Chasing the Captain

by Terry Shepherd

  The gubernatorial trip itself had supplanted the usual G8 pontifications on the television networks. It was unprecedented for state leaders to demand a very public meeting with these very private men.

  The world watched as the president reluctantly waved an olive branch and offered Air Force Two as transportation.

  What, Sisson wondered, was the delay?

  In the cockpit of USAF 80002, Lt. Col. Donald Babington cursed his luck. The pilot, tapped to shuttle the recalcitrant group across the Atlantic, noticed what he thought was a hairline crack in an aft exit door window. The chief master sergeant in charge of maintenance assured the colonel that the window was safe. But Don Babington wasn’t a man to take chances.

  “Transfer everything to eight triple-0 three,” he told the NCO in charge of flight services. “We don’t want these taxpayers to think we are casual about their safety.”

  The colonel himself descended the stairs and motioned to his passengers to surround him. “I apologize for the delay, gentlemen. We are dealing with a rare maintenance issue, much like the minor headaches you sometimes have when you fly commercial.”

  Babington pointed to 80002’s gleaming twin. “Luckily, we have more than one Air Force Two and should be wheels-up in about twenty minutes. The jet stream is helping us today, so we should still arrive in Brussels on time.”

  There was a palpable groan from the governors, most of whom, Babington assumed, were more upset about the delay in getting their in-flight cocktails.

  Major Kyle Padfield approached Babington. The former Thunderbird pilot was young but well qualified to fly the mission as a backup if need be. He was also resourceful.

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” he whispered. “I took the liberty of fully preparing and pre-flighting eight triple-0 three for you. If you’d like to do a walk around with me, she’s ready to go now.”

  Babington grinned at his junior counterpart. Kids who made senior officers look good had bright futures in his air force.

  “An update, gentlemen,” he said to the passengers. “This is Major Kyle Padfield. He’s a former flight leader with the Thunderbirds and one of the best officers in the Air Transport Command.” The colonel pointed to aircraft 80003. “Thanks to his efficiency, we will board Air Force Two in ten minutes. Departure will be on time, as scheduled.”

  There was a smattering of cheers and applause, followed by directions from the flight service officer, guiding the governors to the backup aircraft.

  “Great job, Major,” Babington said. “Tell you what. Let’s give these guys a treat and get you some stick time in triple-0 two. I’ll approve a parallel take-off on nineteen left and right. Let’s show them a little formation flying and you can have the chief do a pressure check on the window in the aft exit while you’re airborne.”

  Padfield saluted with a grin, and the colonel shook his hand.

  “I’ll write up a commendation when I get back, Major.”

  “The Group of Three underestimate the economic power of the United States of America,” Governor Darell Sisson said as he took his seat in the first row of the Air Force Two passenger cabin. “Their rumblings that we are a dying economy and a failed state are fighting words to this Southerner.”

  Sisson ignored the smirks from his fellow governors. Everyone knew he was about to announce a presidential run, and this trip was as much about showing Americans the size of his balls as it was about drawing imaginary lines in the shifting political sands.

  The governor could hear the Pratt and Whitney PW2040 engines spin up to two-thirds power. He reflexively looked through the windows as eight triple-0 three began its take-off roll.

  Babington’s voice cut through the turbine noise on the PA system. “Gentlemen, if you’ll look to the left side of the aircraft, you’ll see Major Padfield at the controls of our original magic carpet. He’s performing a maintenance test, and I thought you would enjoy a bird’s-eye view of a Boeing 757 taking off.”

  Kyle Padfield still preferred the agility of a Thunderbird F-16 to the sluggish response of the lumbering 757 controls. But missions like this one got him one step closer to another promotion and to his holy grail: The left seat on Air Force One.

  The major flew his heavy bird with military precision, exactly parallel to eight triple-0 three and the audience who watched him from within.

  The two aircraft turned over Delaware, gently swinging east-northeast as Atlantic City passed on his port side.

