s attention. “Bring me a couple cans of Coke and some ice, right now.” He put his hands on the pilot’s shoulders and massaged them vigorously to keep him going.

  “That’s it,” Ganz said. “Keep me awake.”

  “All right, let’s land this bird.” Elias keyed his microphone. “JFK Traffic Control, this IAF four-fifty requesting emergency landing instructions.”

  JFK: “You’re declaring an emergency?”

  Elias: “That’s affirmative. The pilot and copilot have been compromised.”

  JFK: “Who am I speaking with?”

  Elias: “Colonel Ben Elias. Israeli Air Force retired. It’s been twenty years since I’ve logged flight hours.”

  JFK: “Jesus.”

  Elias: “The pilot is flirting with consciousness and can marginally assist with the landing. Equipment is a Gulfstream V.” He checked the instrument cluster. “We’re not doing great on fuel.”

  JFK: “The Gulfstream is a very smart machine. I’ll get a pilot up in the tower to assist you. Are the autopilot and the flight management computer systems engaged?”

  It took a moment for Elias to familiarize himself with the instrumentation and locate what he was looking for. “Affirmative, altitude fifteen hundred, airspeed three hundred fifty knots. Sixty miles from the airport.”

  JFK: “I’d like to put you on a holding pattern. Are you all right with that?”

  Elias turned to Ganz.

  Tasker had his hand under the pilot’s chin, holding his head erect. His eyes were closed. Tasker shook his head.

  “Negative,” Elias said. “The flight crew needs emergency medical treatment, and we’re low on fuel. I’m prepared to land the plane right now.”

  JFK: “All right. Set altitude to twelve hundred, and let the flight computer handle the auto throttle.”

  Elias: “Roger. Making altitude twelve hundred.” He set the dial on the autopilot.

  ~~~

  Manuel Ortiz, the air traffic controller in the underground control room at JFK, flagged down Scott Hansen, his shift supervisor, and watched as he crossed the dark, windowless room. He tapped a blip on the radar screen and covered the mic on his headset. “IAF four-fifty just declared an emergency. Both pilots are medically compromised.”

  A shiver raced down Hansen’s spine. “Shit! Who’s flying the plane?”

  “A passenger,” Ortiz replied. “A former military pilot. Getting some limited help from the pilot.”

  “Equipment?”

  “Gulfstream V.”

  “How many aboard?” Hansen asked.

  Ortiz spoke into the mic. “IAF four-fifty, how many aboard?”

  Elias: “Five, including the flight crew and purser.”

  Ortiz: “Roger. Five souls.” He covered the mic with his hand again. “I’m going to clear 13-Right,” he said to his boss.

  “What about 31-Right instead?” Hansen offered. “The Gulfstream doesn’t need a lot of runway, and the visual approach system could be helpful to a rusty pilot attempting a visual landing.”

  “I’ll give him the choice,” Ortiz said. He spoke into the mic. “IAF four-fifty, I can take you down 13-Right, which is sixty by forty-four thousand meters, or 31-Right, which is forty-five by three thousand meters—it’s shorter, but it’s VASI equipped.”

  Elias: “I’ll take 31-R.”

  Ortiz: “Roger 31-R. VASI will give you two red lights and two white lights when you’re on the glide slope. All white is too high. All red is too low. Visibility is clear, so you should be able to see the indicator lights at eight kilometers. I’ll clear everyone out of your way.”

  Elias: “Thanks. Give me the heading.”

  Hansen heard Ortiz reply as he raced back to his desk. He dropped into his seat and picked up the phone.

  ~~~

  Mike McGrath, the control tower supervisor, answered on the first ring. “Kennedy control tower.”

  “Mike, this is Scott Hansen downstairs in the bunker. IAF four-fifty declared an emergency. Pilot and copilot are medically compromised. A retired IAF pilot has the airplane.”

  McGrath: “Oh my God. How many souls?”

  Hansen: “Five including the flight crew. Gulfstream V about fifty miles out on initial approach. We need to call in a code three-three on runway 31-Right.”

  McGrath: “Do you think this is a terrorist threat?”

  Hansen: “The pilot didn’t mention it, but I’d alert Homeland Security in addition to the Port Authority Communications Center.”

  McGrath: “Why don’t you put them on hold to buy us a little time?”

  Hansen: “Medical emergencies. The pilot insists on coming in right now.”

  McGrath: “Okay. My hand is on the red phone.” He disconnected and called out across the large control room to the nearest tower controller. “IAF four-fifty, you got eyes?”

  Carl Mormile studied his radar screen. “Yeah, boss. What’s up?”

  McGrath: “The pilot declared an emergency. We’re clearing out 31-R. Where is he?”

  Mormile: “Forty miles, twelve hundred feet altitude.”

  He picked up the red phone, which connected him to the communications center. He also activated the control tower emergency speaker.

  John Spooner answered the phone. “Emergency Service.”

  McGrath: “This is Mike McGrath, the control tower supervisor. I’m calling in a three-three on an inbound transatlantic flight, IAF four-fifty.”

  Spooner flipped a clean page on his notepad and picked up his pen. “State the nature of the emergency.”

  McGrath: “The flight crew is medically compromised. A retired IAF pilot has the airplane. Low fuel. Coming in 31-Right.”

  Spooner: “Can’t you have them circle?”

  McGrath: “Negative, medical emergency and low fuel. Get on the horn and clear everything out of their way. Gulfstream V coming in visual with VASI assist.”

  Spooner: “Crap!” He covered his mouth and exhaled through his nostrils. “Terrorists?”

  McGrath: “I don’t know, but bring Homeland Security in with you. Copy?”

  Spooner: “Affirmative. I’ll call out all the units. That’s 31-R, correct?”

  McGrath: “Affirmative, 31-Right.” He disconnected and walked over to Mormile’s station. “Update.”

  Mo
rmile: “Thirty miles, one thousand feet altitude. I’m patched in with Ortiz downstairs in the control room. A pilot is on his way up here to talk the airplane down.”

  McGrath: “How does the airplane look?”

  Mormile: “On course, correct airspeed and altitude.”

  McGrath: “Thank God.” He sighed, picked up his binoculars, and focused on runway 31-R. What he saw through his binoculars confirmed what he was hearing. The control tower was three hundred feet in the air, extremely high off the ground but not so high that he could not hear the blare of the emergency vehicles racing toward the runway. Two rapid-intercept vehicles were already on site. A fire truck and the mobile command post were on their way.

  Chapter 11

  “What kind of situation?” I asked with alarm in my voice.

  “Come with me,” Saunders said. “I’ll explain along the way.”

  Needless to say, Wallace didn’t get that sorely needed cup of coffee. We hustled out of the conference room, the three of us doing our best to keep up with Saunders while she brought us up to speed on the situation. “The Israeli flight just requested emergency landing instructions. Both the pilot and copilot are incapacitated.”

  “What?” I stopped dead in my tracks. “Who’s flying the plane?”

  “Elias is,” she said, coming to an abrupt halt. “Apparently he’s a former pilot.” It appeared that Saunders was a world-record sprinter because she took off, leaving the rest of us flatfooted.

  “Holy shit! Is this for real?” Cabrera asked.

  “Very real,” she replied. “The plane is about thirty miles from the airport. Emergency Services has cleared out one of the runways for them to land. I’ve got a transport waiting to take us straight over there.”

  “Do we know what happened to the pilots?” Wallace asked.

  “Some kind of medical emergency—that’s all we know,” Saunders replied.