Fire Flight

by John J. Nance

  “You really just took the money and looked the other way, then,” Blackson had asked at one point, and Jerry had reluctantly agreed. That was exactly what he’d done, trusting the CIA’s representations all along, apparently to his detriment.

  The footsteps reached the landing, and Jerry got to his feet with a tired sigh and looked toward the door, waiting for Todd Blackson to enter again.

  Instead, Misty Ryan walked in, followed by Clark Maxwell and Todd Blackson.

  “Misty?”

  “Hi.”

  “I’d heard you were headed back to California,” Jerry said.

  “I was.”

  He surveyed their faces. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  Todd Blackson spoke first.

  “New information, Mr. Stein. We thought you’d want to know what your fleet was really doing.”

  ORION CRASH SITE, YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK

  “Mr. Zale? I think we’ve located the front end of the plane.”

  The yellow-coated firefighter pointed back beyond the primary mass of smoking wreckage as he and the NTSB representative stood with eight other firemen waiting for instructions. The light was fading fast, and portable lights were being set up around the perimeter.

  “You mean the nose and cockpit?” Zale asked.

  “Yeah. You see that series of snapped trees back where I’m pointing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Looks to me like it broke off and went that way quite a distance. That’s why we didn’t see it at first. It’s a mangled mess—hardly recognizable as part of an airplane.”

  “Did it burn?”

  He shook his head no. “Two of my guys are looking right now to determine, you know, whether they can get the body out without a cutting torch.”

  The portable radio squawked to life and the fireman acknowledged it, talking back and forth for a minute before returning the radio to its holster.

  “I don’t know if you heard all that, but he says he can see inside just enough to know the pilot was apparently thrown free of his seat. That means the body is intertwined in the mass of wires and debris, and he says he thinks he’s spotted it.”

  “I’d better go take a look,” Zale replied, following as the fireman nodded and began walking in that direction.

  The other members of the Yellowstone Search and Rescue team and several park rangers were downing sandwiches and soft drinks. One of the rangers glanced at a firefighter who had apparently doffed his yellow protective gear and was now standing at a large water jug draining his third cup. The ranger glanced at his partner and smiled as he turned to the man, noting his brown leather jacket.

  “Thirsty, huh?” the ranger asked.

  The man looked at him and nodded as he took a deep breath. “First things first, y’know,” he said in a tired voice.

  “You bet.”

  “Did the crew get the fire put out?”

  The ranger chuckled and cocked his head. “I don’t know. You’re the fireman, aren’t you?”

  The man seemed winded, but he smiled broadly and wiped at what looked like soot around his hairline and streaking his forehead. His right hand appeared to be bleeding.

  “Oh, sort of.”

  The ranger cocked his head and took a step closer.

  “Whoa, wait a minute. You’re not a member of this firefighting crew?”

  “Well, no. Not really.”

  “Then, sir, you shouldn’t be here.” The ranger shifted to his official mode, his guard up, his partner coming to alert as well. “Okay, how did you get in here? This area isn’t open to the public.”

  “I walked in from over there. I was just real thirsty.”

  “All right, sir, you know what? The only people allowed in here are those on official business. I’m going to need to see your identification, and I’m going to need a pretty convincing explanation of why I shouldn’t arrest you for violating park rules. We want park visitors to remain out of these back-woods areas for very good reasons, and for your own safety. There are unmarked geysers and fumaroles and thin crust all over the place, not to mention bear and bison and other dangers.”

  The man looked confused. “I guess I’m here on official business, then.”

  “Yeah, right. Now that I challenge you, you’re on official business,” the ranger snorted. “Sir, this is the site of a major plane crash.”

  “Yes, I know,” the man answered. “I’m the pilot.”

  Chapter 39

  WEST YELLOWSTONE AIRPORT, MONTANA

  To the captain of the Bell 212 helicopter maneuvering for landing, the crowded Forest Service ramp bathed in the orange glow of the sodium vapor lights looked like a movie set.

