Akel Dama (Book 9 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)
Akel Dama means Field of Blood
SPECIAL PREVIEW EDITION
by JC Simmons
Copyright 2012 by JC Simmons
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Check out all ten books in
The Jay Leicester Mysteries Series:
Blind
Overlook
Icy
Blue Descent
The
Electra File
Popping
the Shine
Four
Nines Fine
The
Underground Lady
Akel
Dama
The
Candela of Cancri
(Book 9 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)
By JC Simmons
SPECIAL PREVIEW EDITION
(This edition includes the first 10 chapters for FREE)
Download the full version from Amazon here
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Now this man purchased a field with the wages of iniquity; and falling headlong, he burst open in the middle and all his entrails gushed out.
And it became known to all those dwelling in Jerusalem; so that field is called in their own language, Akel Dama, that is, Field of Blood.
Acts 1: 18-19
***
PROLOGUE
The aged, ex-airliner crossed the shoreline a mere one hundred feet above the ground a mile or so west of Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, and passed abeam the John C. Stennis International Airport. It was shortly before daylight and still dark. Fog and rain obscured forward visibility. The weather had been bad since departure from Belize in Central America.
The pilot, the lone occupant in a cockpit that normally required three crewmembers, checked the hand-held GPS receiver and turned twenty degrees to the right altering his course. His hands moved over the controls like a concert pianist, adjusting throttles, mixtures, changing fuel tanks, checking dials, gauges, and switches. His destination was a newly graded, but yet unpaved, roadbed near the town of Union, Mississippi, in the central part of the state. Ground crews were standing by to offload the cargo. If his luck held, and the dirt road supported the weight of the DC-4, he would be airborne within an hour of landing. He had been assured all would be well by the one who hired him. But then dope dealers were hardly known for their veracity.
He looked out the windscreen. The night was formless and everything seemed to have no purpose. The damp air pushed him into the seat and felt heavy on his face. The thought was that now all he had to do was fly, to decide on an optimal course. That was what a pilot did. It was an aviator's way. You just got it done because you had to. Otherwise you would fall out of the sky.
***
Five miles west of Union, Rose English walked out the back door of her farmhouse holding an eight-month-old kitten that had been fighting with his sisters. It was six a.m. on a Sunday in December, and a cold misty rain fell from a low overcast sky. Her intentions were to calm the kitten, then gently scold him, teaching that fighting with his siblings was not a good thing. The ground began to shake beneath her feet followed instantly by the roar of four fourteen hundred and fifty horsepower radial engines straining to keep a huge, old, ex-airliner aloft. Passing a hundred feet above her head, the Douglas DC-4 quickly disappeared below the treetops beyond her view headed in a westerly direction. She waited for the sound of the crash that never came. The smell of exhaust fumes and unburned oil settled down around her like a noxious fog. Inside the farmhouse, Rose dialed not 911, but the number of her neighbor, Jay Leicester, who lived a few miles to the south. The kitten left claw marks on her shoulder that oozed blood, staining her white blouse.
Chapter One
I lay in bed, staring at the dark, in the little cottage in the wild woods. I felt like one of those nocturnal animals in a zoo, revealed in the darkness, who growls or bites his fellow creatures and eats their offspring. In spite of my desire for an ordered universe, my life felt scattered, full of small moments, without great purpose. Perhaps it is because small things repeat their importance on a farm and make them indelible in my memory. What is most untrustworthy about our nature and self-worth is how we differ in our own realities from the way we are seen by others. But then I could care less what others thought about me.
Maybe I have spent too much time alone at this cottage conversing with just myself. These were private words, as if collected from birds, or cows, or the cats and dogs. I spoke a few sentences to myself about wine, or a rusted gate, or a windmill that refused to pump water or a coyote's nervousness as I watched him through the scope of a rifle. It seemed I had protected myself with words, with the small and partial clarity they brought. I seem to live by retrievals from childhood that coalesce and echo throughout my life. I live permanently in the recurrence of my own stories, whatever stories I tell. Darkness has many potent hours. It is a shame I was wasting time dreaming through it.
The phone rang, startling me so that my heart seemed to race out of control.
"Jay, a huge airplane just skimmed over my head. I think it may have crashed."
"Who is this?"
"You s.o.b. I'm serious."
"Okay, slow down and tell me exactly what you saw."
"It was big, it flew low, right at treetop level, and had engines like what's on your little airplane, four of them. It went behind the trees and then disappeared. I never heard it crash, but I think it did."
"Rose, the timber company may be using an old airliner to spray nitrogen fertilizer. The forest service uses them to drop fire retardant, and they are used to haul freight all over the country. Maybe it wasn't as low as you thought."
"I know what I saw and I know how low it was. Get your butt out of bed and check on it."
"Yes, mother."
Lying back in bed, I laughed. Rose English was my closest neighbor and longtime friend of over ten years. When I first met her, she spoke sparingly in a low-pitched monologue, mostly to herself, as if language was uncertain. It seems that all of us loners do this. Her expression back then was the quizzical and knowing looks an animal can give, as if she already knew what I would or could provide. I once saw her dance in a field with a cat, and I remembered that. It has become for me this delicious witnessed example of who she is.
In the kitchen, I plugged in the coffeepot and heard a strange bird outside the window. The song of an unseen bird was a great mystery I had come to love. I align myself within its vast architecture, which contains all forest life and life in the sky. Coyotes howled close by, then further away, like crying souls descending into the depths of hell.
While the coffee brewed, I took a hot shower and thought about the airplane Rose saw passing low over her head. A call to Paul Bradford, the tower chief at the Meridian airport would probably solve this quickly. One thing I did know about Rose, she was not an alarmist. She thought it warranted calling me, so I felt it prudent to follow up.
