Only Eagles Fly

by Graham Guy

  “Amazing! And you got here OK?”

  “Mate, she’s a bloody dream.”

  “And it is a Twin Turbo, I take it?”

  Josh glanced back at the aircraft. “What you have here is a Cessna C441 Conquest Twin-engine Turbo Prop which will run on Jet A1… or, for your purposes, kerosene. I’ve gone over her thoroughly and…” his voice tailed off. “Let me put it this way; she’s good for, say, two trips from here to London and back again before being due for a major service and overhaul. You only want to do a smidgen of that.”

  “And the registration number. How did you get that?”

  “Don’t look too closely. The paint’s still probably wet. It’s all bullshit, but no-one will know. I went through the Australian Aircraft Registration list to make sure no other bastard’s got the same. You’ll be fine.”

  Enrico chuckled lightly. “Any luck with a strip?”

  “Yep… meeting still on tonight?”

  “It is.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it then… plus all this other stuff. Talk about a bloody marathon. Mate, about four hours sleep a night, but I reckon we’re organised. Where have you got me?”

  “The Hilton, Josh… under the name of Sam Oaks,” Enrico told him, opening the envelope and withdrawing a pile of notes. “Here,” he said handing him a stack of $100 bills.

  “That’s for being honest. You’ll get another 50 G’s tonight. Meantime, I’ll drop you off. Get room service, have a sleep… do what you like. Room 850 at eight p.m.”

  Josh looked at the money. “Jesus, you don’t have to do that. A deal is a deal…”

  “Our pleasure. You earned it. Again, thank you.”

  Enrico dropped Josh Emery off at the Hilton, parked his car then made his way to the room he had booked for himself.

  * * *

  Josh Emery’s head was spinning. In five weeks his life had gone from complete despair to the anxiety of living on the edge. He had no idea who his employers were or what they were up to. As far as he was concerned, he’d been hired to fly a plane to and from Italy.

  Some of the flight would be on legal flight paths. Some of it wouldn’t. If he got caught he could go to jail. Such a thought frightened the living daylights out of him. To the extent that when speaking to his wife about his change of luck he failed to mention he was in all probability dealing with a bunch of crooks. If his passengers were bailed up by other people of a similar ilk there could be guns, there could be shots and there could be people dead. He just knew that in order to fulfil the requirements of the job he needed to pull on every ounce of learning he’d achieved. Especially when it came to the big three of flight plans, fuel requirements and landing permits.

  He had a mate at Darwin airport. They’d attended flying lessons together. Josh only ever knew him as ‘Spanners Hudson’. He recalled Spanners telling him once that if ever he got onto a shonky deal and needed help with flight plans, fuel stops and landing rights, he’d help him. It only took three phone calls and he had Spanners on the phone. After he’d explained what he needed, Spanners told him the price. Josh spoke to Enrico. The money was sent in three separate padded bags to Karumba. Josh re-addressed them to Spanners at the Darwin post office. Upon pocketing the money, Spanners went to work on his promises.

  * * *

  Within a few minutes of eight p.m., everyone had gathered in room 850. Josh was particularly tentative about the meeting, mainly because he didn’t know anyone apart from Enrico.

  Introductions were made and Josh immediately spotted the tension between his man and Gina. He was also quick to pick up on the body language between Gina and Franco and was soon to learn it was the Sicilian woman who was running the show. Although he felt inwardly that there was a connection, at no time was he told the three men were brothers.

  Enrico served coffee and, after brief formalities, it became apparent that Gina wanted to cut the small talk.

  “So… what do you have for us?” she asked.

  Josh looked around the hotel room. “Probably best if we can sit at the table so I can lay a few things out.”

  A shuffle of chairs followed.

  “All right,” he began, “Australia, Italy return in a Cessna C441 Conquest Twin-engine Turbo Prop. Take-off date, September the twenty-third. Here’s the state of play. I’ve found a deserted airstrip a little north of the Durack River, to the north-west of Kununurra in Western Australia. By air, 148 kilometres in from the coast. It’s in very open country. In fact the closest bush, undergrowth and scrubland is about a thousand metres away. So there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell of an ambush, if that is of concern to you. Someone told me it was built for the Second World War but never used. I’ve been out to it and had a look. Through the good grace of Enrico or, for that matter, all of you I guess I was able to hire a plane, fly out to it, land on it and take off OK, so it’ll be fine. That’s our starting point. I take it Enrico will bring you all out to meet me on the day, and be there to meet you when we return?”

