Chapter 11
Current Weather or current METAR: KLAS
2809KT 9 SM, Sky Clear, 38/22 A30.39 or in plain language:
Winds are 280 degrees at 9KTS, 9 SM of visibility, Sky Clear, temperature is 38C, dew point 22 and the area altimeter setting is 30.30
Las Vegas, Nevada
“What in the world is that damn noise? Am I dreaming . . . what time is it . . . Am I still in Vegas or back home in Houston . . . oh—it’s the damn hotel phone ringing I think. Who in the world is calling me here at this hotel?” he asks out loud to no one, but himself.
Salvatore’s right arm appears out from deep under the warm covers while he digs around the night stand trying to find the ringing telephone. In a flash, he knocks over his plastic bottle of drinking water. He makes a futile try to catch the clear plastic container as the 12 ounce bottle crashes downward and makes a first-rate mess on the floor.
“Ah, crap!” barks out Sal as he throws off the covers and finally picks up the phone. “This better be good,” is his somewhat aggravated answer.
“Hey Sal, sorry for calling so early, Vegas time, but we just had another robbery in Jackson, Mississippi . . . they hit not ten minutes ago right at ten a.m. local time. I need you out here right away.”
“Hang on here just a minute.” A brief glance at the digital clock on the night stand; it’s 8:15 am local time. “Let me open my eyes a bit here.” Standing up, Sal soon comprehends that he is now standing in a pool of water on the soggy carpet . . . again he lets out a soft, “Ah, crap. Ok, I’m awake now, tell me what you got.”
“Well, right as the bank opened, a guy wearing a bus driver’s uniform robbed the same little branch bank they hit last month . . . this time however, they screwed up. We got a half way decent look at his face, and we got a get-a-way car, a dark grey Toyota or Nissan. I’m waiting for them to email me the video file, but I think we got a break, a good break finally. I’ll arrange to get the video on the local noon news, the 6 o’clock news, and with your help we’ll wrap this thing up in twenty four hours,” says an energized Vincent.
“Uh, why are you calling me . . . I thought you wanted the FBI to take over,” asks Sal.
“Uh, well the deal . . . uh it wasn’t my belief to cut you lose. I’ll hang it on my big boss’s deal. I certainly wanted to give you another day or two all along . . . uh, in truth,” says a craw-fishing Vince.
“Uh, that doesn’t make any sense to me. These guys have never made a misstep, and they’re too good for those kinds of amateur mistakes,” offers Sal while he grins . . . he’s letting Vince’s BS story go unchallenged at least for the time being.
“Hey, we just got lucky and I bought you a few extra hours to work on the case,” says Vince. “At long last they’ve screwed up, and we got ’em. We got them this time. I’m on my way to the airport to catch a chartered flight . . . this is big, and the company told me to crack the whip and spare no expenses at catching these bastards.”
“Wait, a moment now. This new case still doesn’t add up . . . uh, make any sense to me . . . I thought I was off the bank cases,” says Sal, again having to get one dig in. “They wouldn’t make a rookie mistake after all those hits”
Dodging the jab, Vince carries on like nothing had happened. “Well, buddy boy . . . they damn sure did this time and I have some good news for you too. I’ve arranged for a chartered jet aircraft to pick you up and bring you out to the crime scene. You got something to write with?”
“Yea, uh, let me grab a pen and paper off the desk, says Sal. “Got a pen now, tell me about this chartered airplane.”
“As soon as you can, get a cab to the Atlantic FBO at the airport. The FBO is where the private jets fly in and out. All the Vegas cab drivers know where they’re located. Go to the front desk and ask for a chartered plane. The tail number is November 900 Fox Alpha. Be sure you get the tail number correct, and the plane captain will get you out here in about three and one half hours. The aircraft is understood to be a Hawker Siddeley, model, 800XP.”
“Did you get all that?” asks Vince.
“Yea, most of it . . . what is an FBO deal, uh . . . Atlantic FBO thing you were talking about?” queries Sal.
“Basically an FBO is what they call the places where the civilian private jets drop off and pick up their passengers. I believe the term is an old World War Two phrase, something about a Fixed Base Operator, sort of a gas station for civilian planes as far as I can tell,” replies Vince.
