Hunter's Moon

by Randy Wayne White

  Tomlinson was impressed. “Sam, I’m not even gonna ask how you got Fat Boy’s maintenance schedule. It’s got to be, like, top secret, right?”

  His tone wry, Wilson said, “Yes. Entrusting smugglers with the schedule might be considered counterproductive. But no one expects a former president of the United States to try anything illegal. It’s another one of the perks. I never have to go through metal detectors or airline security.”

  Tomlinson said, “You’re shitting me. No one ever checks?”

  “Never. It would be a breach of international protocol. And old acquaintances in the military trust me with all kinds of useful information.”

  All the potential scenarios—Tomlinson was having fun with them in his mind. “Look, if you ever get tired of traveling around, making speeches? And you’re willing to share—down the road, I’m talking about. We could make a lot of money with that kind of access. Not that I’m into the whole materialism thing. I see it more as spreading the gift of mellowism.”

  Wilson was in a brighter mood, now that we were under way, and he smiled. “ ‘Mellowism,’ huh? My friend, with your gift for language you would be a superb diplomat. It’s not as easy as it sounds. To say nothing, especially while speaking—that’s diplomacy. Teddy Roosevelt’s line. Or was it President Carter?”

  Tomlinson sat back, enjoying it. “I wouldn’t mind being an ambassador. Colombia, maybe—that would be cool. Jamaica would be okay if it wasn’t for all the assholes at the airport. Speaking of which, where’re we gonna land?”

  I watched Wilson reach to switch off the plane’s transponder, the VHF radio, then the GPS. Our electronic signature was now zero. He checked his watch, then turned to look out the port window. Fat Boy should have been visible. It wasn’t. Wilson said, “We’re not landing at an airport. But we will land. That’s about all I can promise you.”

  His hand on the throttle, we began accelerating—seventy . . . eighty . . . eighty-five knots—the water’s surface tension drumming the pontoons, the plane lifting, fishtailing as it broke free. Then we were banking low over Content Keys, the plane’s shadow preceding us, skating across shallow water veined with gutters of jade.

  I was surprised when the president immediately leveled off. He noticed as I checked the altimeter: a hundred fifty feet.

  “For the next hundred miles, we’re going to maintain this altitude. Our cruising speed will be a hundred fifteen knots—about a hundred thirty miles an hour. A little faster over ground with the wind shift. If we’d shed a hundred pounds of gear, we could probably do one-forty.”

  It looked as if we would barely clear the treetops of mangrove keys ahead. Tomlinson whistled softly, getting into it. “This is more like surfing than flying. Man”—he whistled again—“give me a rope, I could ski behind this thing. Hope we don’t run into any tall ships.”

  Wilson said, “Let’s talk about that. We’ve got a range of almost six hundred nautical miles so fuel’s not a problem. But eye fatigue could be. There’s no autopilot—too much weight. So, Ford? I’m going to need your help. We’ve got clouds to the west, which is good. Less chance of losing the horizon. Even so, flying this low will be a hell of a strain on the eyes. So we’ll do it in shifts. Half an hour on, half an hour off. You okay with that?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “You want to see how she handles?”

  “Okay.” My feet found the rudder pedals as I put my hands on the control yoke. It was embossed with a white MAULE M7 insignia.

  “You know the gauges—fuel, air speed, altitude.” Wilson was pointing. “Here’re your trim controls. Keep your eye on the horizon indicator. We want the wings level.”

  I tried easy turns to port, then starboard. I climbed briefly without adding throttle, then pushed the yoke forward, my stomach alert to a slight increase in g-force. At only a hundred fifty feet off the deck, I didn’t have room to try anything else.

  “You seem comfortable.”

  “I’ve steered a lot of planes in a lot of places. Pilots need breaks. But I wouldn’t want to try a water landing unless I have to.”

  “Don’t worry about that. The important thing is, keep us level, use your compass. We’re traveling the old-fashioned way: dead reckoning. Just a chart and a pencil. Pretend you’re Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic. Just lower.”

  I felt the yoke move as the president resumed control. I slipped my feet off the pedals.