  Josh raised his eyes and scanned the faces. All nodded their agreement.

  “Actually there’s been a change of plan on that,” Franco piped up. “Luigi will now be the greeter and Enrico will make the trip.”

  Josh looked at Luigi, not that it mattered to him who was on the flight and who wasn’t. Luigi shrugged.

  “I hate flying, man. It’s been bothering the shit out of me.”

  Josh’s body language indicated there wasn’t a problem.

  The truth of the matter was that Gina so mistrusted Enrico, she convinced Franco to switch the brothers. At least if Enrico was with them she could keep an eye on him. The switch also suited Franco. The thermal lance was really Enrico’s baby. He would feel happier with him using it than having to master it himself.

  Josh Emery continued. “Now the flight plan is long and complicated. Do you want me to go through it with you?”

  Again he scanned the faces and was met with great enthusiasm.

  “After we leave Kununurra, I’ll have to land at Darwin to get the ball rolling legally. I’ll top up with fuel and we’ll head off to Changi in Singapore. Now you need to be aware this entire trip will mean a lot of time in the air. To Changi will take six hours 47 minutes. It’s 1833 nautical miles and during the trip we’ll use 2290 pounds of fuel cruising at 31,000 feet.

  “There’s other stuff here like the route from YPDN which is Darwin via J61, IKUMA, A464, TI, and TAN4B to WSSS which is Changi airport in Singapore, but that’s pilot-speak, so I won’t bore you with all of that. When we land at Changi it’ll be runway Zero Two Left… again you don’t need to know about that. It’s not usual for small planes to land at Changi and you may notice when we touch down we’ll be in the north remote apron. Mostly, small planes land at Seletar in the north of the island on the The Johoree Strait. Military aircraft land at Payar Lebar Airport between Seletar and Changi. But we’ve had a stroke of luck on this occasion. Because there’s an air pageant at Seletar the day we arrive we’ve been given permission to land at Changi. OK.

  “From Changi we go to Calcutta in India. Bloody god for saken place. It’ll take us six hours 25 minutes to get there. We’ll go up to 31,000 feet, use 2179 pounds of fuel and travel 1603 nautical miles. Do you want the route number… like WSSS via VJR7B…”

  “We can skip that,” Gina put in, “as long as you know,” she smiled.

  Josh nodded. “It’s all here, ma’am. From Calcutta we’re into the third leg, and, that’s to Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. Now this is a long bugger. One minute short of nine hours.”

  “Is there a loo in this thing?” Gina interrupted.

  Josh gave a slight chuckle. “Not in the true sense of the word,” he told her. “It’s more of a potty chair which fits into the regular passenger seat like a commode. So whoever is sitting in it at the time will need to stand to make way for the user, but it can be curtained off.”

  “Well I’m pleased to hear that,” she smirked.

  He continued
on. “From Calcutta to Dubai is 1960 nautical miles. We’ll burn just on 3000 pounds of fuel. This leg cuts things a bit fine. Once we land we’ll only have 300 pounds left in the tank, only thirty-nine minutes’ flying time.

  “Jesus, that’s tight!” said Luigi.

  “Yeah, too tight for my liking,” Josh added. “Doesn’t leave any reserves. So I’ve set up an alternative. Which way we do go will be decided upon by the weather. We’ll learn that before we leave Calcutta. If there’s a tail wind, the first route will be OK. If not, we’ll have to go for VECC via G450, BBB… again, none of that stuff will mean anything to you. Now the next bugger is no picnic either. Again it’s nine hours in the air and 1804 nautical miles to Iraklion in Crete. Much the same as the previous leg… shorter by 156 nautical miles actually. But, legally, we’re not left with enough fuel in reserve. This time we’ll be at 33,000 feet. I’ll need to keep a close eye on these last two legs, but we’ll be OK. From Iraklion to Italy is a hell of a distance. Too far for us in one hop without refuelling. So we’ll continue at 31,000 feet to Malta. That’ll be about two-and-a-half hours and 600 nautical miles. Gets a bit tricky from here. I don’t know if Enrico told you all, but I’ve enlisted a bit of outside help. He’s a mate of mine in Darwin. He knows nothing of any of you or what you’re about.