  “Air Force eight-zero-zero-zero-two from Air Force Two. Okay to break off and return to Andrews.”

  Padfield could hear the subtle approval in Colonel Babington’s voice on the radio. “Thanks again, Major.”

  “Roger, Air Force Two,” the Major responded. “Safe travels.”

  At that moment, the autopilot engaged, pointing the nose of the aircraft downward toward the ocean.

  Padfield and his co-pilot knew the aircraft systems inside and out. As he barked commands and flipped switches, the 757’s systems refused to respond.

  “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday,” Padfield said calmly into his headset. “Air Force eight-zero-zero-zero-two’s flight controls unresponsive.”

  As the passengers on Air Force Two watched in horror, the giant aircraft nosedived toward the ocean, exploding into an orange kerosine mushroom cloud on impact.

  3

  National Transportation Safety Board—490 L'Enfant Plaza SW, Washington, DC

  José Wodehouse didn’t recognize the caller ID when it flashed on the aging Rolm telephone on what passed for his desk in the tiny analyst cubical at National Transportation Safety Board headquarters in Washington.

  He almost didn’t pick up. The newly minted analyst was feeling the pressure to update his superiors on two month-old investigations, the flight 80002 crash, and some odd accident on an automotive test track in Detroit.

  The voice on the other end of the line was equally young and equally unfamiliar.

  “Mr. Wodehouse?”

  At twenty-four, José wasn’t used to being called “Mr.”

  “This is Cameron Dunham at the NSA. I’ve been told that you are looking into the Air Force Two incident.”

  The visibility of José’s work on that one went all the way to the White House. He wished a more seasoned analyst were on the case. “For better or worse, yes. How can I help you, Cameron?”

  “I think I’ve found a connection between that accident and something that happened in Michigan.”

  This NSA kid must have the same enemies, José thought. “What have you got?”

  “A hacker may have caused both events.”

  4

  The River Bend Maximum Security Prison—Nashville, Tennessee

  Detective Jessica Ramirez concluded that malfeasance was bathed in florescent lighting and smelled like industrial cleaning fluid.

  This place was not dissimilar to the lock-up at the police department where she worked.

  The fundamental difference was that they killed people here.

  The execution they sent her to witness made no sense. A death sentence without a body. And a fish out of water from a small Illinois river town, ordered by a cruel chief to watch a man burn to death.

  She would have preferred the Mississippi River crickets to this somber scene. The alleged perp’s name was Vincent Culpado. They said he killed his wife.

  Today he would walk his last mile.

  Jess’s years of training recorded the drill. Two of the eight guards marched ahead of him. Two more walked on either side of the prisoner, each supporting an arm in case he suddenly bolted.

  Behind the condemned, another pair of uniforms flanked the prison warden.

  Jess walked behind that trio with the final two guards bringing up the rear.

  “What’s she doing here?” a guard asked the warden.

  “Her chief pulled some strings to get her on the inside for this thing. He must be one sadistic son of a bitch.”

  “Why her? Why allow an outsider to have intimate access to an
execution?”

  The warden shrugged. “She made the arrest ten years ago. They say it was her first day on the job without a training officer.”

  Jess could see the guard steal a glance at the shield and name tag on her chest.

  “Detective Jessica Ramirez,” he muttered. “They must really hate her back home.”

  5

  TEN YEARS EARLIER - Paloma, Illinois

  Unlike most of her colleagues, Jess had the hot sheet memorized. So, when the late model sedan rolled a stop sign ahead of her, she knew that whoever was inside was driving a stolen car.

  The minute Jess turned on the light bar, he took off.

  “Don’t feel you have to save the world from someone who ran a stop sign, partner.”

  Alexandra Clark, another probie who was a classmate at the academy, pinched her seatbelt tight around her waist. Jess and Ali became fast friends and drew one another as partners after their field training officers failed to wash them out, despite their herculean efforts to do so.

  Jess pressed the accelerator to the floor. “It’s a stolen car, babe. Let’s sing to him.”