As I finished the first cup of coffee, the phone rang again. Come on, Rose, I said I'd look into it. "Jay Leicester."
"Bob Morgan, Jay. Sheriff over in Scott County."
"Hello Bob. What can I do for you early on this cold, dreary morning?"
"I have the front end of my car parked up against the nose wheel of a big old airliner. All four engines are idling, the pilot refuses to shut them down. We caught a crew off-loading ten thousand-pounds of marijuana. We have twelve plus the pilot in custody. The pilot says the airplane belongs to him personally and he doesn't want to leave it here to be dismantled and ruined. He wants me to fly with him to any local airport where the airplane would at least be safe until his case is disposed of. I informed him we would confiscate it anyway, but he's insistent. I knew aviation was your business, so maybe you can offer some advice."
"Bob, listen to me carefully. Do not under any circumstances let that pilot takeoff with you aboard. Once airborne, you are at his mercy. Even though you've got the gun, what are you going to do, shoot him? You can't fly the airplane. You'd both be dead."
"You have any suggestions?"
"Tell me exactly where you are."
"They are building a new road, comes out of Neshoba County into Scott, supposed to connect to highway 21."
"I know where that is. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Thanks. I was hoping you'd come."
Pulling on my old leather flight jacket, I checked to be sure the model 66 S&W magnum was in the pocket and walked out the front door of the cottage. The sky was gray. The trees bare and black. Each biting gust of wind tightens my face. The sweet, seasoned scent of cow manure and wood smoke fills my nostrils. The icy cold chills me to the bone. Behind the cottage I watch a bobcat drink from the pond, then bound up the slope of the dam with an almost surreal grace and vanish into the woods like some creature wholly of the imagination. As I close the door to my truck, I think that Rose is really gonna enjoy this.
***
It has been almost twenty years since I'd flown a DC-4. To see one sitting out in the woods on an unpaved dirt roadbed with the engines running seemed, at the very least, an odd apparition. A remarkable thing I noticed about this airplane was that there was not a speck of paint anywhere on the wings or fuselage. It was all polished aluminum and clean, no corrosion or oil streaks. It was as if it came out of the factory last week.
Parking off to the side, I walked up to a deputy who pointed to a ladder leaning against the wide double cargo door opening at the rear of the plane. Over the noise of the engines, he shouted that the sheriff and pilot were aboard. Climbing the ladder, I entered the cavernous, oval-shaped fuselage, empty except for a strong odor of cannabis sativa. The last DC-4 I flew had sixty seats. Making my way forward, I entered the cockpit. The pilot was in his seat. Sheriff Bob Morgan stood behind him, his hand on his pistol. He shook my hand.
Glancing at the instrument panel, I said to the pilot, "The cylinder head temps are at the redline."
"I know. We need to take off now."
"Sheriff, tell your men to clear the road and shut the cargo doors. We'll meet you at the Philadelphia airport."
Sitting down in the copilot's seat, I donned a David Clark headset, adjusted the volume, and reached for the checklist hanging in its familiar place.
"So, you're a DC-4 pilot?" The Captain asked without looking at me.
"Flew them for the Matson Line for six months before they went belly up. Oakland to Hawaii."
"I heard about them. First class operation. Too bad."
"Yeah, too bad. I'll run the checklist."
"Name's Amos Dudley."
"Jay Leicester." We did not shake hands.
As we went through the litany of the pre-takeoff checklist, I watched Dudley. He was a big man and heavily built, although his sallow complexion and baked-potato physique gave no suggestion of either good health or strength. His eyes were gray and distant. About my age, his face was wrinkled with time and had peculiar indentations, which were more like rotting pine bark than a souvenir of some childhood disease. The minute craters gave his features a crumpled, indefinite look, as if he could change their meaning by molding the skin with his fingers. He had a long scar that extended from the lobe of one ear to the center of his chin.
"Checklist complete."
Dudley fingered the scar, kneading his tactile face and muttering something about his luck, which I found easy to ignore. "Okay, here we go."
Whatever I thought of Amos Dudley as a person was irrelevant to the fact that he was an excellent pilot and flew this old bird as if he were a part of the machinery. We landed twenty minutes after liftoff from the dirt road. Neshoba County deputies and Philadelphia police surrounded the plane with guns drawn as we went through the shutdown checklist. I hoped one of them didn't shoot me by accident.
Bob Morgan arrived and, along with the Neshoba County sheriff, took Dudley into custody. He gave me a furtive glance, rubbed the scar on his face. "Nice to fly with you."
"Same here." I would never see him again, but would often wonder what misfortune could befall such a talented aviator to make him resort to hauling illegal drugs. It didn't somehow seem fair. However, only fools and little children think the world's fair.
A deputy had been kind enough to drive my truck to the Philadelphia airport. He handed me the keys. "Wow, that's a big flying machine. Could I see inside?"
"Sure, come on, I'll give you the fifty cent tour."
He sat in the Captain's seat and listened intently as I told him the history of this wonderful old airplane. It was designed by Douglas Aircraft, whose DC-3 was an instant success and moneymaker for the airlines, for United, who wanted a four engine long range airliner. As fate would have it, the DC-4 was developed under the darkening clouds of WW2 and after the USA's entry into the war all DC-4s then on the production line were requisitioned for the military. The result was that the first DC-4 to fly was in February of 1942 in military markings designated as the C-54 Skymaster. Some 1162 were built during the war with another 76 built to new orders for the airlines postwar. Over the years the airplane has been passed down to charter and freight airlines, and today small numbers survive in service attesting to the successful design by Douglas.
"Wow," the deputy said. "And to think I've been afforded the opportunity to sit in the cockpit of one." I couldn't have put it any better myself.