  As he said, “At this altitude, we’ll be invisible. Like ghosts,” I was looking out the window, seeing water change from green to silver, then blue, as the bottom fell away.

  There was a pod of dolphins hobbyhorsing as we banked again, westward, toward the Gulf of Mexico.

  DURING THE FLIGHT, WITH ME AT THE CONTROLS, WILSON used a mini earphone to listen to Shana Waters’s digital recorder. After five minutes, he said, “I don’t know what’s stronger, Shana’s ambition or her sex drive.”

  He passed the recorder to me and I fitted the earplug beneath my headphones.

  Danson wasn’t the only man Waters had taped. She had recorded lovemaking sessions with at least two men whose names I recognized—a U.S. senator, and an anchorman from an opposing network.

  I raised my eyebrows as I handed the recorder back to him.

  “She has the makings of a great politican,” the president said. “Too bad she went into broadcasting.”

  He was serious.

  By 11:10 a.m., Florida time (10:10 Yucatán time), we were forty miles off the Mexican coast. Wilson activated the GPS long enough to confirm our position, then turned south, keeping distance between us and the tourist destinations of Cancun and Cozumel.

  An hour later, we landed south of Cayo Culebra on an isolated bay. The water was Bombay gin blue. Coconut palms shaded a shack built on stilts at the mouth of a river. There was a rim of white beach where pigs rooted.

  As Wilson idled the plane toward shore, he asked, “What’s Cayo Culebra means in Spanish?”

  Tomlinson said, “ ‘Island of Cobras’?”

  I said, “Close. ‘Island of Snakes.’ ”

  Wilson appeared pleased. “Perfect.”

  He was in a good mood. We’d crossed the Gulf without close contact with ships or planes, and he was comfortable enough with me at the controls to get more than an hour of sleep. First part of the mission accomplished.

  But then he said, “Uh-oh. Something’s wrong,” not happy anymore.

  He was still wearing the tinted glasses, but he had removed the fake burn scar—he expected someone he knew to come out of the shack and greet us. Vue. My guess. Wilson didn’t say.

  But someone had anticipated our arrival, because there were ten six-gallon gas cans on the dock, all full.

  We got out, secured the plane, and went to work.

  “I don’t like this.”

  Tomlinson was holding the huge funnel, while I poured gas through a leather chamois into the wing tanks. The president was standing behind us on the dock, his head moving as if he suspected that eyes watched from the shoreline. “There should’ve been at least a note.”

  There wasn’t. I had checked the shack.

  “From who?” I asked for the second time.

  Wilson didn’t reply—for the second time.

  He was studying the pigs, now coming along the beach toward us—the farmer in him paying attention.

  “Those aren’t domestic hogs. See the tusks on the boars?”

  The animals were black, hump-necked, with elongated snouts.

  “What were they rooting for?”

  “Crabs,” I said. “Sea worms.”

  The president frowned. “That’s why they’re moving the way they are—more like a pack. They’re hungry. Trip and fall, those hogs would gut you, then eat you. Mr. Tomlinson? You are supposed to have a gift for knowing things. What’s your read on this place?”

  Tomlinson appeared nervous—unusual. “Well . . . it seemed kinda fun until you started talking about a bunch of damn pigs eating us. I mean . . . the w
ater’s nice and clear. Lots of coconuts that would go real good with rum. But you’re right. Sam? Those bastards are coming after us.”

  Tomlinson looked from the pigs to me, his expression a mixture of awareness, dread, and disgust. “Doc? Is he right? I’ve never even thought about it before. Getting eaten by a fucking pig?”

  I asked, “Don’t you usually smoke a joint about this time of morning?”

  “I get a late start every now and again. But what do you expect me to do when I’m in a airplane?” He couldn’t take his eyes off of the pigs.

  I smiled. “Relax. I wouldn’t take any naps on the beach. Otherwise, we’re okay.”

  “Geezus . . . I’d like to believe that. They’ve got cloven hoofs, man. Like the devil. Who knows what happens after that. Eat you, then they could shit out your soul. That really could be the end.” In a louder voice, he said, “And I’m a vegetarian,” as if he wanted the pigs to hear.

