Flight of the Fox

by Gray Basnight

 

  TO: all deep field operations

  FROM: deep field cmdr

  SUBJECT: personnel change

 

  …attn all covert operatives: be advised, deep field cmdr natujay has retired effective immediately…as deep field legal counsel, i will be the new—interim—cmdr & will manage all existing ops until a full-time cmdr is appointed…farewell gathering for outgoing cmdr tbd…

  …that is all…

  …p. trippler

 

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Washington, D.C.

  Finally, he had a brainstorm.

  Democratic House Speaker Henry Wayne Alderman remembered the parable of the ten virgins. It popped from his subconscious, thanks to his days with the nuns at Benedictine in Lawson Parrish. When it became apparent that the committee chairman would not publicly recognize the importance of the truth, he decided it was worth a try.

  “Todd, will you hand me a Bible, please?”

  “With pleasure, Henry. Here you go. I carry this with me everywhere I go.”

  It was a well-worn copy of the King James Version. Alderman turned to Matthew 25. This particular version substituted the word “maiden” for the word “virgin.” He began reading. “The Kingdom of heaven shall be compared to ten maidens who took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five were foolish and five were wise. For when the foolish took their lamps, they brought no oil; but the wise brought flasks of oil.

  “When the bridegroom was delayed, they all slumbered.

  “But at midnight there was a cry, ‘Behold, the bridegroom comes!’ Then all those maidens rose and trimmed their lamps. And the foolish said to the wise, ‘Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.’ But the wise replied, ‘Perhaps there will not be enough for us and for you; go to the dealers and buy for yourselves.’

  “And while they went to buy, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went in with him to the marriage feast and the door was shut.

  “Afterward, the other maidens came also saying, ‘Lord, Lord, open to us.’ But the Lord replied, ‘Truly, I say to you, I do not know you. Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.’”

  Ninety-two-year-old Congressman Toddman Lee Gaynor leaned back in his desk chair and smiled as he listened. It was one of his favorite parables about faith and being prepared for the moment when the moment arrives. He was flattered by the early, in-person visit from his Catholic colleague from across the aisle, and by the sly effort to use Holy Scripture to persuade him. But he would not be budged.

  “That was mighty fine, Henry. You have a powerful, God-given voice for Gospel reading. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I certainly did.”

  Alderman closed the Bible.

  “Todd, nothing like this has ever happened in the history of the United States. The hour is nigh, my friend. We must do the right thing for our country.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  Gaynor wiped his mouth again, adjusted his glasses, and leaned forward.

  “Henry, I’m not saying it’s true, but if J. Edgar really was what is called gay, and Clyde Anderson Tolson really was what is called gay, and Danford Shackton really is, er, was gay, too—then I ask you, how do we know these pages aren’t just some of the unholy tricks that gay people enjoy playing on each other?” He thumb-flipped the edges of the DJF pages with contempt. “You know, these people are prone to some rather disturbing behavior.”

  Alderman thought briefly of reciting his line about ‘a man’s pecker is his to do with as he pleases. When he glanced at the angelic faces of Gaynor’s staff, he knew the idea would backfire miserably.

  “Well, my response is this: What if those pages are the real thing?—which I believe they are. And furthermore, I believe they will be validated as such.”

  The Republican reached to retrieve his Bible and protectively placed it on his desk.

  “I appreciate that, I really do,” the Republican said. “But if these pages are the truth as you say, then we must destroy them. The last thing we need to do to the American people is tell them their nation was an appalling fraud during the second half of the twentieth century.”

  “And the parable of being ready for the moment?” Alderman asked.

  “Henry, my friend, you can believe me when I tell you—I’ve got plenty of oil in my lamp.”

  Chapter Seventy

  I-95, Rocky Mount, NC

  Donnursk was astonished at the confidential text message glowing on his cellphone.

  He stood at the gas pump in Tarboro, North Carolina, refueling the truck while looking at the communication from Paula Trippler.

  “Sweet,” he crooned. “This thing just keeps getting better and better.”

  It was a perfect opportunity. All he had to do now was get to Key West and execute his double grant of supreme authority, which would neatly conclude Operation Dear John. Indeed, it would wrap the whole mess in a tidy ribbon for the tenth floor.

  Then he’d head back to D.C., where he’d be received like a golden boy for neutralizing both Teagarden and McCanliss, not to mention saving everyone’s collective fat from the Dear John fire. Then he’d let it be known that he’s interested in filling the vacancy temporarily occupied by Paula Trippler. He felt good about his prospects. He was young, smart, motivated and very talented. Not a significant screw up on his record until the embarrassment earlier that morning at the Watergate. And it looked as if Natujay was getting hammered for that, which he deserved.

  Donnursk capped off the truck’s gas tank at nineteen gallons.

  He wasn’t quite halfway to Key West. It had been a long and weary drive on Interstate-95, but this news would make the second half of the drive go easier, because now he had something to look forward to.