  “Then again, how could he? I don’t even know myself. In working this flight plan through with him he’s advised me of trouble spots in obtaining fuel. We’ll need graft money, because to get some of these pricks to look the other way can amount to a shitload.”

  “What are the fuel costs?” Gina wanted to know.

  Josh thought for a moment. “It’s a bit like asking how long’s a piece of string? Fuel costs, ma’am, can vary dramatically… very, very dramatically. But if we try and look at the overall picture it works out at around 90 cents a gallon, US. In our currency about one dollar fifty. A gallon of fuel weighs eight and a half pounds. On the trip from Darwin to Changi, we’ll use 2290 pounds of fuel. That’s roughly 270 gallons. In our money, a bit over $400 in round figures. But in some places where we’ll have to refuel it could be double that. You need to be aware of this and have sufficient cash to cover yourselves if need be.”

  They all nodded.

  “Through Enrico, and obviously all of you as well, I’ve loaded my contact up with the appropriate cash reserves and plastic to get us over those hurdles smoothly… including landing costs. He’ll leave a week before we do to set things up. Anyone got a problem with that?”

  No-one spoke up.

  “It appeared to me that you are all going so far in such a short time, the last thing you needed was a hassle over refuelling… being, as I take it, time will be of the essence. My contact will work ahead of us all the time…”

  “What’s he costing us?” asked Franco.

  “Twenty grand, and that includes the fuel in Italy,” Luigi said. “Twenty-three with the car hire.”

  “What car hire?”

  “When we hit the ground near Portofino, I’m not walking,” Enrico cut in. “This guy will have a car for us. To hire a car over there that shows no record of it being hired costs three grand.”

  “OK,” shrugged Franco.

  “We’ll need to leave Malta at night, then head to a little landing strip that lies between Sori and Cicagna. My contact will take you to the car he’s hired for you then return to refuel the plane. It is Portofino, right?”

  “That’s right,” said Gina.

  “Yeah, well that’s about as close as I can get you to the place without raising a whole heap of curiosity. For safety’s sake I’m inclined to go along with Enrico. No longer than twelve hours on the ground before we take off… ten preferably. How long will you guys need?”

  Franco looked at Enrico, but it was Gina who spoke. “Two hours out, you say?”

  “Approximately.”

  “So two to get in. Shit, I’m hoping no more than… what do you think Enrico, an hour, two hours?”

  “Two max.”

  “So probably six hours. Maybe seven. How long to refuel?”

  “About an hour.”

  “OK, so we should be set to leave in seven hours.”

  “Sounds good to me. You must remember that from Malta to Italy and return, we’ll fly low level. Turbines don’t perform economically at low level, so we’ll use a shit-load of fuel, but it’s not a big distance so we’ll be all right. Then we’ll come back the way we went.”

  “In order to get around not landing first up in Darwin we’ll need a bit of the old smoke and mirrors routine. After passing Kupang in West Timor I’ll radio that I have a pressurisation problem. I’ll tell them everything is OK, but that I will need to descend to a lower level because of it. This will allow us to drop below the radar and sneak in over the coast to the airstrip near Kununurra. So there you have it,” he smiled. “Any questions?”

  “Where the hell did you find this guy?” Luigi asked his brother.

  Enrico’s face lit up. “I told you he was bloody good.”

  It was Franco who was unashamedly impressed the most. He rose from his seat and put his arms around Josh. “Mate, I gotta tell you. You just blew me out of the water. How the fuck did you put all that together? That is nothing short of incredible. Christ, you’ve got it down to the last little detail haven’t you?”

  Josh Emery was fairly chuffed by the response, which he took as genuine. He shook his head lightly. “I’ve tried not to forget anything… you know, forewarned is forearmed. I hope I’ve covered all the bases, but of course we won’t know that till we get going.” When nobody else was forthcoming, he said, “I guess I’ll see you all on the twenty-third at six a.m.”