  Wilson said, “Sharks don’t care about your ideology and neither do those hogs. Vegetarians are edible and no amount of broccoli’s going to change that.” He was looking at his watch, his mind on other matters. Was he considering waiting for someone . . . or something?

  After a few seconds, he muttered, “ ‘Island of Snakes.’ Perfect,” but not pleased, the way he’d said it before.

  I had emptied the ninth gas container into the wing. Tanks were full. Because I said I wanted to go for a swim after we’d refueled, Wilson caught my eye. “I’d planned on overnighting. But I think we need to get our butts out of here.”

  Meaning we’d have to improvise.

  I said, “Let’s go.”

  AT 1:20 LOCAL TIME, WE LANDED IN A BAY OF HONDURAS backwater, where we saw men fishing from handmade boats with outboards. We pulled up on a beach near a couple of pickup trucks—one of them a new Dodge. We bought fuel, then ate achiote chicken with tomatillos and chilies made by a woman cooking outside her hut.

  Wilson remained alone, directing the operation from a distance. He’d brought a can of aviation fuel to augment the local gas and he had us add it.

  “Mountains ahead,” he explained. He didn’t have to remind us to filter the gas through a chamois.

  Because Tomlinson and I carried food to him, one of the locals said to me, “He must be a very important man in your country. A jefe.”

  A chief.

  Five minutes later, we were under way, pointed south.

  The largest country in Central America is half the size of Florida. Borders moved below us as topography, rain forests, low volcanic craters striated with green, and rivers that appeared as switchbacks, water black as blood. With window vents open, we flew low enough to smell earth, leaf, water. Once, as we approached a village, Tomlinson said he got a whiff of simmering beans.

  We went cross-country, avoiding cities and the few major highways. Wilson had a bush pilot’s instincts and we used valleys as cover. It wasn’t until somewhere near the border of Honduras and Nicaragua, while following the contour of low mountains, we ascended to forty-five hundred feet. Even then, we stayed low enough to enrage howler monkeys, who shook their fists at us from the tops of trees.

  I was familiar with this country. Took pleasure in the remembrances of my years here. As Tomlinson used ruler and dividers to track our position on the chart, each landmark he mentioned brought back people, events, missions—not all pleasant. But unpleasant memories are useful gauges and mine verified all the fun I’d had. For me, returning in this unorthodox way was a little like coming home.

  As a military pilot, the president had flown in and out of the Panama Canal Zone many times, he said, but never over this area. Not at deck level, anyway. It was the end of the rainy season, but we’d drawn a rare cloudless day. He enjoyed himself. It keyed memories of what he said was the best thing about getting elected president: Air Force One.

  “No other perk comes close,” he told us. “The White House and staff were great, don’t get me wrong. You have a basketball court, putting greens, tennis, a private movie theater, even a bowling alley—which I never used. It always struck me as a little sad, frankly, because it was about the only thing Richard Nixon enjoyed during his last days. Bowling alone.”

  In the West Wing, he said, Friday was Oreo yogurt day, and the kitchen turned out the earth’s best french fries, 5 p.m. sharp.

  “But there was something special about that plane,” he told us. “The backup, too—neither is officially Air Force One until the president steps aboard. Wray loved the whole ceremony because it meant freedom. Walking across the South Lawn to the helicopter, she’d be smiling. Her real smile. And it got bigger when she stepped off and saw Air Force One waiting, the honor guard at attention.

  “We could relax there. Her office was forward, next to mine. She’d work while I’d do an hour on the elliptical. Or she might go aft and make sure there were plenty of souvenirs for the press corps to take home. Matches, china, blankets. Those people take anything not nailed down. But even they loosened up a little once we got airborne.

  “President Clinton used to go back and play cards all night with reporters. Shoot the bull like a regular guy until reporters hammered him over that intern business. Harry Truman—he called his plane The Independence—he’d loosen up with a couple of drinks, and he always had the pilot notify him when they were over Ohio. Senator Taft was from Ohio and Harry hated the man. He’d get up and take a piss over Ohio every time.