Driving from Philadelphia back to Union, many thoughts ran through my mind: illegal drugs, old airplanes, good pilots gone bad, Rose, and what I was doing living in the middle of the woods in rural Mississippi. Jay Leicester, aviation consultant, former NFL linebacker, former medical student, former airline pilot…former, former, former. Too many formers, and not yet fifty years old. It seemed a winter of storms. I felt something taking shape in the cab of the truck. It seemed to be a dark, cauled form that floated off to the side and watched me with hooded expressionless eyes. It scared me.
Parking in Rose's driveway, I thought that I have been a secretive man for most of my life, and now was disconcerted by the secrets I had kept from myself. Succinct histories tell us something…that anything peaceful has a troubled past. The past is always carried into the present by small things. Maybe flying the old DC-4 was the cause of this unrest in my psyche. Maybe I wasn't going insane.
Rose sat the coffee cups on the kitchen table, poured them full, and handed me a jar of honey that was so old a half inch of crystal had formed in the bottom.
"You can heat this in the microwave for thirty seconds and the sugar crystals will dissolve."
"I can also use the microwave to measure the speed of light. If you'd come by and visit more often maybe the honey wouldn't get old."
Point taken.
I placed my hand on top of hers. "I already know the speed of light. You want to hear about the big old airplane that almost landed on your head?"
She had turned into a woman who was differential and old-maidish, but pleased beyond good sense when I placed my hand atop hers. "I do."
"It was carrying ten thousand pounds of marijuana. Seems you were not the only one to see it flying low. Someone called the sheriff and he caught them offloading the drugs. Bob Morgan, from Scott County, called me and we flew the airplane to Philadelphia."
"Who in this part of the country is a big enough drug dealer to bring in ten thousand pounds?"
"Probably not local, but whoever it is, they were smart enough not to be there this morning. I'm sure one of the men arrested will roll over for a light or suspended sentence. Maybe the pilot, he stands to lose the most."
"Well, this has been a great morning. I get scared half to death and you get paid to fly an old airplane from a dirt road to Philadelphia."
"I won't bill them for that. Maybe I can get a break on my next speeding ticket."
"Then you are a fool."
"Been told that before, more than once – by you."
She laughed, took the cups and sat them in the sink. "Go away, I've got work to do, and I'm late for church."
"Heaven forbid the Bluff Springs Church of God hold a service and you or Pauline Matthews are not there. The world would tremble and God would get up from his throne to see what was the matter."
"You should go to church."
"I'm not much into organized religion, but if I was, your little church in the wild wood is where I'd go."
Back at the cottage, I spent the afternoon doing paperwork for my aviation consulting business, billing, filing, and catching up on things long neglected. As dark approached, I sat in front of a slow burning fire reading and sipping a glass of vintage Graham Port. It is always a pleasure to rest in a soft chair and to hold a book in my hands. Later, after the fire had burned down, I stood, gathered my senses into almost clarity, and went through the darkness to my bed, not knowing that plans were underway that would change my life forever. Plans that would demonstrate the truth that this world holds mysteries you do not want to know. Visions that would steal the very light from your eyes and leave them sightless.
Chapter Two
I spent the next two nights and three days in Jackson, the state capital, working with a small advertising agency that was expanding its business into surrounding states. The agency was owned by a man I'd gone to college with. He was an offensive lineman on the football team. I played linebacker, so we had little in common, but roomed together during training camp and road games. He wanted to purchase an airplane to facilitate the growth of his company. My job was to advise him on which aircraft to purchase, make the acquisition, hire and train the flight crew, and project an operating budget for the newly formed flight department.
Walking into his office located not far from the Jackson International Airport, I was greeted by a pleasant woman who could have been Rose English's sister but, thankfully, not of the same temperament. She informed me that Mr. Verinis was waiting and to go right in.
Jim Verinis was standing behind his desk, all six feet five inches of him. Trimmed down from his college playing weight of three hundred pounds, he looked slim, healthy, and much younger than his forty-five years. Sandy hair, cropped short, his broken nose (a wound I inflicted during practice one day), fit his rugged face and clear blue eyes.
Coming around from behind his desk, he stuck out a massive paw. "Jay Leicester, good to see you. How's life in the country?"
"The armadillos still irritate me, but other than that, wouldn't be anywhere else."
"You need to let us do an ad campaign for you, put Jay Leicester, Aviation Consultants on TV, newspapers, and radio. We're expanding into five states. Do your business a lot of good. Make you some money."
"I've got more business than I need at the moment." That was a lie, but to advertise like some ambulance chaser, no thanks.
He offered a chair. "So what do we need to do to get us up and flying?"
"We'll start with what destinations you plan to visit, how many people will be aboard, how often you need to make the trips, and how much money you want to spend. Plus, how many days a year I can use the airplane free of charge."
He looked quizzically at me for a moment, reached up and fingered his crooked nose as if remembering a hot August practice and a misplaced elbow. Then he broke into a big smile when he realized I was kidding. "You haven't changed a bit."
"How much have you spent on charter aircraft over the last year?"
He opened a folder and slid me a sheet of paper. Out the window behind his head, I watched a C-17 military cargo plane take off and climb steeply into the clear winter sky. The local air guard received this advanced plane to replace aging C-141s. I had watched the development of the C-17 and thought that with its four turbofan engines, long range, and short field performance, it would be even better than the venerable old C-130 turboprops, and that's saying a lot.
Looking at the figures on the paper, I said, "It is time to consider your own company airplane. Should be less expensive and more convenient."
