Agent Bob subsequently says,” . . . See, uh . . . that’s about all we have, not a damn thing. I’m telling you, this guy’s smo-ooth. Not a single finger print, not a decent picture, not one damn piece of evidence left behind for the CSU . . . the Crime Scene Unit guys to recover.”
“Frankly, it’s a damn waste of time to even call those CSU crews out. This one has got me stumped; no stolen cars to chase down or to recover. No drop cars like so many other robberies I’ve worked in the past. Most of the truly good jackers I’ve come across use fresh stolen cars . . . and usually more than one. I mean . . . geez; it is the standard MO for our local bank hijackers.”
“Hell, how many times has that happened? I can count on one hand the number of times that a stolen car wasn’t used to rob a bank. How in the world can these guys pull off fifteen damn robberies and not leave a simple friggin’ . . . a simple finger print behind? I’m telling you guys, this one deal has got me fuckin’’ befuddled here.”
Det. Roberts, the ever cynical one of the group chimes in, “No shit, he’s smooth as silk . . . big deal, so he vanishes. He probably runs around the corner into a waiting car and they speed off . . . not the first ones to try this setup boys. Get real here. Get real, guys, you, my friends, are giving these two jokers a bit too much credit for being well rehearsed, extraordinarily fast, and absolutely a bit lucky. Sooner or later, they’ll screw up and get caught by some street cop who just happens to be in the right place at the wrong time . . . you know dumb luck.
“What about the camera shots looking from the counter out toward the front door?”
“Nothing but his back, the back of his coat or his backside as he walks smartly out of the branch bank, really that’s it,” says Agent Fred. He continues on, “And all these tiny branch banks only have the simple security camera systems installed. What we have is nothing more than a basic camera system installed. Now if he was kind enough to jack a big downtown bank, the ones with the state of the art camera systems . . . hell, then we could make out his face and even the soles of his shoes . . . but . . . I think these jokers know that . . . and THAT my friend . . . is why they pick on these little banks.”
“. . . And, yeah, it does look like rain and fog outside the window.”
“Yeah, so it’s raining out; does rain falling down really matter?” asks Sal.
Unconcerned with all the videos, Det. CW barks out,
“Come on, rain . . . hell, it rains all the time; who cares . . . let’s play cards.I’m losing my ass here boys . . . a ghost . . . who cares, you know uh . . . job security,” he adds sarcastically with a chuckle.
“Hey, what’s on the little business card the news pukes keep talking about?” asks Sal.
“Basically a series of numbers . . . no one can figure out what the hell they mean,” replies Agent Fred. He next adds, “Thus far, I think we have three different business cards left behind, and they all contain the same number of numbers on each one, but in all kind of distinct order.”
“The psychoanalysis gurus and computer geek IT folks think perhaps it could be an off shore bank account number or maybe a couple of important dates mixed up inside of another code. They proposed once, uh . . . it might be a combination lock code or a code for something . . . I think, to be honest, they’re just guessing . . . I don’t think they’ve got a friggin’ clue.”
“We were even told off the record . . . seriously now . . . it could be an old World War-II code; some Germany submarine code is one theory being kicked about, but without the actual code books even our super duper computers can’t figure anything for real out.”
“Yea, yeah, so what are the damn numbers?” asks Sal again.
“Something like, hold on, it’s here in the case file . . . uh, here we go! They are . . . uh . . . ,as he reads out loud, “2123, 5010, 30028.” Next he states, “Here is a copy of another card he left in Midland Bank. The numbers are grouped in a different manner, uh, 212, 350, 010, 300, 28.” Finally he reads them out in sort of two-digit groupings, “21 23 50 10 30 028.”
“What the hell . . . is that?”
“Fuck, I don’t know what in the world they might be or what the hell it means,” offers back Sal.
“We . . . the big bad ass FBI don’t even friggin’ know either. Damn the big brains in DC think in code; in all probability it’s either a combination to a safe somewhere or a Swiss bank account number,” says Agent Bob. “They’re always the same numbers, but they’re arranged in a different manner,” he continues.