  After this mission, if he played every angle perfectly, he wouldn’t be assigned any more missions from the DFC commander. Instead, he would be doing the assigning.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Encrypted Field Communication

  NSA Apache Code Ofc Baltimore, MD/Washington, DC/CoinTelSatOrbit53/New York, NY

 

  TO: box cutter

  FROM: interim deep field cmdr

  SUBJECT: operation dear john

  ATTACHMENT: Op. Dear John File

 

  interim deep field cmdr to box cutter: effective immediately, you are pulled off operation killtime…i am temporarily reassigning u to opdearjohn…p/u ice skater’s truck at company garage in nyc…drive to rendezvous with copper miner in key west asap…

  box cutter to interim deep field cmdr:…but am making good progress on killtime…that newspaper is bleeding $$$…and am working angle w/right wing media that mexican int’l bailout will be found suspicious by commerce, trade and state…thus force total newspaper shutdown…

  interim deep field cmdr to box cutter: understood…now that i’m in charge of deep field…i need my OWN man on dearjohn…you have supreme authority on ice skater and on the initial target named teagarden, see attached file for background…moreover, if copper miner gets in way, you have supreme authority on him too…then u will be back on operation killtime…

  box cutter to interim deep field cmdr:…wow, my first grant of supreme authority (3x over!)…ok, will do…note: do not sign secure field communications with real name as u did a few mins ago…no worries this one time, tho.

  interim deep field cmdr to box cutter:…thanks for the tip…good luck, and see you at my house in adams morgan, d.c., asap!…

 

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Key West, FL

  He was the only passenger during a glorious flight on the classic DC-3.

  The nose of the fusel
age was stenciled with the nickname Pangolin’s Pastime. The pilot had long gray hair twisted into a pony tail that draped to his shoulder blades. Like the Amazon woman cabdriver, he too was deeply bronzed. Unlike her, he was vigorously fit and classically good looking in a Hollywood, gun-slinging sort of way. Because of the engine noise, they had to wear headsets with microphones to hear each other speak.

  “The ceiling is high and the water is calm today,” Pangolin said as the twin blades cranked. The noise of their engines quickly hit falsetto, then slid down the tonal scale to settle into a steady tenor. “It’s a great morning for flying.”

  They flew east, then north to tag along the archipelago that stretches from Key West to Key Largo just below Miami.

  “I had to swing wide to get around Boca Chica Key before cruising the Overseas Highway,” Pangolin explained. Even with the headset intercom, he still had to shout to be heard over the propellers. “The Navy is on Boca Chica, and they don’t like it when I buzz ’em. Tends to make ’em nervous. Maybe they’re afraid I’ll see inside one of their precious X-47 fighter drones. It’s a plane designed to make all pilots a thing of the past, like cobblers or swordsmiths.”

  Halfway to Miami, he turned west and then south. A short time later they cruised low over the Dry Tortugas.

  At first, Pangolin didn’t care much for this man who paid extra to be the only passenger. He conveyed little personality and even less communication. Pangolin had an unpleasant sense that his face and body barely controlled a hidden rage, which worried him. But once they were airborne, the passenger’s eyes softened and an inner bliss seemed to come over him. He even began to speak without being prompted for every grunt.

  “That’s where they imprisoned Dr. Mudd,” Pangolin shouted. “You know, the man who helped John Wilkes Booth by setting his broken leg after he killed Honest Abe.” McCanliss nodded. “You a pilot?”

  “No. Both my father and son were pilots,” McCanliss said. “My Baby Boomer generation got skipped.”

  “Commercial or military?”

  “Air Force. My father was killed when his F-105 was shot down in Vietnam. My son was killed when his C-17 crashed in Iraq. My dad always told me the DC-3 was the greatest aircraft ever designed. He called it the lynchpin of aviation, the fulcrum between the Wright brothers and modern aviation. That’s why I booked you. I’ve always wanted to fly in one.”

  When Pangolin heard that, he decided to give this passenger more than a routine tour. He took his classic airplane low, cruising just fifty feet above the water. He cracked the side windows to let air and ocean spray blow into the cockpit. Then he closed the windows and put the DC-3 into a steep climb directly over Key West, making the island recede in the window the way Earth recedes from the porthole of a rocket’s capsule. After banking sharply to the south, he flew hard at a top speed of nearly two hundred miles per hour.

  “Uh-oh,” the pilot said, after a few minutes. “You see that island?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “That’s Cuba. And you see those two aircraft climbing to meet us?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the Cuban Air Force. MiG-21s. Made by the former Soviet Union. They don’t like it when I buzz them any more than the Naval Air Station at Boca Chica likes it when I buzz their X-47 robo-fighters. They’ll be on top of us in two seconds.”

  He banked sharply to make a U-turn and hightail it back to Key West. He was right about the timing. Within seconds, the antique propeller plane was flanked by two menacing fighter jets. McCanliss could see the pilot in the MiG on his starboard side of the DC-3 wagging a finger in reprimand. Pangolin wagged his wings, as if to apologize. A moment later the two fighter-jets withdrew.

  “I’ll never understand it,” Pangolin shouted.

  “What?”

  “China, that’s what.”