After getting the answers to all the pertinent questions, my recommendation for the type of aircraft was made much easier. "Jim, I want you to look at three different planes. You've been chartering King Airs, which are fine turboprop machines designed for short haul, multi-stop trips, but I want you to consider going with jet engines, simply because I think the most dangerous thing on an airplane is a propeller. Let me make some phone calls and we'll get demo airplanes here tomorrow and the next day. We can fly them, I'll give you the pros and cons of each, and you can make a decision. After that, we'll talk about hiring a crew, getting them trained, deciding where you want to be based, and all the other hundreds of things involved with starting up the Verinis Advertising Agency Flight Department."
"Sounds like a plan. I see now, why you get paid so handsomely for what you do. I had no idea it was so complicated."
"This is easy. Try starting up a charter company or a scheduled airline. Now that is complex."
Jim led me to a vacant office and I started making calls.
One would think that with the country headed toward the brink of a recession that the aircraft market would be flooded with good deals from backlogs of factory new and used airplanes. Not true. Like the book business and the liquor business, sales increase when times are hard. Companies have to travel more to make money. Prices have actually increased, especially in the used aircraft market. My business, like most, survives on networking, having contacts across the industry. I make two phone calls and had three airplanes scheduled to arrive for demo flights, two tomorrow and one the next day.
With the budget Verinis Advertising had to work with, I decided a used, low-time, well-maintained small corporate jet with short field capability would be the best for the agency. Later, if business continued to expand, new aircraft with more seats and longer range could be purchased. A friend in Dallas had available a one-owner Cessna Citation 1SP with 1400 hours and a Dassault Falcon 10 with 2100 hours currently owned by a Fortune 500 company that was trading up. Both would arrive in the morning. The third airplane I wanted Jim to look at was an older Saberliner 40A. A broker in Orlando had one with a low-time airframe, recent engines, new interior, upgraded avionics, and no damage history. He promised to have it here day after tomorrow. All three aircraft were in the 1.5 million-dollar range. With an estimated annual flight time of three hundred hours, either of these aircraft would serve Jim Verinis and his agency for years before major overhauls were due, and by then it would be time to trade.
Deciding not to drive back to the cottage, only to have to return in the morning, I got a room in a motel near the airport, and phoned Rose. She promised to see to my cat, B.W., and check on the farm. I spent the rest of the afternoon going over a checklist of items for the startup of the Verinis Advertising Agency Flight Department, and arranging for a pre-buy maintenance inspection of the airplane Jim decided upon. This is a hard and fast rule I insist on. Mechanics carefully go over logbooks to see that all airworthiness directives have been complied with, and the aircraft itself is pulled apart, inspected, and put back together. It is an expense a buyer must be willing to pay. Hundreds of thousands of dollars can be saved in unknown, unsuspected, and needed repairs. Caveat emptor. Discrepancies can be negotiated between buyer and seller. It makes me sleep well at night knowing I have bought the safest and most airworthy airplane for my client.
***
Another clear, cold winter day brought perfect flying weather. We flew the Citation 1SP and the Dassault Falcon 10. Both impressed Jim Verinis, but he fell in love with the Citation. That was the aircraft he wanted.
"Jim, I really think you should look at the Saberliner 40A before you make a decision."
"No, I want that Cessna. Is there anything wrong with it?"
"I wouldn't have shown it to you if there was."
"Then my mind's made up. Start the pre-buy inspection, let's go to my office and we'll talk about hiring a pilot."
Offensive linemen!
Back at Verinis Advertising Agency, I called and canceled the demo on the Saberliner. The Citation pilot flew back to Dallas on the Falcon 10, and my friend, the aircraft salesman, remained in Jackson to negotiate the price of the 1SP after the inspection was completed, which should be tomorrow afternoon.
Jim propped his feet on his desk, laced his huge hands behind his head. "So, you got anyone in mind for my pilot?"
"You're going to need two pilots, Jim."
He put his feet on the floor, sat up straight. "I thought the SP stood for single pilot? I flew with one pilot on the King Air."
"The SP does stand for single pilot, but I think anybody's a fool to fly a jet airplane into high density airports like Dallas, Memphis, Atlanta, or Chicago with only one set of eyes, not to mention the possibility, however remote, of a stroke, heart attack, or a brain bleed. Who’s gonna fly the plane then? An extra person at the controls is a small expense compared to the safety it offers. You will not argue with me on this point, understood?"
He looked at me hard for a moment, then broke into a grin. "I guess that's why I hired you for advice. I would be a fool not to take it." Sitting up, he put his elbows on the desk, stared at me intently. "How much for you, Jay Leicester?"
"You know my fee."
"How much for you to work for me and fly my airplane? Name your price."
"Thanks, Jim. I appreciate the offer, but no."
"Why not?"
"Jim, I've done everything I ever wanted to do, accomplished every goal, but every step of the way, there has always been another flight test to pass, another standard to meet. I was tied into the machinery of aviation; complex, unyielding, and while not without its rhythm, keeping that beat always seemed to come at the cost of some measure of self. Where I'm at now, I never have to alter routine, never get caught in traffic, have to stand in the rain, bumped into on a sidewalk, jostled on a subway in some crowded city, tied to a desk. Never rushed. Never late. I know the freedom without the anchor, have my routine without the drudgery.
He sat back, looked at the ceiling. "Then hire me somebody that's as good a pilot as you. I checked. You're considered one of the best."
"No, not the best, but I was taught by the best. The pilots we hire will be even better."
I spent the rest of the day at the maintenance hangar observing the inspection of the Cessna Citation 1SP.
***
That evening, the aircraft salesman and I dined together, and then I retired early. Back at my motel room, the message light on the phone was blinking with an evil red glow. Rose had called.
"What's up old woman? B.W. acting ugly?"
"I am not an old woman and no, B.W. is much more of a gentleman than you."
"He's had his balls cut off."
"Maybe we should consider that for you. Smooth your temperament."
