Everyone in the squadron tried to accommodate Bill Satherwaite—except for Terry Waycliff—and the other guys had given the General a silent pass on that assignment.
Satherwaite said, "Is Terry still sucking Pentagon dick?"
McCoy replied, "Terry is still in the Pentagon. We expect that he'll retire out of there."
"Fuck him."
"I'll be sure to give him your best."
Satherwaite laughed. "Yeah. You know what that guy's problem was? He was a general even back when he was a lieutenant. Know what I mean?"
McCoy replied, "You know, Bill, a lot of people said the same about you. I mean that as a compliment."
"If that's a compliment, then I don't need any insults. Terry had it in for me—always competing with everybody. Broke my balls about me not kicking in the goddamned afterburners—wrote a snitch note about it, blamed me for the stray fucking bomb instead of blaming Wiggins—"
"Hold on, Bill. That's out of line."
Bill Satherwaite took another swig of bourbon, suppressed a belch, and said, "Yeah . . . okay . . . sorry . . ."
"That's okay. Forget it." McCoy thought about Terry Waycliff and Bill Satherwaite. Bill was not even in the Air Force Reserve, and for that reason he would normally have lost his post-commissary privileges and that would have been the ultimate blow for Satherwaite—losing his discount liquor privileges at Charleston Air Base. But Terry Waycliff had pulled some strings—unknown to Bill Satherwaite—and got him a PX card. McCoy said, "We had Bob on the conference call, too."
Bill Satherwaite squirmed in his chair. Thinking about Bob Callum and his cancer was not something that he did on a voluntary basis—or ever, for that matter. Callum had made colonel, and the last that Satherwaite knew, he was still working as a ground instructor at the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs. He asked McCoy, "He still working?"
"He is. Same place. Give him a call."
"I will. Tough break." He thought a moment, then said, "You survive a war, you die of something worse."
"He may beat it."
"Yeah. And last but not least, my little shit of a wizo—how's Chip?"
"Couldn't reach him," McCoy replied. "Last letter I sent to him in California got returned with no forwarding address. Phone is disconnected, no info available."
"Just like Wiggins to forget to keep his paperwork up to date. I really had to work to keep that guy in line. Always had to remind him to do everything."
"Chip never changes."
"You can say that again."
McCoy thought about Chip Wiggins. The last time he'd spoken to him was April 15 of the previous year. Wiggins had taken flying lessons when he left the Air Force and was now a pilot, flying cargo for various small airlines. Everyone liked Chip Wiggins, but he was not good about attention to detail, such as change-of-address cards.
Jim McCoy, Terry Waycliff, and Paul Grey had shared the thought that Wiggins didn't keep in touch because he was a pilot now, but hadn't been a pilot back then. Also, he had been in Satherwaite's crew, and that was probably reason enough to be ambivalent about the past. Jim McCoy said, "I'll try to track him down. You know, I don't think Chip even knows about Willie yet."
Satherwaite took another drink of bourbon, glanced at the clock, then at the door. Regarding the late Colonel Hambrecht, he said, "Chip liked Willie. He should be told."
"Right. I'll do my best." McCoy didn't know what else to say, knowing that Bill Satherwaite wouldn't put a stamp on an envelope to keep the group in contact, and that the work of maintaining everyone's whereabouts had mostly been his and Terry's.
In fact, ever since he'd gotten the job as Director of the Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum, Jim McCoy had become the unofficial corresponding secretary of their little unofficial group. The guys found it convenient to use him as a rallying point—he had the office assets to keep in touch by telephone, mail, e-mail, and fax. Terry Waycliff was sort of their President, but his Pentagon job made him unavailable most of the time, and Jim McCoy never called him unless it was important. Soon, they'd all be old men and have plenty of time to stay in touch if they wanted to.
McCoy said to Satherwaite, "Did you say you have a charter?"
"Yeah. Guy's late."
"Bill, have you been drinking?"
"Are you crazy? Before a flight? I'm a pro, for God's sake."