  “It looks for all the world like the set of Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” he said to the copilot. “You know, when the spaceship lands at the end?”

  He slowed their forward velocity to less than ten knots and gently descended toward the designated landing spot for a gentle touchdown as he leaned back toward the cabin, his voice raised above the din of the engine and rotors.

  “Bill, I’d say they’ve come to welcome you back from the dead.”

  An impromptu cordon of pilots and Forest Service workers had formed at the left side, and they began to move forward as Judy Deason broke through the group, eyes streaming, launching herself through the opening door to embrace her husband.

  Bill Deason, sitting up on a stretcher, grabbed and kissed her to the raucous noise of sustained applause.

  She pulled back then to look at him.

  “I told all of them many hours ago that you’d made it, Bill,” she said. “But no one believed me. Not even Clark.”

  “Hell, darlin’, I was there and I didn’t believe it either. I woke up hanging upside down in a crushed tin can, and I couldn’t even remember for a while what had happened, or where I was, or anything. I still don’t remember everything, and—” He pointed to one of the paramedics. “—I don’t know why these boys think I’ve got to lie down. Hell, I walked out.”

  “Sir,” the paramedic replied with a smile, “shock can mask a lot of problems. The fact that you walked out doesn’t mean you should be trotting around until after they check you over at the hospital.”

  “He’s just badly bruised, and nothing’s broken, right?” Judy asked, but her husband answered.

  “Yeah. All appendages are still attached and working, but I feel like I lost a fistfight with a locomotive.” He paused to take a somewhat strained breath before smiling at her and continuing, “That’s why we’ve got to go on to the Jackson hospital, so they can cluck around and see if I have terminal athlete’s foot or something. I told them I wasn’t going anywhere but to you, first.”

  “Well, I’m ready to go, and I’ve got your bag, too.”

  Dozens of others were pushing in, trying to remain polite but dying to shake his hand, and Judy inclined her head. “Your public awaits.”

  Clark Maxwell and Dave Barrett were in the lead, and as soon as Judy released him, Bill grabbed their hands.

  “You guys are the heroes,” Bill said, having to pause for breath. “I couldn’t believe you were trying to literally pick that P-3 up by its wing tips and carry me to the lake.”

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work, Bill,” Clark said. “If we’d—”

  Bill carefully raised his bandaged right hand to stop the apology. “We did the best we could. Point is, you guys risked everything trying.” He spotted Jerry and nodded, wincing at the gesture. “You, too, Jerry. You could have vetoed the whole attempt.”

  Chuck Hines pushed forward to hug Bill as he gestured for Jerry Stein to come closer. Jerry complied with a broad smile on a drawn and anxious face. “I’m just incredibly glad you’re alive, Bill.”

  “I’m sorry about your plane, old boy. I was getting fond of Tanker Ten.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Hell, Bill, you probably haven’t heard,” Dave Barrett chimed in. “We, you, all of us apparently saved the smokejumpers an
d the town of Bryarly, and we probably saved Yellowstone, too.”

  “Really?”

  “So far, so good,” Barrett replied.

  “Bill,” Jerry added, “we’ve got an impromptu welcome party planned for when you get back from Jackson, if you can handle it.”

  “Will there be any scotch?” Bill asked with a grin.

  “You bet.”

  “Then I’ll be able to handle it.” Bill took a deep breath and winced before continuing. “Jerry, if you’ll still have me as an employee…” He stopped to take another breath, smiling as if the effort were an amusing anomaly. “Sorry. Maybe I can requalify on the DC-6s.”

  “They’re all grounded, Bill,” Jerry replied. “But I made an offer to buy two more P-3s an hour ago, so keep your fingers crossed.”

  “You’re going to need some rest anyway,” Clark said.

  “Rest, hell,” Bill replied. “What I need is about a week in the hay with my wife. The best reason I know for being alive.”