“I got it now; let me grab a quick shower, and I’ll be on my way,” answers Sal as he hangs up the receiver . . . somewhat still in disbelief about the new case. In his detective’s mind, the case just doesn’t add up.
A quick walk over to the in-room coffee maker, Sal fills the reservoir with fresh water and fumbles a bit as he tries to make a quick cup of coffee. With a quick push of the tiny red start button, he heads to the shower and realizes he may have a wee bit of a hangover. Ditching his boxers on the bathroom floor, Sal slides into the sizzling hot cascade of luxurious water. In a flash, he soaps up, shampoos, and scrubs up as goes over the last phone call in his mind. What a flip-flopper old Vince has turned out to be. Yesterday, he was a company man and today, I’m his best friend again.
“This simply does not make any sense to me . . . these guys are real pros . . . They are the quintessential professionals at jacking banks. Vince is all excited, but he’s dead wrong—I know it. I know deep inside my gut that I’m right about this. Our boys are delightful, quick, and never leave a single clue behind. They’re well rehearsed, well behaved, and never, never ever look remotely toward the camera. By golly, I know what I’m doing when it comes to hijackers. There is something out of place with the bus driver’s uniform too . . . it doesn’t sync with the other ones they have used in the past . . . like on a different tier, huh?”
Rinsing the hotel shampoo out of his hair, Sal grabs an exceptionally soft bath towel off the rack as he makes his way to the sink to shave. Wrapping the soft white cotton towel around his waist, he cranks up the lavatory’s hot water and lathers up his face. Still mulling over the call, he tries to put the new pieces of the puzzle together as he slides the sharp three bladed disposable plastic razor across his skin.
In less than 20 minutes, Sal is fully dressed—almost ready to leave. Slipping on his dark dress shoes, he reaches for a Styrofoam coffee cup on the way out the door. Unsure if he will be back to this room tonight, he decides to drag his stuffed travel pro suitcase along for the day . . . or night. During the ride alone in the elevator, Sal mulls over the new data. He still can’t get the last hour’s conversation out of his head.
Why would these two absolute pros return to a bank they’ve already hit and after that get their photo taken by the bank’s cameras? Why . . . if they somehow turned out to be that friggin’ stupid . . . then why would they also be dumb enough to let someone get a peek at their get-a-way car? Can’t be my guys . . . simply cannot be my hijackers. “Something is definitely wrong here,” thought Sal as the elevator slows to a stop on the lobby floor.
Within minutes, Sal is seated in a white colored, beat up, worn out taxi cab headed south bound on the Las Vegas Strip toward the Atlantic FBO at the McCarran Airport. Still going over the scant bit of information he has at hand to work with, Sal ponders his options as the cab weaves in and out of traffic. A short ten minutes later, the cab makes a left hand turn into the curved drive and pulls up to the front doors of the Atlantic FBO.
A bit unsure of what to do or where to go, Sal pays his fare and looks around at the building’s layout. Headed into the lobby he notes his surroundings. Off to the left is a small café. Seated at a modest table are two uniformed pilots drinking coffee. On the right is the pilots’ lounge. A short walk pass the coffee shop he eyes what appears to be the main passenger lobby. Sal looks about the customer service counter, and heads over.
He pauses right before the counter as a soft-spoken lady is talking on the telephone. She nods a greeting and indicates with her left hand that she’ll be just a moment or two. With a big smile, she hangs up the receiver and offers, “Hello, may I help you, sir.”
“Uh, yes you may . . . I’m not too sure of where I am supposed to go. Uh, my name is Salvatore Joseph. I’m supposed to meet a chartered plane here?”
Digging in his left front shirt’s pocket, Sal pulls out a piece of note paper that he had written down the plane’s tail number on.
“Here it is, uh, the tail number is November 900 Foxtrot Alpha.”
“Oh sir, this is easy,” she smiles again as she picks up the phone receiver. After pushing a few buttons, she makes a brief announcement across the overhead public address system.
“Will the crew from November 900 Fox Alpha please report to the counter—your passenger, Mr. Joseph has arrived.”