Laughing, I said, "Enough chit chat, Rose."
"Are you expecting visitors at the cottage?"
"I am not."
"There's been a strange car coming out of your drive twice today. I met them as they were leaving once, then later saw the car pass a couple of times in front of my house. Gray sedan, two suit-type, clean cut occupants."
"I have no idea, but thanks for the eyeball."
"When you coming home?"
"Late tomorrow afternoon, if all goes well."
"Plan on having dinner with me. I want to discuss a letter from Alella."
"I'll call when leaving Jackson."
Alella was Rose's adopted daughter. She was originally from Spain, now attending college at the University of Madrid. I had saved her from a bad situation in Mexico, had introduced her to Rose, so I felt an obligation to listen to news about her. Plus, I adored her, and would have adopted her myself if Rose hadn't. As for the men in the car, I didn't have a clue, unless it had something to do with the DC-4 sitting on the ramp in Philadelphia.
***
At noon the next day, the chief mechanic for the Fixed Base Operation at the Jackson International Airport, approached me.
"Leicester, we haven't found a single squawk on this Citation. It's like it rolled out of the factory last week. It's been well maintained. We'll have her back together and ready to test fly within an hour. I want to ride along."
"I'll round up the salesman, and we'll be ready whenever you say."
We filed an IFR, round robin flight plan, up to Little Rock with a requested altitude of 35 thousand feet. I flew in the captain's seat, the salesman as copilot, and the mechanic behind us, observing. With an unrestricted climb, we reached altitude in 28 minutes after liftoff. Leveling off, I let the Citation accelerate until I heard the "ding, ding, ding" of the over-speed warning, then pulled the power back to cruise. It was a halcyon day to fly. Visibility was forever. Over Little Rock, we turned and headed back to Jackson. The airplane performed beautifully, and I knew it would serve Jim Verinis and his business well. A hundred miles from the airport, I pulled the power back to flight idle and started our descent. Things were quiet, with only the noise of the wind on the windscreen. I felt in my soul the wearing away of the calluses of life on earth. It was as though my skin had been stripped off and replaced with a fresh pink layer. What I experience in the air is the petite life on earth, with only the essential notes of humans reaching me through that distant air. An angel seemed to tug at my shirttail. Flying does this to me.
Back on the ground, the aircraft salesman and I reported back to Jim Verinis. Leaving them to finalize the purchase, I went to the office space provided and made a few phone calls. The search for a flight crew would not take long. Training them to my standards would take a little longer.
An hour later, Jim Verinis walked into the office. "I now own the Citation. What's next?"
"Where do you want to base the airplane?"
"What's wrong with where it is? It's only a five minute drive from where we are."
"Nothing's wrong with the FBO at the Jackson International Airport, except it's three times as expensive to base there than Hawkins Field, five times more expensive than Madison County. Just wanted you to know."
He scratched his wide, square chin, seemed confused.
"Look, Jim, keep the plane where it is for six months, see how things work out. You may want to build your own hangar later on."
He smiled. "Good idea. I want to interview the pilots before you hire them. When can we expect to be operational?"
"If I can find a crew current on the Citation, a week. If not, then they will need to attend Flight Safety or SimuFlite for training."
"We won't hurry this. I want the best, and I want them up to speed. I'll leave it up to you."
"I'll let you know as soon as I have a crew to interview."
"How much do I owe you?"
"Let's wait until we hire the pilots. I'll send you a bill then."
We shook hands, and I headed back to the little cottage in the wild woods and dinner with Rose.
Chapter Three
I drove straight to Rose's house, bypassing the cottage, a choice I would later regret. December darkness fell like a curtain, without a warning – light, then black. The smell of frying chicken permeated the kitchen, and I knew that somewhere in or on that stove, a pot of turnip greens with a piece of ham hock simmered away. Rose was stirring a batter for a pan of cornbread. I think the woman could live off of peas, turnips, and cornbread. Always had a hankering for them, myself. I was, however, the only boy ever raised on a dairy farm that detested buttermilk, still cannot drink it today.
My big cat, B.W., a name he ignored more often than not, jumped upon the table and looked at me with an expression that seemed to say, "Where have you been for the last three days?"
"None of your business."
Rose turned from the stove. "What?"
"B.W. wanted to know where I've been."
She looked at me as if I should be committed to the nearest psychiatric ward. "The letter from Alella is on the table next to the couch. Read it while I finish up with supper and we can discuss the contents while we eat."
Her voice emanated from the neatly printed hand-written letter. A voice deep and resonant, smooth and melodious, as if she were sitting beside me on the couch. I could visualize her shoulder-length ebony hair, large, round, black eyes, unsurpassed and depthless, her olive skin and bare feet. Alella hated to wear any kind of shoes, even in cold weather. Born in Cataluna, Spain, she had come to Ciudad Victoria, Mexico, to live with a rich uncle who tried to turn her into a whore. It's a long story, but we ended up bringing her out of Mexico to the USA and Rose adopted her.
Now twenty-one years old, she attended the University of Madrid, and from her letter, I learned that she had fallen in love with a medical student and wanted to bring him home for the summer. He would have the time off before starting his first year residency program.
"I poured you a glass of buttermilk."
"Why?"
"You need to learn to like it."
"Never."
"I learned to like your cognac crap."
"No you didn't."
"So what do you think?"
"About the buttermilk?"
"No, not the buttermilk. Alella and the boy."
"It sounds to me like she's fallen in love."
"Ha! More like she's fallen in heat."
"Easy, Rose. Remember her past. It took you two years to bring her out of that horror. I doubt that she's being hormonal. Maybe she's making beautiful music with the young doctor."
"I'll bet it's a lot more than music the two of them are making."