  Wilson laughed, hands on the yoke, looking military with his buzz cut and earphones, straightening the microphone when he spoke. He had a lot of stories about Air Force One, most assembled from his talks with the crew: Gerald Ford was their alltime favorite president because he was such a decent man. President Reagan was the most charismatic, Carter was the most family oriented, George H. W. was the funniest, Clinton was the smartest, and Lyndon Johnson was the crudest and rudest.

  “If he got a steak he didn’t like, he’d dump it on the floor. He made military aides wash his feet and cut his toe nails.”

  Tomlinson said he’d read somewhere that Johnson had huge testicles and, after a few highballs, he wasn’t shy about showing them.

  “Didn’t he walk around naked on Air Force One?”

  Wilson ignored the question. He wasn’t going to confirm something negative about a member of the club.

  “The best thing about that aircraft,” he said, “was to land in Peking, or Baghdad, or Cartagena”—he gave me a slight nod—“and to look back at that great big gorgeous 747 from the tarmac. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, in that don’t-screw-with-us lettering, and the presidential seal. Like it had been chiseled from the Rockies; a force that had come a long distance to protect, to do good things, to stand for something . . . better.”

  For a moment, I thought Wilson had gotten choked up. But then I realized he was concentrating on the instruments. We’d have to switch fuel tanks soon.

  “What does the crew say about you, sir?”

  “Well . . . I hope they say they enjoyed working for me. Leadership is the art of getting someone to do something you want done because they want to do it. Eisenhower said that. They loved Wray. Like the rest of the staff, they knew the kindness in my speeches came from her—she was more than my occasional ventriloquist. But they respected my record as a pilot, if nothing else. So they worked hard to please us. No boss can ask more than that.

  “Before we decided not to run for a second term, our strategy guys said I should do my last few press conferences standing in front of Air Force One. It communicates such power. Wray was heartbroken when we decided not to do four more years. A big part of the disappointment, I think, was how much she enjoyed her time on that aircraft.”

  “Sam?” Tomlinson had gotten so used to calling the president that it seemed natural. “If the late Mrs. Wilson wanted to run again, why didn’t you?”

  Wilson’s expression changed. “Check the history books. That’s a question I’ve answered too many times to repeat.”

  He pushed his micr
ophone armature up.

  End of conversation.

  17

  Tomlinson said, “It’s the Days of the Dead. That’s why I’ve felt this weird vibe. All afternoon—since those damn pigs attacked us.”

  We were standing outside a hut roofed with palm thatching. The thatching was a foot thick, intricately woven. A Halloweenstyle tableau had been constructed outside the door: candles carved as skeletons, a table with offerings of liquor and twists of tobacco.

  It had taken me a moment to remember that in Mexico and parts of Central America, the first two days of November are celebrated as Dias de Muertos. Days of the Dead.

  Deceased children are honored on November 1st, adults on November 2nd. Today was the third, but the shrines would be around for weeks.

  I said, “The pigs didn’t attack us. You were paranoid. Probably some type of withdrawal.” I was trying to humor him because his expression was so serious. Dread and disgust, like before.

  “No,” he said. “They wanted me, man. I could see it in their piggy little eyes.” He cringed. “I was never afraid to die until I thought about getting eaten by a pig. A fucking pig, man. Anything but that.”

  We were on the remnant of a volcano that protruded from Lake Nicaragua. It was one of the largest of the Solentiname Islands, an archipelago of more than thirty islands clustered at the lake’s southern end.

  We’d landed at 5 p.m., near a settlement of three huts, all furnished but empty. A man had been waiting for us on the dock. Vue. He had a backpack and a couple of boxes with him, plus a row of gas cans. It was as if he’d just arrived himself.

  The little giant had appeared upset. Maybe because he didn’t expect us until the next day. Which didn’t compute—he also seemed in a hurry.

  He’d nodded at Tomlinson and me as he helped Wilson out of the plane, then immediately steered the man toward a private spot ashore to talk. As they started down the dock, I heard Vue say, “Mr. President, I’m very sorry I fail you. Secret Service discovered you missing yesterday morning. And there is more bad news . . .” Vue’s voice became a whisper, and I didn’t hear anything else.