  Enrico took an envelope from his pocket and put an arm around his shoulder, leading him away. “Don’t spend it all at once. Fifty grand, right? But more than anything, you’ll need to shut the fuck up about it. And I mean really put a zip on your tongue. If this leaks we’re all totally and absolutely rooted. You understand?”

  He walked Josh Emery to the door and shut it behind him.

  * * *

  After the door closed, Gina sought an immediate response from the three brothers. All agreed he was perfect for what they wanted.

  “Do we let him walk?” Enrico asked.

  Gina flew into a rage. “You really are an arsehole, Enrico! What do you want to do? Shoot the poor bastard? For fuck’s sake, without him we’re nowhere. He’s put his arse on the line over this… for people he doesn’t even know…”

  “He’s being paid heaps…”

  “And so are you. If he gets onto the fact he’s bringing home twenty million dollars, he might just decide to bloody well shoot all of us. Remember, at 31,000 feet we’re totally at his mercy. And you want to waste the guy? How much would ever be enough for you, Enrico?”

  “Cool it, Gina,” Franco put in.

  “Fuck you, Franco! You want to waste the guy, too?”

  Franco rose to his feet and put his hand on Gina’s shoulder. “No-one’s gonna waste anyone.”

  “How come I don’t believe that?”

  “Tell her, Enrico.”

  “What?”

  “Tell her you’re not gonna kill the fucking pilot.”

  “OK. I’m not gonna kill the fucking pilot, all right? Jesus, Gina!”

  Gina sat down, but she was far from convinced. Franco and Luigi didn’t bother her. Enrico certainly did. She not only feared for the pilot’s life, she now feared for her own. If Enrico was having thoughts of wasting the pilot she would almost certainly be on his list, and that’s despite her association with his brother. She really couldn’t see him letting her walk away with all that money.

  Gina had suspected all along Enrico would be trouble. Weeks before she very quietly and very anonymously joined an outer suburban pistol club. Such a membership then legally entitled her to own a pistol and she wasted no time in visiting a gun shop. After meeting all the legal requirements, she purchased a small .22-calibre six-shot Remington se
mi-auto. As she always liked to carry the same large leather handbag, she had a bootmaker sew in a special pocket inside its lining. He didn’t ask what it was for and she didn’t tell him. She had taken care to place the pocket on the side of the bag which she carried next to her body.

  Anyone opening her bag by mistake wouldn’t see the gun, but at the same time it was very easily accessed. She told no-one she had it.

  Out of the blue Luigi asked a question. “So what’s Josh do now till we go?”

  Enrico told him he’d stay at the Hilton for a week, move to a motel at Bankstown for a week, then take off for Darwin three days before the flight to Italy. He’d refuel in Darwin, stock the plane with food and drinks, then fly out to Kununurra and wait.

  “OK,” said Luigi, “is everybody happy?”

  “Getting close now isn’t it?” Enrico said.

  “Gina, your info still on track?” Franco asked.

  She told them the next update was due in a day or so and would continue to be that way.

  “So we just sit tight?” Enrico asked.

  “We just sit tight,” Franco told him. “We work as usual. We carry on as normal, then we take off. Luigi will run us up there, camp in a caravan park for four days then come and get us. The best thing is to move each day if you can, Luigi.”

  “I’ll move each day,” he reassured his brother.

  “So allowing for a bit of sleep time, 48 hours there, 48 hours home, seven on the ground. We leave Wednesday six a.m. Depending on what time we’re on, it’s nine thirty or ten o’clock the night before in Italy. Forty-eight hours later will get us into Italy at nine thirty or ten on the night Bruno and his family leave the Villa. Two hours for us to get into Portofino. That means we should be able to hit the joint round midnight-one a.m. on the Thursday.”

  “Two hours after we leave, we’re back in the air and home 48 hours later. Luigi should see us coming over the horizon around ten a.m. on the Sunday.”

  “So, all over in five days,” Gina said, taking a deep breath.

  “Franco, what have we forgotten?” Enrico asked urgently.

  “What haven’t we covered? Christ, do we just take off, burn a hole in Bruno’s safe, pick up $20 million and come home? Surely somewhere, someone is going to be pretty pissed about all this? Do we walk away scot-free?”