"You have the stubbornness of an incorrigible nonconformist."
"It's more than music they're playing. Didn't you read the letter?"
"Mozart said it's the silence between the notes that makes the music. Creates the rhythm."
She laid her fork beside the plate. "What in the world does that have to do with Alella and that boy being in love?"
"Love isn't an emotion, but a deliberate decision to do what is best for someone."
"What? Leicester, you are insane."
"Maybe, but I'm still not drinking this buttermilk."
She took the buttermilk and sat the glass on the kitchen counter.
I love to play with Rose's mind.
In the living room, over coffee, I told her I thought it a good thing Alella was involved with a serious relationship. It would give her stability and prove that she was once again trusting men. There was a long time when it was doubtful if she would regain her self-respect or trust any human being again. But Rose had succeeded, almost single-handed, in bringing her back from the brink.
***
Tired, but in a good mood, I left Rose and drove slowly the few miles back to the cottage. B.W. sat beside me, his eyes staring out at the darkness, looking for a way to escape into the night. Parking beside the cottage, I held the big cat in one arm, fished for the door key, and walked upon the porch. B.W. growled, and I told him to hush. He was not getting down so he could traipse off and chase coyotes.
"Are you Jay Leicester?"
The voice emanated from the south end of the cottage. I have always been a careful man, aware of my surroundings. Tonight, though, something went terribly wrong with the built-in mechanism that had always protected me. Not even the warning from B.W. worked. Fingering the magnum in my coat, I eased the cat down on the porch, turned and faced the figure silhouetted by the dim light of the doorbell.
"I am aware of the Smith and Wesson in your coat pocket, Mr. Leicester. You have nothing to fear from me, sir. I'm with the federal government and wish to speak with you on a matter of national security. Here is my I.D." He carefully and slowly held out a leather case. "If you will turn on the light-"
Opening the door, I flipped on the porch light. B.W., to my surprise, bolted inside. I held onto the magnum and took the I.D. case. It looked official and identified the man as Alec Aardwolf, CIA.
"Why would the CIA want to talk with me? A phone call, a letter, an e-mail, any of these would have done the trick, however, standing on my porch in the dark of night doesn't cut it. And how in God's name do you know about my magnum?"
"We know everything about you, Mr. Leicester. Can we go inside?"
"Sure."
The man was small and dark. He had the look of a rat about him. His beady eyes were set too tightly in his narrow face, his nose twitched upturned and sharp. Atop his wide ears sat a grimy football cap with an Oakland Raiders logo, its brim ragged with use. I detest Al Davis and the Raiders. Aardwolf, if that was his real name, was off on a bad foot.
"Have a seat."
I watched him closely. He seemed one of those small men who find it especially hateful to lose at anything he attempts. Disgust hangs smothering above him, black and indecent and dangerous. Serves him right – rooting for the Raiders.
"This have something to do with the DC-4 sitting on the ramp in Philadelphia?"
"We want you to fly the airplane to a clandestine runway in south Florida. Some work will be performed on the fuselage, cargo will be loaded, and then you will fly to a jungle strip in Venezuela, where the cargo will be off-loaded and new cargo put aboard. You will then return to Florida. After landing you will be driven to Miami, put aboard a private jet and returned to this little cottage in the woods."
"All under the watchful eye of the CIA?"
"Yes."
"What's the cargo?"
"Diamonds going out, classified coming back."
"It must not be drugs or it wouldn't be hush-hush."
He took his cap off, ran a hand over close-cropped gray hair, reset the cap. He seemed to make some kind of decision. "Mr. Leicester, we have a terrorist cell that is attempting to, for the lack of a better word "construct" a nuclear device and detonate it somewhere in the US. We have a deep-cover agent who thinks the diamonds are payment for components whose shipment has been tracked from Iran to Venezuela. One of the components is enriched uranium that we know was sent from Iraq to Iran just before we invaded the country. The WMD (weapons of mass destruction) we could never find. Now, al-Qa'Ida and Osama bin Ladin, having given up on a biological attack, have focused on nuclear."
"Does not make sense to me that someone could build a nuclear bomb and just transport it around the country unnoticed."
"The big bag you carry around with all your flying gear – a small nuclear device could fit inside it."
"What about radiation exposure to me and my crew?"
"There's a risk, but a small one."
"Why me? There have to be hundreds of pilots in the government who can fly an old DC-4. Use the pilot who flew the dope and owns the airplane. He'll do it to get out of jail."
"Had planned to, but he's dead. They got to him in jail. You haven't read a newspaper in the last few days, I gather."
"The dope dealer got to him. Didn't want to risk being ratted out. Too bad."
"Yeah, too bad. You were recommended. An anonymous source who has worked with you before."
"And you are going to protect me and my crew?"
"We always protect our operatives."
"I can name a couple who were outed."
"Wasn't our fault."
"The CIA, whose work force has been slashed by 25%, five directors in seven years, no recruiting of new people, and an intelligence community that has lost billions of dollars in funding. From what I hear, the FBI has more special agents in New York City than the CIA has clandestine officers covering the whole world. You're going to protect me while I'm flying into and out of foreign countries hauling nuclear components."
"You have an invidious character, Mr. Leicester, and you read too much. Our agency is in good shape. We need your help." He fingered the brim of his cap.
"I don't like the Raiders, or the owner."
"What? Oh, the cap. John Madden gave it to me when he won the Superbowl."
"Really. How you know Madden?"
"We were teammates in college."
"What position did you play?"
"Defensive Back. I believe you were a linebacker?"
I wondered that if in every life there came a moment when you realize just how little you have actually escaped from whatever it was you'd fled. "I'll need to hire a copilot."
"Of course. Mr. Opshinsky, I presume?"