"Okay . . ." McCoy thought that Bill was lying about drinking, so he hoped that Bill Satherwaite was also lying about having a customer. He took a moment to reflect on the old squadron—Steve Cox, killed in the Gulf; Willie Hambrecht, murdered in England; Terry Waycliff, completing a brilliant military career; Paul Grey, a successful civilian; Bob Callum, sick with cancer in Colorado; Chip Wiggins, missing in action, but presumed well; Bill Satherwaite, a ghost of his former self; and finally, himself, Jim McCoy, museum director—good job, bad pay. Out of eight men, two were dead, one was dying of cancer, one was dying of life, one was missing, and three were okay for the moment. He said to Bill Satherwaite in a soft tone of voice, "We should all fly out to see Bob. We shouldn't delay. I'll put it together. You've got to be there, Bill. Okay?"
Bill Satherwaite remained quiet for a few seconds, then said, "Okay. Can do. Can do."
"Take it easy, buddy."
"Yeah . . . you, too." Satherwaite put the phone down and rubbed his eyes, which were moist. He took another drink, then put the bottle in his overnight bag.
Bill Satherwaite stood and looked around his shabby office. On the far wall was a state of South Carolina flag and a Confederate flag that a lot of people found offensive, which was why he kept it there. The whole country had gone to hell, he thought, politically correct faggots were in charge, and even though Bill Satherwaite was from Indiana, he liked the South—except for the heat and the humidity—he liked their attitudes, and he liked his Confederate flag. "Fuck 'em."
On the side wall was a large aeronautical plotting chart, and beside the chart was an old poster, faded and wrinkled from the humidity. It was a photograph of Moammar Gadhafi with a big bull's-eye drawn around his head. Satherwaite picked up a dart from his cluttered desk and flung it at the poster. The dart hit the middle of Gadhafi's forehead, and Satherwaite yelled, "Yeah! Fuck you!"
Bill Satherwaite went to the window of his small office and looked out into the bright sunshine. "Nice day for flying." Out on the runway, one of his two aircraft, the Cherokee 140 trainer, was just lifting off, and in the afternoon heat and turbulence, the small airplane's wings wobbled as the student pilot strained to gain altitude.
He watched the Cherokee disappear as it continued its wobbly climb. He was glad he didn't have to be in the cockpit with this kid, who had no balls, no feel for aviation, and too much money. Back when he was an Air Force student pilot, they just axed out the dead wood. Now, he had to cater to them. And this kid would never see a minute of combat—he wanted to fly to impress his main hump. The country was going down the toilet, fast.
To make the day worse, his customer was some stupid foreigner, probably an illegal alien running drugs up to the hopheads in Philly, and the bastard was late. At least the guy wouldn't say anything if he smelled the bourbon. He'd probably think it was an American soft drink. He laughed.
He walked back to his desk and checked out a note he'd made. Alessandro Fanini. Sounded like a spic or a greaseball. "Yeah, a wop. That's not so bad. Better than some Pedro from south of the border."
"Good afternoon."
Satherwaite spun around and saw a tall man wearing dark sunglasses standing at the open door. The man said, "Alessandro Fanini. I apologize for my lateness."
Satherwaite wondered if the guy had heard him. He glanced at the wall clock and said, "Only half an hour. No problem."
The two men walked toward each other, and Satherwaite put out his hand. They shook, and Khalil said, "I was delayed at my last appointment in Charleston."
"No problem." Bill Satherwaite saw that the man carried a large black canvas bag and was dressed in a gray suit. H
e asked, "You got any other luggage?"
"I have left my luggage in my hotel in Charleston."
"Good. You don't mind my jeans and T-shirt, I hope."
"Not at all. Whatever is comfortable. But as I said, we will be staying overnight."
"Yeah. I got an overnight bag." He motioned to an Air Force bag on the dirty floor. He said, "My girlfriend will be here later to watch the store and lock up."
"Good. You should be back by midday tomorrow."
"Whatever."
"I have left my rental car near the main building. It will be safe there?"
"Sure." Satherwaite walked to a sagging bookshelf and scooped up a stack of rolled charts, then retrieved his overnight bag. "Ready?" He followed his customer's gaze, which was fixed on the poster of Gadhafi. Satherwaite grinned and said, "You know who that is?"
Asad Khalil replied, "Of course. My country has had many confrontations with that man."
"Yeah? You got into it with Mr Moammar Shithead Gadhafi?"