“I got it!” declares Det. Roberts with a snicker, quickly standing up and waving his arms high in the air. “I got it figured out. Hold your horses, boys, Stand by—stand by. It’s the code to his high school fucking gym locker!”
“Deal ’em up boys.”
“Ha!”
They all laugh and laugh . . . that’s a real good one.
Seizing hold of the remote and still grinning, Salvatore is kind of staring at the TV screen. After a pause, he responds with a quick, “OK, OK, just a minute more, I want to scrutinize the video one or two more times.”
The group all starts playing cards again, but Det. Sal keeps playing the video over and over, searching for something. At last he pauses the tape on a frame of the man exiting the bank, taking a nice long stride as if he was actually marching—as in a professional soldier marching in step on a parade ground.
Sal digs through the bulging official FBI case folder and searches for that magical clue, that mystical clue that’s sometimes sitting right in front of you. Even though most case reports and files are entered on computers these days, many times there are still the field agent’s hand written notes, sketches, little bits of this and that—stuff gathered up at the crime scene that was later deemed not that important to enter into the official on-line computer file folder.
Analyzing case after case, Sal notes over and over, there are no friggin’ clues! No finger prints, no physical evidence, no outside witnesses, no neighborhood surveillance camera video, only the crummy inside of the bank surveillance photos of this guy’s hat, cap, ass, or back. One day they hit in Texas and then three months later they hit in Kentucky. Hmm . . . lost in thought, deep thought, and only to himself, he jests, “These fuckin’ cases may just about drive me batty! I’ll figure them out . . . one way or the other; I’ll figure these crooks out. I’m now legitimately on their trail,” he whispers to no one.
He grins, stands up, and moves over to the small table—the one holding the three cardboard pizza boxes. Gazing inside of each one, he grabs another slice of semi-warm oozing pizza and slides it onto his fresh paper plate. Snatching up an empty chair, he slides the chair right up to the table . . . to get back into the little poker game.
He joins the other men who have already decided to forget about the crummy surveillance videos and concentrate on beer, pizza, poker and good friends instead. These cases will one day all get resolved. Some investigator will figure the cases all out, maybe one of these five men, but not today; maybe tomorrow, perhaps next week, but not on this day. Oh, yeah, thank God for locked interrogation room doors.
Chapter 4
Current Weather or current METAR: KJAN
1209KT 1/4SM +RA VCTS OVC0226/19 A29.98 LTG DSTN S or in plain language:
Winds are 120 degrees at 9KTS, ¼ SM of visibility, heavy rain, thunderstorms in vicinity, overcast sky at only 200 feet, temperature is 26C, dew point 19 and the area altimeter setting is 29.98 with lighting in the distance south.
Jackson, Mississippi
Our two fly boys are busy today, the weather is exceedingly bad and the ceilings are dreadfully low, right at the FAA authorized instrument weather landing minimums. The flight crew is hard at work flying a precision instrument approach known to professional pilots as an ILS—an Instrument Landing System, in quite stormy weather.
This precise approach provide
s vertical and horizontal electronic guidance to the airplane’s navigation radio receivers. The data in this mode informs the pilot, co-pilot or auto pilot which way to track and follow the needles. All the information is displayed on the pilot’s and co-pilot’s flight attitude instruments. Pilots call this flying the needles—keep the two needles crossed in the exact center of your flight instruments and you are dead on course—don’t fly the needles precisely and you’re—well, you might soon be dead. These two indicators lead you right down to the center of the landing runway.
The design offers right and left-of-course guidance and allows for the aircraft to lose altitude gradually so that the jet will be able to pop out of the clouds precisely at 200 feet above the sea of runway approach lights. Once the crew acquires the lights in sight, they are then allowed by flight regulations to descend down to 100 feet above the ground and land if they acquire the runway environment. If, however, the runway is not in sight, the crew must execute a missed approach, called a go around maneuver.
