After a moment, and no response, I repeated our intentions. Any air traffic arriving or departing would be on this frequency, as it was an unmanned airport. So, I told Kim to turn northwest and begin her landing checklist. Five minutes later, she banked right and made a 180-degree turn. On final approach, she lowered the landing gear, reduced power, and added fifteen degrees of flap.
“The wind’s real light,” I said. “But it’s a bit of a crosswind. You’ll feel the plane kinda jerk left, when the wheels touch down. It won’t be much of a jerk, but be ready for it and just give her a little right rudder.”
Kim nodded, bringing the speed down a little more as she watched the runway ahead of us. “How long’s the runway?”
“Over five thousand feet,” I replied. “You won’t need half of it.”
A few minutes later, after a nearly perfect landing, we taxied toward the fixed base operator’s building. I could see Billy waiting just outside the door, wearing his typical western shirt and jeans, his black hair pulled back in a long ponytail.
I left Deuce and Kim to take care of securing the plane and arranging for fuel. Linda and I strode toward my old friend. If he was surprised to see Linda, he didn’t show it.
“Agent Rosales,” Billy said with a nod. “I didn’t expect you to be coming.”
He shook hands with her and she said, “I’m not here in any official capacity, Billy. Jesse and I have been seeing each other for several months.”
When Billy turned to me, we grasped forearms, shaking hands the Seminole way. “Good to see you again, kemosabe. Are you chartering people in the plane now?”
“Just some friends,” I replied as Kim came trotting up. “And my daughter. Billy, meet Kim. Kim, this is one of my oldest friends, Billy Rainwater. We’ve known each other since before kindergarten.”
Billy looked from Kim to me and back again as a slow grin crept across his usually stoic features. “I remember when you were born,” he said, giving her a hug. “Damn, I must be getting old.” Then he turned to me. “I only brought my pickup.”
“The others will wait here,” I said. “Just Linda and I are going with you to the shop.”
“Deuce already paid for the gas, Dad,” Kim said. “He wouldn’t let me use your card.”
“Okay, head back and keep them company, check the plane out and make sure she’s ready for takeoff.”
Linda and I followed Billy through the small terminal and outside. Parked at the curb was his burly K5 Blazer, sitting on huge tires and monster suspension. “How’s that old Travelall running?” he asked as I helped Linda climb up into the truck.
“Like it was new,” I replied. “Are you going to tell me what it is you want to sell me?”
“No,” he replied, his face an inscrutable mask once more.
He turned right on Cowboy Way and drove a few hundred feet, then turned left on Forrey Drive, before he spoke again. “I wanna see the look on your face when you see it.”
Just a mile later, he turned onto Highway 80, headed east away from town. The powerful engine pushed the big truck quickly to sixty, the giant tires making a loud humming sound on the pavement. A mile down the road, Billy turned left off the highway and into the gravel parking area at his shop. The doors were all closed. He parked the truck and the three of us went inside, Billy leading the way to the back of the building.
“No work today?” I asked.
“Not today, Jesse,” he replied, looking back and grinning. “I’m planning to make some big bucks off a white man.”
At the rear of the garage, he pulled a tarp off a stack of boxes. The wooden box on top was about three feet long and eight inches on the sides. Billy undid the clasps and tossed the lid up.
Letting out a low whistle, I looked up at my old hunting buddy, standing next to Linda. “Is that what I think it is?”
Billy grinned. “If you think it’s an M134 minigun, yeah.”
“You have the motor and battery for it?” I asked, inspecting the electrically operated Gatling-type machine gun. The minigun dates back to when Richard Gatling replaced his hand crank with a newly invented electric motor. The modern version is used in close air support from helicopters. It has six barrels that spin and chew up ammo at an alarming speed. It could empty a twenty-five-hundred-round ammo can in under a minute.
“I have the motors, no batteries.”
“Motors? As in a spare?”
Billy grinned. “No, kemosabe. Motors, as in one for the gun and one for the ammo feed.”