"Yes. He has threatened us many times."
"Yeah? Well, for your information I almost killed that bastard once."
"Yes?"
Satherwaite asked, "You're from Italy?"
"I am from Sicily."
"No shit? I could've wound up there once if I'd run out of gas."
"Excuse me?"
"It's a long story. I'm not allowed to talk about it. Forget it."
"As you wish."
"Okay, if you open that door for me, we're outta here."
"Oh, one more thing. There has been a slight change in my plans that may necessitate some change on your part."
"Like what?"
"My company has ordered me to New York."
"Yeah? I don't like flying to New York, Mr . . ."
"Fanini."
"Yeah. Too much traffic, too much bullshit."
"I am willing to pay extra."
"It's not the money, it's the bullshit. Which airport?"
"It is called MacArthur. You know of it?"
"Oh, yeah. Never been there, but it's okay. A suburban airport out on Long Island. We can do that, but it's extra."
"Of course."
Satherwaite put his things down on the desk and looked for another chart on the shelf. He said, "Funny coincidence—I was just talking to a guy on Long Island. He wanted me to stop by—maybe I'll surprise him. Maybe I should call him."
"Perhaps a surprise would be better. Or call him when we land."
"Yeah. Let me get his phone numbers." Satherwaite flipped through a tattered Rolodex and extracted a card.
Khalil said, "Is he close to the airport?"
"I don't know. But he'll pick me up."
"You may take my rental car if you wish. I have a car reserved, as well as two motel rooms for us."
"Yeah. I was going to ask you about that. I don't share rooms with guys."
Khalil forced a smile and replied, "Neither do I."
"Good. As long as we got that straight. Hey, you want to pay up front? You get a discount for up-front cash."
"How much will this amount to?"
"Oh . . . now that it's MacArthur, plus the overnight and I lose some flight instructing time tomorrow, plus gas . . . let's say eight hundred in cash should do it."
"That sounds reasonable." Khalil took out his wallet and counted eight hundred dollars in cash, then added another hundred dollars to it and said, "Plus a tip for you."
"Thanks."
That was most of the cash that Khalil had, but he knew he would get it all back soon.
Bill Satherwaite counted the money and pocketed it. "Okay. Done deal."
"Good. I am ready."
"I gotta take a piss." Satherwaite opened a door and disappeared into the toilet.
Asad Khalil looked at the poster of the Great Leader and noticed the dart in the forehead. He removed the dart and said to himself, "Surely no one deserves to die more than this American pig."
Bill Satherwaite came out of the toilet, picked up his charts and bag, and said, "If there's no more changes, we can get moving."
Khalil said, "Do you have any beverages we can bring with us?"
"Yeah. I already put an ice chest in the plane. Got soda and beer—beer's for you if you want. I can't drink."
Khalil clearly smelled alcohol on the man's breath, but said, "Do you have bottled water?"
"No. Why spend money for water? Water is free." Idiots and fairies buy bottled. "You want water?"
"It is not necessary." Khalil opened the door, and they went out into the sweltering air.
As they walked across the hot concrete ramp toward the Apache parked a hundred feet from the office, Satherwaite asked, "What kind of business you in, Mr. Panini?"
"Fanini. As my colleague told you when he called from New York, I am in the textile business. I am here to buy American cotton."
"Yeah? You came to the right place. Nothing's changed here since the Civil War, except now they have to pay the slaves." He laughed and added, "And some of the slaves are Spanish and white now. You ever see a cotton field? Talk about shit work. They can't find enough people to do it. Maybe they should import some stupid Arabs to pick cotton—they love the sun. Pay 'em in camel shit, and tell 'em they can take it to the bank for money." He laughed.
Khalil did not reply, but asked, "Do you need to file a flight plan?"
"No." Satherwaite pointed to the clear sky as they continued their walk toward the airplane. "There's a big-ass high-pressure area across the entire East Coast—great weather all the way." Thinking he might have a nervous passenger, he added, "The gods are shining on you, Mr. Fanini, 'cause we've got a great day for flying all the way to New York and, probably, when we come back tomorrow, too."
Khalil did not need to hear this man tell him that Allah had blessed the Jihad—he already knew it in the depths of his soul. He also knew that Mr. Satherwaite was not flying home tomorrow.