All around the airplane are lightning flashes and the echoing sounds of thunder as the plane bounces up and down. Captain John is flying the jet airplane from the left seat; the captain’s seat today—and Tom is in the other one to his right. You can distinguish what the weather radar is painting or marking with each sweep—nothing but red, yellow, and dark green, in other words, heavy rain along with bad to severe thunderstorms. Overhead we can hear the Air Traffic Controller giving radar vectors to another aircraft. A few seconds later the controller calls SouthEast 41 clearing them for the approach.
The ATC approach controller starts with, “SouthEast 41 you are one-five miles from the final approach fix, turn left heading three one zero, maintain 2,000 feet until established, you are cleared for the ILS-34 right, approach into Jackson . . . and for your info, the last two planes were not able to get in and are diverting to their alternates . . . the current ceiling is now 200 sky obscured in heavy . . . very heavy rain.”
After a brief pause, the controller adds, “Oh—and caution . . . you may get a little bit of mild windshear passing through around 300 feet. Contact the tower now and have a good day.”
“Good day, my ass!” murmurs Tom under his breath. As he is about to key up the microphone, he mumbles, “Wonderful,” followed by, “This sounds great.” Keying the microphone, Tom answers, “Roger that, OK, three one zero on the heading, maintain 2,000 feet until established, and we are cleared for the approach, uhh . . . it’s a friggien’ rough ride here.”
Another flash of lightning hits extremely close and the big airplane rocks hard. The automated cockpit voice warning system comes on with a warning— “Caution windshear!” whoop, whoop, sound. “Caution, caution: pull up, pull up!” whoop, whoop.
John, now dreadfully serious, barks, “Shit! Wow! Was it damn close or what? They don’t pay us enough for this bullshit!” His right hand is pushing up the power levers, but just as fast, he pulls them back about half way. His left hand has a death grip on the control yoke. The winds are gusting causing the airspeed to fluctuate wildly. He’s trying to keep the airspeed somewhere around the prescribed approach speed for today’s landing weight at 139 knots on the airspeed indicator.
The plane is rocking hard and the flight crewmembers are literally hanging on as Tom offers some words of encouragement. “Hold on to her, boss, she’s abucking” as the craft rolls hard right then back and left . . . up and down. Like a small fishing boat in rough seas, the plane bounces up and down in the sea of air. “You’re on heading and course . . . 1,000 feet till minimums . . . a little high.”
“Fuck being high!” lets loose John. “I’m merely trying to keep us upright!”
“Sorry.”
The rain is pounding down hard on the windshield, like when you drive your car through an automated car wash. It’s really coming down now . . . 10 times, 20 times harder than a few minutes ago when they started this approach. No need to look outside, there’s nothing to see except water, rain water.
He pushes the power up again as the engines respond and spool up with additional thrust as the plane surges a bit forward.
In a soothing voice, Tom now offers, “You’re doing fine, 500 feet to go and we should be breaking out of these little ol’ clouds . . . a walk in the park.”
Pop! Boom! Another loud thunderclap and brilliant flash of lightning zips through the cockpit in a mere micro second. Boom! The plane seems to fall a few hundred feet, followed by an unexpected 37 degrees roll to the right. Once again, the automated cockpit voice comes on warning of “Caution, wind shear,” whoop, whoop “Caution.” The inside panel lights flicker off for a second as the airliner seems to be losing its struggle against the severe thunderstorms.
Tom slams his left hand on top of John’s right which now holds a death grip on the power levers. In a commanding voice, he barks out.”Missed approach!”
“Go!”
“Go, Go!”
“Go missed!”
“Let’s go missed; this is too damn dangerous here!”
“Let’s get the hell out of here!”
“Roger that.”
“Flaps approach, positive rate,” says Tom.
“Gear up, clean her up and tell ATC we’re getting the fuck out of here!” The plane rocks hard again. Tom offers a quick, “Son of a bitch!”