“Why two?” I asked, puzzled.
“In a chopper,” Billy explained, “the gun’s mounted low to the deck, with the ammo can mounted off to the side. I built a custom feed assembly, to help pull the belt out of a can mounted lower, under the pedestal. With the two motors working together, it’ll fire five thousand rounds per minute.”
“You’re kidding! That’ll melt the barrels.”
“Not this one,” Billy said. “Barrels are heavy-bore titanium, just like the mount for your Ma Deuce.”
“Think you can build a mount for it that’ll adapt to that tripod?” Almost a year ago, I’d bought an M2 fifty-caliber machine gun from Billy. He’d custom built a titanium mount with a center post that fit into the fighting chair mount on the Revenge’s cockpit deck. It had three legs that folded out and rested on the deck with rubber pads. The thing was extremely stable. At least, it was as stable a platform as you could have with a Ma Deuce. The recoil of the big gun made accurate shooting on automatic virtually impossible without using tracer rounds.
Kicking the edge of the tarp back further with the toe of his cowboy boot, he bent down and opened a second, much larger square box. “Already did. Everything you need, except the batteries. You’ll have to find a coupla twenty-five-volt aircraft batteries for that.”
Linda hadn’t said anything. I glanced at her, and one corner of her mouth turned up slightly. Turning back to Billy, I asked, “How much?”
Half an hour later, with my new minigun and mount loaded behind the backseats, we were airborne again and headed south. Deuce leaned forward and with his hand over the mic boom on his headset asked what I’d paid for the minigun. I held up seven fingers.
“You paid what?” Deuce asked incredulously, his hand coming away from the mic.
“I need to take Linda with me whenever I buy illegal weapons,” I replied.
“It wasn’t illegal,” Linda said. “While you were loading it in the truck, I checked and saw that Billy’s collector licenses and permits were all up to date.”
“But he would have asked a lot more than the eight grand,” I said. “If he didn’t know the sale was okay in your eyes.”
“Yeah, and your counteroffer would have been a lot higher, too.”
“What do you need a gun like that for, anyway?” Meg asked over the intercom.
I turned and started to say something, when Kim interrupted me. “It’s not a matter of need,” she said. “In this country, we can have as many of any kind of weapons as we want.”
“Oh, please don’t get me wrong,” Meg said. “I have absolutely nothing against your Second Amendment right. I shoot as well. I was only wondering what a person who would own a gun like that might be afraid of.”
Kim glanced over at me and grinned as the Hopper leveled off at five thousand feet. “Not a damned thing,” she said.
Parsons continued to look out the window as we flew over the Everglades, seemingly lost in thought. I’d turned around and was talking with Miguel and Deuce, figuring out all the many places we’d been and where we might have crossed wakes. While we talked, I watched the CID man.
Though Parsons was looking out the window, he wasn’t looking down as most people would. The view was spectacular as we flew out over Florida Bay, leaving the mainland behind us.
The water of Florida Bay is well known for how crystal clear it is. It’s less salty than the Gulf or Atlantic, due to the influx of fresh water, filtered through the hundreds of square miles that make up
the Glades. Small patch reefs and tiny islands and shoals dot the huge bay. A bit less interesting, the cobalt waters of the Gulf could be seen to the west. But it was the horizon that Parsons seemed to be studying. Or more accurately, ignoring. He was obviously deep in thought.
As we flew over the Keys a few minutes later, Parsons turned and leaned forward in his seat. “You’re sure these black marketers are Russian?”
Deuce thought for a moment. “I’ve heard some of the tapes. They definitely speak Russian, but you’re right, they could be any nationality.”
Parsons frowned. “So they could be from any Russian-speaking country? Ukraine, or maybe Belarus?”
“Possibly,” Deuce said. “I speak a little Russian. Hate the language. I read the transcripts of the calls that a Russian-language translator made.”