  Ali powered up the yelping siren. “I think you became a cop just so you could get attention.”

  “I became a cop to piss off my father. I wanted to be a swimmer. He said, ‘Get a job where you use your head and not your body.’”

  “Well, use your head, then. Think about the other cars that share this street, partner. You’re cutting it a little close with some of these passes.”

  “‘Get a job where you use your head and not your body,’” Jess repeated. “You’d think he was talking me out of being a hooker. Why do parents do that?”

  The Latina spun the steering wheel counterclockwise to avoid a pedestrian. Ali held on to the dashboard for dear life. But the almost disinterested tenor of the conversation between the two might well have been happening in some bar.

  “When I told my parents I was gay, all my dad said was, ‘Well, Mona. I guess that means we don’t get any grandchildren.’ My mother hasn’t spoken to me since. Lesbian couples have kids. We can be great moms!”

  The subject vehicle sped up.

  “Seventy in a thirty-five zone, Ali. What the hell did this guy do?”

  Ali was still in the past. “I think there’s some sort of universal rule that parents screw up their kids. I bet our perp was too short to drive the bumper cars in middle school.”

  She checked the safety on her Smith semi-auto as the Howzell’s Ice Cream parlor sign as it flew by in her peripheral vision. “Hey! Salted caramel is on special today. My all time favorite. Let’s get some on the way home."

  Jess keyed the radio. Her voice was dead calm.

  “Dispatch from 4-David-15. In pursuit of a 2009 Chevrolet Caprice, Illinois plate Mark David Uniform Three One Seven. Westbound on Collins Street, crossing Boyd Avenue.”

  An icy voice responded. “Ten-four, 4-David-15. The Captain orders you to continue pursuit only if you are not endangering lives.”

  The subject vehicle left a rubber trail as the driver swerved around a slower car, nearly picking off a pedestrian.

  “Endangering lives?” Ali said. “He’s the guy endangering lives. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we just let the boys bag this shithead? It’s day-one alone in the car for both of us. And it’s almost 5 o’clock. If we kill somebody, we’ll spend the next two weeks with internal affairs.”

  For the first time, Jess felt the adrenaline rush that would soon become an addiction.

  “If we break off, partner, the boys will never let us live it down. This one isn’t getting away.”

  Ali braced herself against the dashboard.

  “Why do I feel like I will forever be the voice of reason you will never listen to?”

  “Would you like me to drop you off at the next corner and take this guy down alone?”

  “Of course not. If you get yourself killed on day one, at least I can tell your mother that I warned you to be sensible.”

  The Caprice hit a cyclist, tossing its rider into the air and over both vehicles like a rag doll. He landed unhurt, shaking his hands and cursing a blue streak.

  Jess saw Ali assessing the damage. “That guy must be some sort of gymnast. He’s barely got a bruise.”

  Jess kept her eyes on the perp vehicle. “I’m gonna bruise the moron who hit him in a moment.” The bad guy swerved into another right turn. She was almost on top of him now. More cops fell in behind the cruiser.

  Ali’s head hit the ceiling as the vehicle sailed over a speed bump. “He’s headed for the freeway, Jessica. If he gets there, we’ll lose the bust to the state troopers.”

  “I know, I know,” Jess said, impatience clouding her focus on what was ahead of her. “Get ready to run in case he bails.”

  Buildings and stoplights flew by the two cops like fence posts. The freeway overpass lay dead ahead.

  Jess could see two state cop cars maneuvering into position. “We’re running out of time, partner,” Ali warned. What’s the plan?”

  Jess tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “I’m going to hit him with a pit maneuver.”

  “Jesus, Jessica. You are not certified yet.”

  “I saw it done as a ride-along.”

  “Not at eighty miles per hour. It’s never been done.”

  “Then let’s rewrite the book.”

  The radio came alive.

  “4-David-15. Break off pursuit. State police will engage.”

  “See?” Ali said, “I told you so.”

