by Cap Daniels
Cliff took the controls, and we spent an hour in the air above St. Augustine, listening to his stories and watching him enjoy flying his airplane.
Back on the ground, I started the negotiations. “It’s a beautiful airplane. You’ve clearly taken very good care of her. As we said before, we need to teach Skipper how to fly, and we need to build some time toward her commercial ticket.”
Cliff grinned at Skipper. “I remember when I was her age. The Great Depression was trying its best to kill everybody, and all I could think about was doing anything other than chopping cotton and hoeing corn. Then, the Nazis and the Japanese stirred up enough trouble to get me off the farm and into the navy. I’d never seen an airplane up close ’til they sent me off to flight school. Flying made a good life for me.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just listened.
He ran his arthritic hand over the propeller and sighed. “Those days are over, but it’s been a good ride for an old man. I’ve flown everything I wanted to fly, short of the Space Shuttle. I guess it’s time I come to terms with leaving the sky to young folks like you.”
“I’d like to hear about the planes you’ve flown over the years,” I said.
Cliff repositioned his false teeth. “I’d like to tell you about those planes and the things I’ve seen, son. Do you want the airplane?”
“I’d like to rent it for a hundred hours or so,” I said, glancing over the plane again.
Cliff shook his head. “I’m not interested in getting into the airplane rental business. There’s too much liability and insurance to deal with, and I’m an old man. I just want to watch Jeopardy and read Hemingway.”
“How much?” I asked softly.
He patted the cowling with his aged hand and looked over his pride and joy. “One seventy-five.”
One hundred seventy-five thousand dollars was well above what I thought the airplane was worth, and Cliff must have seen that on my face.
“For all of it,” he added.
“All of what?” I asked.
He waved his wrinkled hand at the hangar. All of it, son. The airplane, the tools, and whatever else is in there. I own it all, and I’ll take a hundred and seventy-five thousand for everything. Have you got that kind of money? It’s worth a good bit more than that, so the bank will be glad to carry a note for you if you’ve got a job.”
“I have a job,” I told him. “And we can afford the airplane without getting the bank involved, but I’d like to make a counteroffer.”
He shook his head. “I can’t take any less than that for it, son. That’s a bargain because I like you and your friends, and Jack Shipley speaks highly of you.”
“My offer isn’t for less, Cliff. It’s for more. I’ll pay the one seventy-five for the airplane and hangar, but I want to buy some of your time, too. We’re going to have questions about the plane until we get to know her, and you know more about her than anyone else. I’d like to call on you when we have questions, and I’d like you to tell me about flying in the war.”
“Wars,” he corrected me. “Plural . . . wars. I flew in the second World War, Korea, and Vietnam.”
“Then I’ll give you ten thousand dollars if you’ll agree to answer the phone every time we call. What do you say, Cliff?”
“I’ll have to decline your offer, son. I won’t live long enough to make that a good investment for you, but I will answer the phone every time you call, and in return, I’d like you to come by every now and then and have a drink with an old man. It’d be nice to have the company.”
I stuck out my hand, and he shook it as if he were twenty years old.
“Oh, yeah. And one more thing,” he said.
“Name it.”
“If it wouldn’t be too much to ask, I’d like to fly with you from time to time. You know, just as a stroll down memory lane.”
“We wouldn’t have it any other way, Cliff.”
He smiled, exposing a mouthful of brand-new dentures that made him look like Gary Busey’s grandfather.
“As much as it pains me to say it, we’re going to need a lawyer to write up the deal and write a deed for the property,” he said.
“A necessary evil, unfortunately,” I agreed. “If you have an attorney, I’ll be more than happy to pay his fee if you’ll arrange for him to take care of the paperwork. In the meantime, I’ll find a mechanic to conduct the pre-buy inspection, and we’ll close when you’re ready.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Chase. I’m happy to see my airplane going to a good home.”
I gave him my contact information, and we shook hands again.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I said. “I need to be in Wilmington this evening. With your permission, I’d love to use the airplane. Clark will fly it back home tonight after dropping me off . . . if that’s okay with you.”
The old man licked his lips. “Forgive me for being cautious, but I’d like to have a little cash to firm up our deal before you take the airplane anywhere.”
“Of course,” I said. “I understand completely. I’ll go to the bank now and meet you back here in an hour.”
“That’ll do just fine,” he said with a slight nod.
We left the airport and headed for the bank. I drew ten thousand dollars in cash against my Cayman Islands account and the rest as a cashier’s check.
Cliff wasn’t expecting the full amount, but I knew it would set his mind at ease letting us use the airplane for the hop to Wilmington. He presented me with the keys and had his attorney, who was coincidentally also his daughter, draw up a simple contract. We signed it with Clark and Skipper as witnesses. I was the proud new owner of N682CF and considered it serendipitous that Clifford Fowler had the same initials as me. November-six-eight-two-Chase-Fulton had a nice ring to it.
4
And a Dog
The flight to Wilmington was perfect. My new airplane behaved just as advertised, and we made the trip in less than two and a half hours with Skipper at the controls and Clark in the right seat.