Detective First Class Salvatore smiles a bit to listen to the page over the loud speakers. The page makes him feel a bit more important for a brief moment, but also very exposed.
“I figure it’ll be just a minute or two . . . sir, would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot,” as she is pointing clearly past Sal’s right shoulder.
“Yes, coffee would be great,” answers Sal.
Walking the few steps, Sal prepares a fresh cup of coffee as he stands a bit off to one side taking in all the passengers, pilots, and other flight crew members in the lobby.
Something catches his eyes as an entourage of men and women are entering the lobby from the airport’s tarmac.
“Who is that man?” Sal asks himself. Mentally thumbing through the files of data stored in his brain, he grins inwardly as he realizes the person is Wayne Newton passing by. Wow, this is a cool place to watch people.
Off to his right, Sal’s sixth sense alerts him to the fact that someone is approaching him at a hurried pace. Tensing up, out of shear habit, he soon recognizes it is a tall man in a uniform, a pilot’s uniform.
“Mr. Joseph?” he asks, reaching out his right hand to shake.
“Yes, I’m Salvatore Joseph and you are?” asks Sal.
“I’m Scotty Scott, your Captain for today’s flight over to Jackson, Mississippi. My co-captain is out getting the plane ready. Is this your bag?” as he gestures toward Sal’s roll aboard suitcase a foot off to his right.
“Yes, this is my bag . . . uh how does this work, I’ve never flown on a private jet before.”
“Ah, I understand. Well, Sir, you’re in for a treat today. We’re your private flight crew and this plane is your private jet, your personal jet for the next few hours. We’ll take good care of you and treat you like a king.”
“Uh, sounds good,” says Sal.
“Pardon me . . . one more thing, sir . . . and I apologize, but I have to ask for some form of proper ID, some appropriate identification before I can let you on the plane . . . you know because of 9/11.”
“Hey, no problem, I’m used to following rules,” says Sal as he pulled out his black leather ID wallet. Out of habit, Sal flips out his official Police ID and spouts off, “Senior Detective Salvatore Joseph . . . is this good enough?”
A bit taken aback, the Hawker Captain Scotty Scott grins, “Yes, I think uh, yes, the ID will do. Are you armed, sir?”
“Yes, I have my Colt .45 with me in my bag. Do I need to show you?” asks Sal.
“No sir,” replies Captain Scotty Scott. “Any Senior Detective from Houston can carry his piece on my airplane any time he wants to. We’re almost prepared . . . are you ready to go, Sir?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” is the reply.
With the present conversation concluded, the two men make their way out on to the tarmac and walk toward the Hawker 800XP aircraft. Captain Scotty Scott starts a new conversation.
“Outside might be a bit noisy as we approach the plane, sir. The Auxiliary Power Unit is running, and it makes all kinds of jet noise.”
“I’m well aware of airplane noise, young man. I was in the Air Force during the Vietnam War. I was a Crew Chief on jet fighters a long time ago.”
“Fantastic, then let’s get on board” says Captain Scotty Scott while he motions with his right hand to the entry door.
“Be cautious about your head as you go up the air stairs sir,” he continues.
On the plane’s steps closely behind Sal, Captain Scott turns left for a brief moment into the cockpit and asks his right seater, Bill Rata, if everything is ready to go. The reply is, “Yes, we’re all set and ready for engine start.”
With a right turn back toward the center isle to check on his lone passenger, Captain Scotty Scott motions for Sal to sit wherever he wants to in the passenger cabin. Sal can pick from any one of the nine passenger seats offered in this model Hawker 800XP airplane. As Sal turns toward the cockpit, the plane’s Captain spits out the required Federal regulations to Sal in a quick, but efficient manner. The passenger safety briefing covers the different aspects of flight from having one’s seat belts on for takeoff and landing, no smoking, the use of oxygen, and how to open the emergency exit, and so on.
Settling on the right side, Sal takes a forward facing seat and buckles his seat belt as the Captain offers him a fresh cup of coffee. “No, I’m good for now, but I would like to read the morning newspapers if you don’t mind.”