  Jess floated to the right of the target and hit the gas. “I couldn’t hear the radio. You were talking too loud.” Jess knew her partner would bow to the inevitable.

  She was in position. Gently nursing the car to the left, her front bumper caught the Chevy's right rear quarter panel. Ali was right. The book said Jess was going too fast on a road filled with other vehicles. She intended to rewrite the book.

  The Caprice slid into a spin. Nearby vehicles swerved to avoid it. Even the cops behind Jess slowed a bit to take in the spectacle.

  But Jess overcorrected, sending her own cruiser into a spin. A front wheel caught the edge of the curb, tossing the car and its occupants into the air. After a double horizontal flip, the car landed on its feet, just as if Jess had planned the whole thing.

  She looked at her disheveled passenger. “That, my dear Alexandra, is how it’s done.”

  The Caprice did a half dozen 360s, coming to rest nose to nose with Jess and Ali’s vehicle. Two state cop cars configured a V formation directly ahead of it.

  In seconds, there would be dozens of boys in blue surrounding them.

  Ali shook her head. “Something tells me I’ll be forever pulling your chestnuts out of the fire. We better arrest this guy before someone else does.”

  Jess’s partner stood behind the passenger door, her Glock pointed at the perp’s windshield. Jess tried to look calm as she walked up to the driver’s side window.

  He rolled it down and put his hands onto the steering wheel, staring through the glass at the barrel of the gun she aimed at his head.

  “My name is Vincent Raymond Culpado. I am wanted in Tennessee. I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble.”

  “Nobody was seriously hurt, Mr. Culpado. Keep your hands where I can see them, and don’t move. Some more senior officers will arrive in a few moments to take credit for the arrest, and I will probably never see you again. Thank you for a thrilling first day on the job.”

  Culpado’s eyes met Jess’s, and she saw sadness and resignation. He studied her name tag. “Be careful what they tell you about all of this, Officer Ramirez. I didn’t kill her.”

  6

  PRESENT DAY - The River Bend Maximum Security Prison—Nashville, Tennessee

  A dozen witnesses claimed to have seen Vincent Culpado push his wife off The John Seigenthaler Pedestrian Bridge and into the Cumberland River. The prosecution portrayed the accused as a jealous husband who murdered his spouse when he thought she was
having an affair. No evidence of an assignation was ever discovered. The jury unanimously agreed that Vincent Culpado was guilty and recommended the death penalty.

  Nobody was talking about how he escaped from prison. Those close to the District Attorney’s office whispered that they hoped that Vincent Culpado would just disappear.

  Jessica Ramirez screwed that one up for them.

  The bust went down exactly as she had predicted.

  Jess didn’t get the credit.

  Typical, she thought. Back then, the place was a bunch of barely caged animals, only slightly evolved from the ape culture where males dominated, and females were relegated to procreation.

  Now, ten years later, Jess got the credit. Perhaps it was a punishment for catching someone everyone else didn’t want to be caught.

  She could smell the perspiration that drenched Culpado’s body. A guard strapped a metal helmet that looked like early football head protection around his chin. The guard apologized that salt water was dripping from the sponge inside it and into the prisoner’s eyes.

  “This isn’t your fault,” Culpado said.

  Jess recognized the calmness in his voice. It was disquieting.

  They tightened the straps; electrode placements were double-checked. The prisoner was one with the thick oak chair that would usher him into eternity.

  The extraction team left the death chamber, motioning for Jess to follow. The warden guided her to a viewing room, where the witnesses waited behind closed aluminum blinds. An old-style rotary telephone hung on the wall, a tool the lawyer could wield if he felt something about the process was awry.

  The warden made the introductions.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Detective Jessica Ramirez, representing the arresting jurisdiction. Detective, this is Henry Morris, Mr. Culpado’s attorney, Tony Eldridge of the Nashville Tennessean Newspaper, Officer Hanks, representing the Bureau of Prisons and Mr. and Mrs. Yates, the deceased’s parents.”