When we landed, Clark checked his phone, closed his eyes, and sighed. “Where’s your phone?” he asked.
“It’s in my pocket. What’s wrong?”
“See if you missed a call.”
I pulled the phone from my pocket and listened to my missed message.
“Chase, it’s Dominic. We have a job for you. Call me right away.”
I knew the reason for Clark’s sigh. “It was your dad,” I said. “He has a job for us.”
“For us, or for you?” asked Clark.
“He didn’t say, but I’ll find out.”
Dominic—my handler and Clark’s father—answered on the first ring. “Chase, thank you for getting back with me so quickly.”
“I was in the air, Dominic. I’m sorry I missed your call.”
“It’s okay. We have a mission. Where are you?”
“I’m at the airport in Wilmington.”
“Delaware or North Carolina?”
“North Carolina. I’m picking up my boat and bringing her back to St. Augustine.”
Dominic spoke as if he were thinking aloud. “Wilmington to St. Augustine . . . that’s about three hundred miles. So, you’ll be home day after tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But it may be the day after that, depending on the wind and weather.”
“That’s perfect,” he said. “I’ll meet you in St. Augustine in three days with a package. Is Clark with you?”
“He is,” I said.
Clark was trying to listen in.
“Good. Have him there, as well. This job may require more work than you’re capable of doing alone. I’ll see you in three days.”
I was left standing on the tarmac, staring at my phone.
“What did he say?” demanded Clark.
“We have a mission.”
“We?”
“Yes, we,” I said, relieved.
“What is it?”
I closed my phone and shoved it back into my pocket. “He didn’t sa
y. He just said he’d meet us in St. Augustine in three days.”
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Yep, that’s it. I’m going to grab a cab and head to the marina.”
I pulled a card from my wallet and handed it to Clark. “Here. Use this for fuel and whatever you need. I’ll see you in a couple days.”
Skipper hugged me. “Thanks for the airplane.”
“It’s not yours,” I said playfully.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I just meant thank you for buying it so I can learn to fly. I won’t let you down. I promise.”
“I know you won’t. You never have. And the plane is as much yours as mine. Enjoy her.”
“Do I get to name it?” she asked.
I laughed. “Of course you do.”
She hugged me again, and I headed off for the terminal.
There was a taxi waiting, and I made it to the marina just in time to see Penny motoring up as I walked onto the boardwalk.
She laid the big boat alongside the dock like an old pro, and I secured the lines to cleats. She shut down the engines, bounded off the boat, and then leapt into my arms.
“I’ve missed the crap out of you, Chase Fulton. Are you okay?”
I grinned. “Yes, I’m great. And I missed you, too, Penny Thomas.”
She kissed me and hissed, “Feed me. I’m starving.”
“As you wish,” I said, leading her up the ramp toward the bustling streets of Wilmington.
We had dinner and small talk about what she’d done while I was gone and her trip down the coast. As always, she was full of energy and excitement, so I listened while she talked incessantly—mostly between bites, but not always.
We finished dinner and headed back for the boat. Holding hands, we strolled as if we had no particular place to be.
“Can we get a slip so I can shower and run the air conditioners tonight?” She batted her eyelashes at me.
“Does that ever work on any man?”
“It works on every man. Even you, big boy.”
“Of course we can get a slip so you can shower.” I held my nose, feigning disgust. “You could certainly use one.”
The harbormaster rented us an end mooring since he didn’t have any slips wide enough for the catamaran. He charged us ninety dollars and said we’d have to be gone by nine a.m. because he needed the space for a private yacht scheduled for a mid-morning arrival. I paid him and moved the boat to the end of the floating dock.
After I’d connected the shore power and water line, Penny promptly fired up the air conditioners then disappeared into the head for her long overdue shower.
I sat at the navigation station, remembering how I used to anxiously await Anya’s post-shower arrival. Her hair would be wet, and she’d rarely be wearing anything other than a towel draped across her shoulders.
Penny was beautiful and funny, but she wasn’t dangerous. She’d be a great girlfriend for a major league baseball player, which is what I should’ve been, but fate dealt me a different hand.
How long will I be able to keep my secrets from Penny? How long will she let me keep lying to her?
She soon emerged from the head wearing a University of Georgia T-shirt and nothing else. She sashayed up the stairs to the main salon, smiling a seductive, sultry smile, and staring straight at me.
“Where’d you get that shirt?” I asked, trying not to smile.
She pulled at the shirt and looked down. “Oh my. This isn’t my shirt at all. What was I thinking?”
She pulled the shirt over her head and let it fall to the deck. She was a remarkable woman and impossible to resist.
Anya who? So what if Penny isn’t dangerous? She is stunning.
* * *
The next morning we were up with the sun and headed south out of the Cape Fear River and back into the North Atlantic. The northeast wind made for a nice August day of sailing under the coastal Carolina heat.
We settled into our cruising routine and set the autopilot. If God ever created the perfect day for sailing, that was it.
I stood on deck with one arm wrapped around the mast, letting the sun beat down on my skin and the fresh salt air bathe my nostrils. I had a feeling of peace; a feeling of being right where I belonged.
“When are you going to tell me the truth?”