  “That’s Cuba back there. So what about China?”

  “Well, China is this huge commie nation that is the biggest economic whorehouse in the history of the world. And the U.S. is the biggest paying John who visits that whorehouse. It’s where all the American companies go to shaft the Chinese workers who get paid slave wages, which is, of course, the reason we do so much business with ’em. Yet we had sixty years of hard-ass embargo against that island back there just because it’s commie.”

  McCanliss wasn’t sure whether he liked or disliked the pilot’s comments. His father died fighting communism in Vietnam. His son died fighting religious fascism in Iraq. But he said nothing because he truly loved the ride. A flight on a DC-3 had been on his bucket list a long time. It made him remember his father, and think fondly of his son. It wasn’t much, but he wanted to hold on to it. Arguing with some old hippie pilot about China would only ruin the final pleasurable experience of his life.

  Before landing back at Key West, Pangolin received a radio call from air traffic. McCanliss could hear every word through the co-pilot’s headset.

  “You got a request here from a captain with the Navy air station. Wants to know, can that old tub of yours make it all the way to Virginia Beach?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But why me? Did the Navy run out of airplanes?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. It’ll be one passenger up and two passengers back.”

  “When does this passenger want to go?”

  “Well, as they say in Spanish, inmediatamente. When translated, I believe that means right now, you long-haired dummy.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Hang on. She gave me her card.”

  “She?”

  “Yeah,” came the response. “And a rather handsome—she—she is. Okay, here it is. Captain Eva Ghent, U.S. Navy.”

  The name gave him pause. He more than knew her. He knew her well. He knew her before she married American Airlines pilot and former navy aviator John Ghent. That was when her name was Captain Eva Teagarden. The all-news TV networks were hound-dogging the Teagarden story as though it were the Holy Grail. He’d been following it closely. And with a name like Teagarden, he figured the man on the run in New York State and Washington, D.C., to be her father. He thought of contacting her, but decided to leave it alone. Pangolin figured she needed to be left alone more than she needed to receive another incoming phone call, even if it was a friendly voice from the past. Besides, there had been no mention in the media of a daughter on Key West.

  “Okay, I’m on approach now,” Pangolin said to the controller. “I’ve got to fill up the tank. Then I’ll park and meet her in the terminal.”

  “Nope,” came the response from the air traffic control officer.

  “Where then?”

  “She wants you to taxi to the west end of the runway. She’s waiting beyond the swamp inlet at that old vacant hangar, which ain’t vacant no more.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Not much. Just a little old hundred-fifty-million-dollar airplane known as the X-47B.”

  And that particular model aircraft was the reason he originally met Captain Ghent. If he’d stayed in the Navy, he’d have been switched from F-14s to the UAV X-47 program. She would have taught him how to fly that jet-propelled triangle while sitting in front of a computer screen. Problem was, he wouldn’t be flying anything. The computer—was—the pilot. All he’d have done was make occasional keyboard inputs and watch the monitor. UAV stands for Unmanned Aerial Vehicle. It simply wasn’t for him. He’d been flying since he was fourteen years old, so getting transferred to Ghent’s new UAV program on Boca Chica was not his idea of being a pilot. When he learned about his transfer, he made a down payment on the DC-3, and quit the Navy the following week.

  “Okay,” Pangolin said. “Tell her I’ll be out at the swamp hangar shortly.”

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  I-95, Lumberton, NC

  Thomas Rose, aka Box Cutter, was bleary-eyed and exhausted.

  It seemed like he’d been behind the wheel for a solid week. In fact, he’d been on I-95 for twelve stra
ight hours and was only nearing the South Carolina border. He had another ponderous twelve hours to go before arriving in Key West.

  He pushed the pedal harder. The truck had a terrifically powerful engine but it was heavy and not easy to drive. It was so laden with communications/satellite surveillance equipment and firepower that it was like driving a tank. He watched the speedometer edge toward eighty. He’d already been pulled over for speeding near Petersburg, Virginia. No problem. A federal badge always helps with that sort of thing. And for him, it was an ego bump to see the state trooper’s face go from snarky to suck-up after getting a look at his FBI shield.

  Now, he was exhausted beyond caring. All he wanted was sleep. This was not his type of gig. He hated guns. He’d never been the storm trooper type, and never wanted to be. He was more of an “in house” agent. That’s why Paula Trippler assigned him to Operation Killtime. Working a clandestine plot to force The New York Times into bankruptcy and ultimately out of existence was a cushy gig that required his accounting and business skills. Better still, it earned him a higher pay grade than all that “show me your hands” crap.

  Of course, there was another reason she maneuvered to give him the best gig in the DFC with nearly limitless perks. Paula Trippler was his guardian angel. Whenever he was in D.C., they secretly rendezvoused at the house she inherited from her parents in the Adams Morgan section. She gave him the code name Box Cutter, which meant nothing but sounded menacing, especially when compared with the other DFC operatives: Ice Skater, Copper Miner, Road Manager, Utility Coach, Eagle Eye, Street Cleaner.

  This, however, was a problem.