The guy was good, I'll give him that. "When do you want to depart?"
"Day after tomorrow. We have a plane on the ground waiting to fly your copilot to Philadelphia. Call me by noon tomorrow with your decision and after you talk with Mr. Opshinsky." He handed me a card with only a telephone number and walked out the door. I never learned how he'd arrived, or why a man nearing seventy years of age was working as an operative for the CIA.
***
Still in Key West since hurricane Katrina, Hebrone Opshinsky would be at one of two places on the island, the boat yard, where he was rebuilding his beloved Wheeler Sport Fisherman or Captain Tony's bar. Noting the time, I tried the bar.
"Get Opshinsky to the phone, and do not hang up on me. Tell him it's Leicester."
"Ah, Leicester. Well bugger off, Leicester." The line went dead.
The bartender knew Hebrone, without a doubt, for he was one of those men who attract attention by making an effort to attract none. People had a sense of his presence before seeing him. Without fail, every time I've called Captain Tony's for him, the bartenders have ignored me and hung up. Anonymity seemed a courtesy on the island.
Five minutes later the phone rang. "The wolf welcomes you."
"If you look around there should be one or two people watching your movements. Could be female."
"Yeah, for two days, now. Amateurs. Figured they'd make contact sooner or later."
"They're CIA, waiting to fly you here."
"What if I don't want to go?"
"Then they would walk away."
"What's the deal?"
"DC-4 to South America, back to Florida, then we are flown back to normal lives."
"Is it dangerous?"
"It is, and I need you on this one."
"Count me in." He hung up.
That was Hebrone Opshinsky, one of the most deadly men on earth. Trained by our government, and then deserted by our government. A man I called a friend. A man who saved my life on more than one occasion, and someone I would not hesitate to die for. Strangely, I knew little of his life before Vietnam, where he was an assassin. A member of the pajama gang, he wore no uniforms, carried no I.D., and his existence was denied by the government. He was always laconic and silent about the landscape of his past before the war. The only thing he ever said about his childhood was that he hailed from a family so poor that his father slopped the children at a hog trough. I almost believed him. He was not one of those men who went to war and never came back. It took awhile, but he made it – all the way back.
A year or so after I met Hebrone, I taught him to fly, and he went on, with the help of the GI Bill, to attain his Airline Transport rating. He spent several years working for freight hauler's gaining vast experience in many types of aircraft while flying mostly at night and in all kinds of weather. He is now one of the finest airmen I know. I would fly with him anywhere in any airplane, under any conditions.
I lay in bed, trying not to think about flying an aged ex-airliner to South America, and the cargo we'd be hauling, or the people involved. Instead, I thought about living in the country, this rural part of the state. What I liked most was that nobody in this area cared if you came or went. Mostly they were coming or going themselves. Having spent a lot of time in urban areas, I found the anonymity of the country blissful. The freedom of conversation with an affable farmer, a man who was only talking to you to kill a little time. Someone who wanted nothing and offered nothing in return. You would probably not see each other for months, if ever. The exquisite silence of the country at night. To hear your voice echo across the hollows or to catch sight of the distant moonlit woods. This was what I loved about this area.
Sleep came easy and welcome.
Chapter Four
An apricot dawn spread through the eastern sky heralding a glorious winter day and illuminating the trees in front of the cottage a rust color. Alec Aardwolf phoned early, informing me Hebrone would be arriving at the Philadelphia airport at noon. We would plan on a dawn departure tomorrow in the DC-4 for the isolated landing strip in Florida. Aardwolf would ride along with us.
Rose made me promise to bring Hebrone for dinner. The two had become friends over the last few years. I was glad, for I loved them both. Hebrone had been with me when we brought Alella from Mexico.
It is a half-hour drive from my cottage to the Philadelphia Airport. During the trip, I thought about al-Qa'Ida cells in this country. After the attack on nine-eleven, our government implemented surveillance programs to root out these people, by monitoring the local and overseas phone traffic and the money trails. Immediately critics started bitching about the abuse of our rights as Americans. I guess they would prefer the terrorist blow up another city rather than provide us with the speed and agility we needed to protect this country. Terrorism in itself is the stuff of everyday nightmares, but now the specter of a nuclear-capable terrorist group operating within our shores is cause for everyone to have sleepless nights.
Standing in the waiting room of the Fixed Base Operation at the Philadelphia airport, I spotted the speck in the sky to the south that would be Hebrone's plane. The Westwind jet landed, taxied to the ramp, and shut down the engines. At the controls was my old friend. How he managed to do that aboard a government aircraft would be interesting to hear, though for some reason I wasn't surprised.
Hebrone deplaned and walked straight to the DC-4. A deputy sheriff, guarding the aircraft, confronted him. A few heated words were exchanged. Then Aardwolf appeared and the tension relaxed. Hebrone continued to walk around and examine the aged airliner the way a grandmother would a child. Satisfied, he looked toward the FBO, and headed this way.
"Hello, Jay."
"I see you are still courting danger. I believe that deputy would have shot you."
"He was merely doing his job."
"You met Aardwolf."
"Is he our point man?"
"Yes, I'll fill you in on the way."
"I'm sure you will."
"Rose is expecting us for dinner."
"It will be a pleasure to see her. Is Alella at home?"
"She's still in Madrid. Has a new boyfriend."
"That's good."
"Rose
is having trouble with it."
Aardwolf walked up. "See you
in the morning."
We drove toward the cottage.
Hebrone stared out the windshield of the truck. We passed a herd of black cattle grazing in a field that was green with grass, even in December. "I haven't seen a cow since I was here two years ago."
I made no comment.
"Smash is upset you didn't invite him along on this adventure."
"Had no need for his services."
"CIA-?"
"It's Rose's fault."