“Not a linguist?” Parsons asked. “There are some very subtle differences, ya know. Much like the Spanish spoken in South America is a little different than the Spanish spoken in South Florida.”
“You speak Russian?” I asked.
Parsons glanced at me. “I don’t speak any language other than English. And even that’s Southern English. Oh, I’ve picked up a word or two of other languages here and there. But, I’ve always had a good ear for regional accents of the people I worked with. Guess thirty years in the Army’ll do that. And even though I can’t understand what a Russian or Azerbaijani is saying, I can usually pick up which is which.”
Deuce produced a small case from his jacket pocket and handed it to Parsons. Inside was a miniature communications device that attached to and was inserted in the ear. The mic on what we usually called an earwig was in the end of the part that went around the ear. It was held tightly in place against the back of the jawbone and picked up sound through the thin skin there as it resonated off the bone.
“Put that on for a minute,” Deuce said as he handed me another earwig. We each pulled one side of our headphones away and put the small devices on, covering them again with the comparatively bulky headphones. I switched off the intercom and we checked the link between the three earwigs. Then Deuce took his phone out and sent a text message.
After a moment, I heard a beep from the earwig and then a familiar voice. “Hey, boss,” Chyrel said. “All three are connected through your phone. What’s up?”
“Jesse and CID Agent Parsons are on with us, Chyrel,” Deuce said by way of reply. “I need you to pull up a secure audio file and play it for us.”
He gave her the file name and location on the DHS secure server and a moment later we listened to a conversation in Russian. I knew a few words and phrases, but didn’t recognize anything that was said.
“I don’t think that’s Russian Russian,” Parsons said, when the recording ended. “My bet would be Turkmenistan. I spent three months there on a murder investigation involving a soldier.”
Deuce nodded and grinned at me. “Chyrel,” he said. “Send that recording to Kumar. Tell him to get with one of his Delta buddies who knows multiple Russian dialects. Get back to me when you have something.”
Kumar Sayef is the leader of the CCC team in Key Largo and a good friend. A former sergeant first class and an interpreter for the Army’s covert Delta Force, he’d been with Deuce’s team for over a year. Kumar only recently took over command of the new team.
I switched the intercom back on to allow the others to speak, but after less than five minutes, Kumar’s voice came over the earwig and I switched the intercom off again.
“Hiya, Deuce,” Kumar said. Though he was of Middle Eastern descent, he was actually born and raised in the upper Midwest. He spoke many languages and dialects fluently, but his natural voice had that Fargo kind of twang to it.
“That was fast, Kumar,” Deuce said. “Did you find out anything?”
“Yeah, it just happens that I’m at Bragg right now, talking to an Arabic linguist about his future. It only took him a minute to get the right guy in the office. The conversation Chyrel sent me is definitely the Turkmen dialect of Russian that’s spoken in Turkmenistan and a few other places. The accent of both speakers is probably the Balkan Province on the Caspian Sea. Is this about that black market ring down in the Cay Sal Bank?”
“Yeah, it is. I should have had it authenticated by someone that knows the dialects. How sure is your guy?”
“Absolutely one hundred percent that it’s Turkmen Russian, and he’s pretty certain on the provincial accents. Call it ninety percent.”
“Thanks, Kumar,” Deuce said and ended the call. Parsons removed the earwig as I switched the intercom back on. When he started to hand it back, Deuce told him to hang onto it for the time being.
“That conversation was between the leader of the black marketers and one of his men,” Deuce explained. “It was recorded about a week ago, and they were discussing the acquisition of the plans for a piece of hardware to sell to their neighbor.”
“What countries border Turkmenistan?” Linda asked.
“A few of the other Stans, mostly,” I replied, looking at Deuce, both of us frowning. “Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, and Uzbekistan.”
“And Iran to the south,” Deuce added, finishing my thought.
Delores Juarez was working at her desk when her phone buzzed. The flashing light indicated the call was from the security gate. With Miguel down in the Keys liaising with Agent Parsons as the go-between for the company, Delores was having security calls routed to her.