I closed my eyes and sighed. “The truth about what?”
“The truth about you,” she said. “You’re no writer. You’re a cop or something. Writers don’t get emergency calls and disappear for days at a time.”
Can I tell her the truth? I trusted her with my boat. Why can’t I trust her with the truth?
She forced a smile and offered me a way out. “It’s okay. I understand. It’s some kind of secret squirrel stuff, and you can’t talk about it.”
I licked my lips and started to speak, but she stopped me.
“If it’s this hard to tell me the truth right now, then don’t. Just don’t tell me any more lies. Okay?”
I reached for her hand and led her back to the cockpit. I sat on the settee, and she sat on my lap with her beautiful freckled face inches from mine.
“I’m not a writer, and I won’t lie to you anymore.”
She pulled off my UGA baseball cap and placed it backward on her head. She was adorable and irresistible. We kissed softly until the radar alarm yanked me from my stupor.
I stood and immediately scanned the horizon for other boats. The radar hadn’t lied. We were on a collision course with an enormous motor yacht plowing through the waves from the southeast.
“That must be the yacht that needed our spot back in Wilmington,” I said.
“Who cares?” said Penny. “Wilmington is behind us, and we’re the stand-on vessel.”
She certainly knew her maritime law. The rules of the road on the water dictated that sailboats under sail were usually required to maintain course and speed, while the more maneuverable motor vessel did whatever was necessary to avoid a collision.
What is supposed to happen isn’t always what happens on the water, or anyplace else for that matter. That day was no exception. The yacht continued powering straight toward us.
I disengaged the autopilot and picked up the VHF radio mic. “Black motor yacht, twenty-five miles south of Cape Fear, this is the sailing vessel Aegis on channel one-six, over.”
I waited impatiently for the captain of the yacht to answer. I was lifting the mic back to my lips when the radio crackled.
“Sailing vessel Aegis, this is the motor vessel Moscow Mule. We’re bearing away to starboard. Sorry for the scare.”
“No worries, Captain,” I said. “I would’ve missed you had it become necessary.”
I watched the bow of the yacht turn ever so slightly to the east and resolve our imminent collision. I recognized the yacht as it came abeam.
“Moscow Mule, SV Aegis, go up to sixty-eight,” I said into the mic.
“Aegis, Moscow Mule on six-eight, over.”
“Moscow Mule,” I said. “You didn’t happen to buy that boat in Miami, did you?”
“We did, Aegis. Do you know the boat?”
Anya had killed the Russian oligarch and billionaire, Dmitri Barkov, aboard that boat, and I had helped her strap diving weights to his body and send him to the bottom of the Straits of Florida. I had commandeered that boat and traded it to my handler, Dominic Fontana, for Aegis. It had a new paint job and some exterior modifications, but it was undoubtedly Barkov’s former yacht.
“I don’t know the boat, but I did see her in Miami. She’s beautiful. Congratulations on the acquisition,” I said into the mic.
“Thanks, Aegis. Enjoy your cruise. Moscow Mule will be standing by on one-six.”
“I’m not going to ask,” said Penny. “That way, you won’t have to lie to me, but the look on your face says you know a lot more about that yacht than you’re admitting.”
As I’d promised, I didn’t lie. I just smiled.
We sailed into Winyah Bay, southeast of Georgetown, South
Carolina, and dropped anchor in the same spot we had anchored on our northbound leg a few days before, but somehow, it had felt like years.
I secured the deck and inspected the rigging as Penny vanished into the interior. When I’d finished my work, she reemerged on deck with a pair of cocktails and a cigar.
“You’ve been snooping around in my humidor, I see.”
“Not snooping,” she said. “Just exploring.”
I punched the cigar and toasted the end, filling the air with the beautiful smell that can only come from true Cuban leaves.
Penny watched me enjoy the cigar. “I think that’s sexy.”
“You think what’s sexy?” I asked.
“A man smoking a cigar and drinking the old-fashioned I made for him.”
I lifted my tumbler. “You made me an old-fashioned?”
“I did.”
I looked through the glass at the ice cubes suspended in the golden whiskey. “Here’s to beautiful women who know how to make a good old-fashioned.”
She raised her glass. “And here’s to sexy men who know how to drink them. Cheers.”
We drank and watched the pelicans dive on baitfish in the shallows.
“What are you doing?” she asked with surprise in her voice.
I hadn’t realized that I was stirring my cocktail with the butt of my cigar, just like Padre, the old man who’d told me about my father in Charleston. I pulled the cigar from the whiskey, placed it in my mouth, and savored the taste.
“I saw an interesting old man do this a while back, and I guess I just picked it up. I didn’t realize I was doing it.”
“You do that a lot, you know?”
“Do what?”
“You get that pensive look, and you’re a thousand miles away. I’d love to know where you go in that head of yours when that happens.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, a little embarrassed.
“No, don’t be sorry. It’s part of who you are. Never apologize for who you are.”
I dipped the cigar back into the whiskey and then handed it to her.
Her smile was innocent, and her eyes were curious as she reached for the cigar. She held it between her thumb and index finger. “What am I supposed to do with this?”