  WEST YELLOWSTONE AIRPORT, MONTANA

  Joe Groff carefully parked his car at the far end of Stein Aviation’s parking lot behind Hangar One and surveyed the area before getting out. The call from Jerry had been exceedingly strange, and with the knowledge that the FBI was snooping around, he was seriously thinking of just leaving town for a few days—an intention he should not have shared with Jerry.

  “No, Joe…I want you to come to the office. Now.”

  “Why now? I was going to have some dinner—”

  “Now, Joe. Don’t argue.”

  There were figures visible in the lights bathing the ramp, but they were going about their various jobs as Joe walked the outside wall of the hangar and swung inside. There were a couple of men in animated conversation just inside the hangar doors, and he ignored them as he moved past and headed for the stairs to Jerry’s office.

  He heard a voice calling someone’s name, but it didn’t register until it was repeated in a moderate bellow.

  “Randy! Randy Michaels!”

  The memory of the alias name he’d used snapped into place a microsecond before the caution that no one should be using it. He had already turned and automatically smiled before the second realization hit, and he tried to recover, shaking his head and waving off the individual who was across the hangar. He’d turned back toward the stairway instantly on guard when Clark Maxwell stepped from an alcove and blocked his path.

  “Hello, Randy.”

  He tried to brighten and pick up the part.

  “Oh! Captain Maxwell. How—”

  “Or should I say, ‘Joe’?”

  “Sorry?”

  Another voice was crowding him from behind now, and Joe partially turned to see another man within a few feet of him holding something in his hand.

  “Mr. Groff, I presume?”

  “Ah.” Joe was panicked, his escape route cut off by the reality that running was a dead giveaway.

  “Say something, Mr. Groff,” the man said, holding a small, metallic device close to his face.

  “Who the hell are you?” Joe managed, alarmed that the device suddenly flashed a green light and issued an audible tone. The man holding it turned it around so Joe could see the tiny panel.

  “It likes you,” Blackson said.

  “What do you mean? Who are you?” Groff asked, his voice carrying a tinge of panic.

  “This little device is a portable voice analyzer, Mr. Groff. It’s loaded with the parameters of a specific voice, and it just told me that the voice that called the FBI to tell us not to come—and your voice—are the same.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Captain Maxwell?”

  Clark nodded. “This is the man who called himself Randy Michaels, an agent-trainee.”

  Blackson pulled a badge wallet out of his pocket. “See, Mr. Groff, I’m a real FBI agent.”

  Joe felt his blood running like ice water as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “So? I didn’t impersonate an agent. I specifically said I wasn’t an agent.”

  “But you specifically said you were here on official business for the FBI as an employee of the FBI. Are you a lawyer, Mr. Groff?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you should have consulted one. At least you’ll get your chance now.” He reached out and snapped a handcuff on Groff’s right wrist, turning the stunned man around to get the other in place. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Groff, for impersonating a federal official. Whether you said the magic word ‘agent’ or not doesn’t matter.”

  WEST YELLOWSTONE, MONTANA

  Clark looked at his watch, his heart sinking slightly at the reality that it was past midnight.

  Perhaps tomorrow he could talk with Karen.

  He’d built a good fire and sat down to enjoy it with his cell phone balanced on his knee, ready to punch it on when her call came. He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to say, but he’d built the last hour on the hope he’d get a chance to try.

  Clark leaned forward and placed the phone to one side of the hearth, contemplating the half-consumed beer in his hand, which suddenly seemed less than appetizing. He’d barely pulled himself to his feet when a voice reached him from behind.

  “Now. Where were we?”

  Karen Jones was standing in the doorway to the kitchen with two tumblers and the bottle of Oban, a tired smile on her face.

  “Karen!”

  “You looked so peaceful in front of the fire, and the back door was unlocked.”

  He started to move to her, but she waved him back.

  “Pull me up a chair.”

  “You bet,” he said with a very pronounced smile. “How are you?”