Pushing the button, she asked, “What is it?”
“Sergeant Gonzales here,” the gate guard said unnecessarily. Delores knew who was on duty in every position within the company. “There’s an unscheduled UPS delivery for you at the gate. A letter-sized envelope.”
“I’m not expecting anything. Who is it from?”
“It doesn’t say, ma’am. No return address. The driver’s scan says it was picked up from a drop box in Coconut Grove.”
Delores thought for a moment. “Have Peter take it to the security office. I’ll be down there in five minutes.”
The company rarely received unscheduled deliveries of any kind. UPS deliveries usually consisted of several boxes of assorted office materials. She rose and left her office, taking the elevator to the basement office of the company’s security team.
Peter Timmons, the other security guard on duty at the gate, boarded the elevator at the lobby level. He held the envelope in both hands, as if it were made of fragile glass.
“What do you think it is, Miss Juarez?”
“Looks like a letter,” she replied. “But, as you know, all unscheduled deliveries have to go through security screening.”
CephaloTech had received a few letters from irate liberals living in the area. They were usually antimilitary and anti-big business, accusing the company of everything from building nuclear weapons to discharging toxic waste into the city’s water supply.
When the door opened at the security office lobby, Delores and Peter walked past the guard at the desk and Delores used her card to open the panel next to a heavy door. Pressing her thumb onto the panel, she unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped into the heart of the company’s security hub.
Twenty minutes later, after the envelope had undergone a number of tests, including X-ray, it was deemed harmless and Delores took it back to her office.
At her desk, Delores slid a letter opener into the flap and gently cut it open. Inside, she found a single sheet of paper. When she pulled it out, she knew without reading it that it would be an important clue to Agent Parsons’s investigation.
Picking up the business card that Parsons had given her from her desk, she quickly dialed the number. She could barely hear Parsons’s voice when he answered on the third ring, a loud roaring in the background all but drowning him out.
“I can hardly hear you,” Delores said. “Where are you?”
“In a really noisy airplane,” his shouted reply came.
“We just received a ransom letter. It came to the office just a few minu
tes ago.”
“A ransom letter?” Parsons asked. “Look, I can barely hear you, can you scan or photograph it and send it to me?”
“Right away,” Delores replied and ended the call.
Placing the letter on her desk, she turned the desk lamp brighter and used the camera function of her cell phone to make a high-resolution digital image of the paper. Quickly, she attached the image to a text message and sent it.
A moment later, she received a reply from the CID agent, telling her that he’d received it. He also told her not to handle it and he’d have someone there from the FBI as soon as possible.
Sitting at her desk again, she examined the letter, turning it with the eraser end of a pencil. It looked like regular notebook paper, with words and letters cut from magazines or books and glued in place. The sender wanted two and a half million dollars and would send another letter the following day with details on when and where the delivery was to be made.
Half an hour later, Delores’s phone buzzed again. She saw that it was the security gate again. “What is it, Rodrigo?” she asked when she pushed the button.
“An FBI agent to see you, ma’am,” Sergeant Rodrigo Gonzales replied. “Special Agent William Binkowski.”
“Tell him I’ll meet him in the lobby. And call there and have them buzz him in.”
A few minutes later, the elevator door opened and she walked across the lobby to where a middle-aged man in an inexpensive business suit stood by the security desk.
As she approached, he held out his credentials to her. “Special Agent William Binkowski, FBI.”
Delores took the ID and badge from him. She examined it and compared the face on it to the man in front of her. Satisfied, she handed the ID back to him. “My name is Delores Juarez, Agent Binkowski. I’m the chief of operations here at CephaloTech. Will you follow me, please?”
Together they went up to her office on the second floor. “It’s right there on the desk,” she said, leading him into her office.
“Have you touched it?” Binkowski asked, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
Fallen Tide: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 8) Page 12