Tom again keys the microphone transmit button, “Approach, SouthEastern 41’s on the missed—we’re getting a terrible ride here . . . moderate to severe . . . even some extreme turbulence.”
Pop! Boom! Once again rings out as a new flash of lightning fingers zip by the right side of the aircraft,almost dancing in slow motion.
“Roger SouthEastern 41, I show you on the missed, fly the published missed approach and I have you in again in radar contact. It should smooth out in another five to seven miles according to what I view here on my mono radar screen.”
The published missed approach profile requires the airplane to fly up away from the ground. It necessitates a judicious climb upwards high above Mother Earth to arrive at a safe altitude. Today the altitude is three thousand feet about the ground. The protocol next directs the crew to fly basically a big right hand circuit to get back in line with the other planes so that they can try the approach again. Even in a fast jet plane, it can take about fifteen minutes to make the trek all the way around, to get in line, and complete the circuit all the way back to the landing end of today’s runway.
Once up at three thousand feet, the ride smooths out just like the approach controller told them. They are (in pilot lingo) still in the soup, inside the clouds. For a brief moment our aviators are at least able to relax for a deep breath or two before they attempt the crazy approach again. Fourteen minutes after they decide to execute a missed approach, they are almost ready to try to descend down through thick cloud deck again and find the airport runway.
The crackle of static on the overhead speaker breaks the few seconds of calm. The Air Traffic Controller speaks and finally offers a bit of good news. “SouthEastern 41, that little red thunderstorm cell has moved well south of the airport now. Fly heading 310, two thousand until established; you are re-cleared for the ILS approach three-four.” After a brief pause, he continues, “You should be able to get in this time, contact the tower now, good day.”
Tom quips, “Again, good day . . . what is it with this good day stuff? Geeze! The weather is terrible here and he keeps talking about having a good day.” Tom lets out a deep sigh. “OK partner, here we go again.”
John, deadly serious now, starts talking to the plane, “Come on, come on girl . . . hang in there . . . talk to me partner.” Tom, knowing all this is about as serious as it can get, continues, “Almost there, almost there, 2000 feet,
1000 feet to go, 500 feet, 300 feet, 100 feet to go. On glide slope, on localizer . . . 50 feet to go; 20 feet, 10 feet . . .” and hollers out, almos
t yelling, “Approach lights at twelve o’clock! Got the approach lights, there it is . . . there’s my little runway.”
The long 8,400 foot long wet concrete runway appears at the exact last second as the plane slams down onto the first third of the beautiful cement. In a micro-second, John’s right hand brings the power levers back to idle and the micro-latch releases the piggyback up-locks on the thrust reverser system. Outside on the aft part of the airplane’s engines, the thrust reverser buckets deploy in a flash, literally in less than a second acting like a drag chute, actually like two drag chutes, slowing the plane down to a safe and manageable speed to make the exit off the slick runway.
Folks inside the dry airport lobby can just catch sight of the airliner land safely; it kicks up an awful spray of cascading water when the thrust reversers blow up an impressive gush of exploding torrent as they are deployed on the slick runway. The airplane’s anti-skid brakes work in unison with the thrust reversers in an endeavor to stop the big bird today. Finally, Captain Toms slows the craft and taxis out of sight at the far end of the long wet runway.
The interior of the cabin simply explodes in a loud cheer. All of the 87 passengers, everyone this day is clapping and thanking the pilots for getting them on the ground safely. Some of them are actually praying, crying—this was one hell of a ride for everyone. Especially the last 20 minutes . . . it seemed to last forever.
* * * * *
A night or two later, at Fuzzy’s tavern once again, we gaze at Sal, CW, and Bob sitting at the bar, their bar. They are drinking and talking, kicking the day’s events about. The clock on the wall indicates that it’s now after midnight and the local re-cap of the evening’s news is on. The lead story is on the subject of an area bank robber who got smoked by a private security guard.
Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured Page 5