A quick move with his left hand into an empty front seat for the three daily newspapers on board the plane, and Captain Scotty Scott quickly hands over a copy of the local newspaper, The Las Vegas Journal and Review. He also offers a copy of The U.S.A. Today and The Wall Street Journal and asks if there is anything else he can do. Sal thanks him for his time as he looks about the cabin noting the location of the emergency exit and keeps an eye on the Captain while he secures the main cabin door. Salvatore feels good and gazes at the crew members as they move about the cockpit pre-start checks.
Settling into his nice blue leather seat, Sal scrutinizes the crew’s process as each man pushes overhead buttons, moves levers here and there as the airplane’s two jet engines roar to life. In a well-coordinated dance of hands and motions, the plane pulls out of the tarmac and turns north bound onto taxiway H for hotel. The Captain turns to his right and looked toward Sal. As they made eye contact, he says, “Detective Sal, we’re only number three in line for takeoff . . . it should be a moment or two.” He smartly returns to his duties at hand verifying that his pre-lineup cockpit checks are all complete.
Sal senses and subsequently hears the plane’s jet engines spool up a bit as the plane taxies east bound, north bound, then turns south onto the active runway, one nine right. Sal can see part of the taxiway signage out of his side window as the plane taxis onto the starting part of the 9,775 foot long desert runway. In the background, Sal can barely hear the conversations between the pilots and the tower controller. He wishes that he could listen to it all . . . this is fun and it has been a long, long time since he has ridden in anything smaller than an airliner.
His last real airplane ride was right before leaving The Republic of Vietnam back in the 70s. The ride was a post maintenance hop or officially known as a post maintenance test-flight in a two seat Republic F-105 Thunderchief or Thud, that he was responsible for.
The sudden surge and noise of the engines spooling up to their rated takeoff power settings brings Sal back to the present. He becomes aware of the brake release and is immediately pushed back into his seat by the force of the airplane’s rapid acceleration down the runway. Softly, Sal releases a little expression of, “Wow, this is so neat . . . this is cool.” Seven and one half seconds later, the 28,000 pounds of aluminum airplane are climbing up to minimum crossing altitude of 13,000 feet where the plane makes the on board GPS/FMS (Flight Management System) controlled turn towards the east and the southern State of Mississippi.
Sal experiences, then hears the hydraulic pumps kick in as the right-seater selects the landing gear to the up position. In his mind, Sal runs through the normal sequence of pumps and levers to raise or lower the gear on his Thuderchief. He hypothesizes that the system is pretty much the same on a civilian jet. Move the gear lever and the 3000 PSI pumps move gear doors open, release the up or down locks, suck the gear up, then close all the gear doors.
In a flash, the aircraft is climbing through ten thousand feet, and the seat belt sign is turned off. Sal relaxes a bit and loosenes his seat belt as he flips through the morning papers. His view outside tells him the airplane is in a steep climb trying to gain altitude and speed.
Seventeen minutes after liftoff, the guy in the right seat steps over the center pedestal and greets Sal.
“Hello, I’m Bill Rata, your Co-Captain today,” as he reaches out his hand to shake.
“I’m Salvatore, but folks call me Sal,” is his reply.
“Did you say Co-Captain?
“Yes sir, we’re a small charter company and all of our pilots are rated as Captains. We think it makes things a lot safer in the long run,” responds Bill and continues, “May I get you anything?”
“No, I’m good for now, but I may want another cup of coffee in a bit . . . is it ok to use the head?”
Bill laughs a bit and promptly says, “Yes, sir, this plane is yours for the next few hours . . . and we ordered up some breakfast tacos and donuts. Please, help yourself or one of us will be glad to lend a hand if you want.
“No, no your job is up front driving the plane, not playing waiter to me. I’m capable of chowing down and getting my own coffee . . . but thanks,” says Sal.
Finally, Captain Bill extends an offer, an invitation for Sal to visit the flight deck if it pleases him. “Hey, that would be super. I’ll be up in a little while.” With two cups of fresh coffee, Bill turns and climbs back into the right seat as the plane is passing through thirty-two thousand feet.
Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured Page 17