As they continued to walk, Satherwaite said, as if thinking to himself, "I might check in with New York approach control radar when we cut across the ocean south of Kennedy Airport on the direct route to Islip. They'll keep us away from airliners inbound to JFK."
Khalil thought a moment of how he had been inside an airliner on that very route only a few brief days ago, yet it now seemed almost an eternity.
Satherwaite added, "And I'll call Long Island Tower for a landing clearance. That's it." Satherwaite waved his hand around the nearly deserted Moncks Corner airfield. "Sure as hell don't have to talk to anyone to depart from here," he said with a laugh. "Hell, there's no one around to talk to, except my own student out there in my own piece-of-shit Cherokee. And that kid wouldn't know what to say if I called him on the radio anyway."
Khalil looked out to where the pilot was pointing at the small single-engine airplane that was now lined up and descending toward the landing runway, wobbling slightly from side to side. He could see that the airplane very closely resembled the type that he had chartered out of Jacksonville with the female pilot. The memory of her crept back into Khalil's thoughts, and he quickly pushed her image from his mind.
They stopped at an old blue and white two-engine Piper Apache. Satherwaite had earlier untied the ropes, removed the control locks, and put aside the wheel chocks. He had also checked the fuel. That was all he ever checked, anyway, he thought, mostly because there were so many things wrong with the old airplane that it was a waste of time finding anything more. Satherwaite said to his customer, "I checked it all out before you got here. Everything's in tip-top shape."
Asad Khalil regarded the old aircraft. He was glad it had two engines.
Satherwaite sensed some concern on the part of his paying customer and said, "This is a very basic machine, Mr. Fanini, and you can always depend on it to get you there and back."
"Yes?"
Satherwaite tried to see what the prissy foreigner saw. The plexiglass windows of the 1954 airplane were a little dirty and crazed, and the paint on the fuselage was a bit faded—in
fact, Satherwaite admitted, it was now hardly more than a hint of what it had previously been. He glanced at the foppishly dressed, sunglasses-wearing Mr. Fanini and gave him more encouragement. "There's nothing complex or fancy about it, but that means that nothing of importance can go wrong. The engines are good, and the flight controls are working fine. I used to fly military jets, and let me tell you, those things are so complex that you need an army of maintenance people just to launch on a simple one-hour mission." Satherwaite glanced beneath the right engine where a growing puddle of black oil had accumulated in the week since he'd last flown the Apache. "In fact, I took this to Key West and back yesterday. Flies like a homesick angel. Ready?"
"Yes."
"Good." Satherwaite threw his overnight bag on the wing, then with the charts under his arm, he climbed onto the Apache's right wing, opened the only door, and retrieved his bag. He threw his bag and the charts in the rear and said to his passenger, "Front or back?"
"I will sit in the front."
"Okay." Bill Satherwaite sometimes helped passengers up, but the tall guy looked like he could manage. Satherwaite climbed into the cockpit and maneuvered himself across the co-pilot's seat into the pilot's seat. It was hot in the cabin, and Satherwaite popped open the small vent window on his side, waiting for his passenger. He called out, "You coming?"
Asad Khalil placed his bag on the wing, climbed up onto the skidproof surface, which was worn smooth, retrieved his bag, and slid into the co-pilot's seat, placing his bag on the seat behind him.
Satherwaite said, "Leave your door open a minute. Buckle up."
Khalil did as his pilot instructed.
Bill Satherwaite put on a headset, flipped some switches, then hit the starter for the left engine. After hesitating a few seconds, the prop began to swing around, and the old piston engine sputtered to life. Once the engine was running smoothly, Satherwaite hit the starter for the right engine, which fired up better than the left. "Okay . . . beautiful sound."
Khalil shouted over the sound of the engines, "It is very loud."
Satherwaite shouted back, "Yeah, well, your door and my window are open." He didn't tell his passenger that the door seal leaked, and it wouldn't be much quieter with it closed. He said, "Once we get up to cruise altitude, you can hear your mustache grow." He laughed and began taxiing out toward the runway. With the money in his pocket, he reflected, he didn't have to be overly nice to this greaseball. He asked, "Where'd you say you're from?"
Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2] Page 40