  She handed him a tumbler and filled it before filling her own and sliding into the companion leather chair he’d positioned.

  “I’m thinking I want to hear more about that trip to Scotland, and your past four years, and a certain night on a mountaintop in Oregon.”

  “And then?”

  She turned and smiled. “And then…I’ll go back to my lonely hotel room like a good girl and get about the business of becoming a single girl again.”

  “Good.”

  “After which I won’t have to think about such inconveniences.”

  “Like putting up with Trent Jones?”

  “No,” she smiled. “Like having to go back to a lonely hotel room.”

  CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY,

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA—FEBRUARY 2004

  The first assistant deputy director in charge of Covert Ops in South America leaned back in the simulated leather armchair and shook his head as he smiled at the man and woman on the other side of the boardroom-style table.

  “You mean something finally worked?” Rod Campbell chuckled. “Isn’t there a rule somewhere that dictates that can’t happen?”

  Janice Fosberg laughed in response. “I think you’re referring to Murphy’s Law.”

  “Ah, yes. The prime directive for Covert Ops. Whatever can go wrong will do so with maximum public exposure.”

  “And Murphy was an optimist,” she added. “But in this case, even posthumously, the precaution worked.”

  “You told him it wouldn’t, as I understand?”

  She gave him an affirmative nod. “Of course. So did Ralph, here.”

  Ralph Davis smiled but said nothing.

  “And he put it in place himself?” Campbell asked.

  “He sure did. Drilled her in the password, set up the file and the program, and had it all oiled. He knew she’d take his truck if he was killed, and he knew she’d eventually look in the glove compartment for cash, because that was her habit. And he knew she always carried her laptop. So it was a rather straightforward equation.”

  “Bull, Janice. How could he possibly know she’d turn down literally millions of dollars and go do the right thing?”

  “He understood her. Of course, for an outside operative, he also did a pretty good job feathering his own nest.”

 
“Well,” Campbell laughed. “That was the deal. He provided the aircraft, and we paid the bill. The money was his. Our clandestine flights were successfully accomplished with zero attribution, because of him. I’m just not happy about the implication that we damaged those planes.”

  “It does appear,” Janice added, “that the crash that killed him was directly related. That almost makes him a killed-in-action.”

  “But there’s no wife or family for us to quietly pay or support or take care of, right?”

  “Correct. Only his girlfriend Misty, and we’re watching to make sure she doesn’t end up destitute. Oh, about the airplanes. We made sure Stein’s entire fleet is being thoroughly inspected and repaired. And we made sure Trent Jones didn’t lose his FAA licenses. He won’t be working for Stein again, but he’ll survive.”

  “Interesting, the legal battle that’s broken out,” Ralph added. “Stein is suing Jeff’s estate, which still has possession of the funds, for the return of everything in those three accounts as damages. Misty, on the other hand, apparently got good advice and changed her mind about how dirty the money is, and she’s suing in probate court to recover the money as sole heir.”

  “Yeah, and you fellows are aware, aren’t you, that Jeff apparently stuffed the remaining four million somewhere else and we haven’t found it yet.”

  “Are we looking?” Campbell asked.

  “Not officially.” Janice smiled. “But, unofficially, if it’s not being claimed, Uncle might as well get it back.”

  “We’ve checked the usual places, but as expected, thanks to the extreme lack of cooperation of the offshore banks, there’s no trace of it yet.”

  “The same old story. They won’t let us check any other account name but his. He stashed it somewhere or spent it, and, of course, held out on poor Misty, which wasn’t a surprise for Jeff.”

  Campbell sighed as he got up and picked up the folder. “Well, we can drink a toast to a good man who was willing to destroy his own reputation to protect the Company and his country. I sure wouldn’t want to be remembered as an accessory to Colombian druggies.” He picked up a glass of water and the other two did the same. “In the meantime, here’s to you, Jeff Maze.”