He turned, shot me a skewed grin. "I can believe that."
"The DC-4 almost landed on her head. She called me, thinking it may have crashed. Turned out it was delivering five tons of cannabis. Some other early rising citizen saw the plane and called the sheriff. The pilot and I flew it off the dirt road to Philadelphia, after he'd tried to entice the sheriff to let the two of them do it."
Hebrone laughed. "Smart lawman. If he hadn't called you, he'd be in Mexico by now, or dead. None of this explains the CIA?"
Come to think of it, I didn't know how they'd become involved with the DC-4, either. It was a question we'd pose to Aardwolf. "Whoever owned the confiscated dope whacked the pilot in jail. The old agent appeared out of the night on my porch at the cottage with this proposal."
"Which is?"
"You and I will fly the DC-4 to a strip somewhere in south Florida where extensive work will be done on it. I assume sound and video recorders installed, along with any other 007-type gadgets. We then depart with a cache of diamonds bound for a secret landing strip somewhere in Venezuela where the stones will be swapped for components used to "construct" a small nuclear device supposedly which will be used to blow up some high profile US target. We return the goods to Florida and we are done. The "Company" will arrange for our transportation home."
Hebrone stared straight ahead out the front window of the truck. "This is why I exist. Thanks for the invite. Would not want to miss this."
"You're welcome."
We stopped by the cottage, unloaded Hebrone's ditty bag. He rekindled his friendship with B.W., a wary one at best because the cat smelled Savage, a full-bloodied wolf Hebrone raised from a pup. We spent the rest of the afternoon reviewing the flight manual for the DC-4. It had been years since either of us had spent much time in the cockpit of one. We wanted to be sure, needed to be sure, that we were familiar with all the systems and emergency procedures. If something were to go wrong there would not be time to read the book.
Rose phoned and said dinner would be served promptly at six. If we were late, she'd cut us out of her will. I promised we'd be on time.
As we left the cottage, clouds bricked overhead and were brindled pink, then crimson and violet. The wind blew and leaves sailed like scattering birds and the air carried the tang of decaying foliage, cattle, and chimney smoke.
Rose met us at the door, gave Hebrone a hug that was sincere, and maybe even tender. "It's so good to see you. Have you been taking care of yourself?"
"You look good, Rose, even prettier than before."
Hebrone, when he was around her, had the qualities of a little boy, which made you want to love him. His eyes were close-set and unwavering, his head broad browed and perfectly centered over square shoulders. He exuded a magnetic amiability that made most people want to please him. This was the same man who, in the Vietnam War, tied enemy NVA combatants belly to back in a row to test bullet penetration of various weapons. The most powerful weapon would kill ten. I imagined the horror felt by the last man in the row. "I wish I hadn't done that now," he told me. "They did worse to our people, though."
All cats are gray in the dark, I thought.
"Since Hebrone is here for dinner, I assume you're grilling ribeyes. I brought a couple of bottles of wine." Both were 1982 Chateau Villemaurine from the Saint-Emilion region of France. Not great wines, but decent and from a good year. I had bought a case years ago for four dollars a bottle.
At table, Rose asked me, "Is your steak rare enough?"
"I've seen cows worse off than this get well."
"I'll put it back on the fire."
"I'm kidding. It's perfect. I've never eaten anything you've ever cooked that wasn't delicious."
"So tell me about this adventure you two are taking off on."
I've never lied to Rose, but somehow telling her we would be hauling highly radioactive components to be made into a nuclear bomb did not seem wise. Hebrone looked hard at me wondering what I would say.
"We are going to deliver that big old airplane that almost landed on your head to Florida."
"I thought the sheriff confiscated the thing. Why is it going to Florida?"
"The government has a use for it. They paid the county a fair price."
"This have anything to do with that pilot getting killed in the Neshoba jail?"
"Not that I know of."
I saw a sudden, nearly volcanic agitation in her eyes. The candle light on the table flickered and Rose and the room seemed to be in motion.
"You do not have a gift for evasion or misdirection or lying. The two of you are going to do something dangerous."
Hebrone sat back in his chair, swirled the wine in his glass, and seemed immersed in what he saw.
"There are some things you just don't need to know, Rose. This will be a government run operation and all precautions are being taken. The risk to Hebrone and me will be related only to flying that aged aircraft."
I saw her face was grave and strangely probing, eyes that held you dangling, as from a noose. "I'll have to bury you both if things go wrong, and you don't want to tell me the circumstances. You want me to hear it from some government weenie?" Her eyes flared visibly with quick and oddly violent flames that were deep and scary.
"Tell her, Jay."
Putting both elbows on the table, clasping my hands together, I looked her straight in the eyes, and said, "The CIA wants us to deliver a cache of diamonds to Venezuela as payment for parts to build a nuclear bomb which we will return to Florida. The government will arrest the bad guys and prevent a national disaster."
She seemed subdued and oddly weakened, like someone at the end of a long journey. "Terrorist – oh, my God. The men I saw coming from your cottage while you were in Jackson-?"
"CIA."
"In the course of human events, I wish we'd never had love. Then we would not feel the death of others."
"Our only involvement is to fly the plane. We'll be fine."
Rose got up from the table, went to the door leading into the kitchen, stopped, and turned around. "You both have to promise me you will be careful. I don't know what I'd do-?"
"Why, Rose, I do believe you care."
"Piss off, Leicester." She hurried through the door.
Hebrone laughed. We moved into the living room for coffee. Here, the conversation was less serious. We talked about Alella and her upcoming arrival home with the new boyfriend. Soon it was time to go and we left Rose with tears in her eyes, something I'd seldom seen except when it involved injury to one of her animals. I did not know it then, but it would seem like a lifetime before I saw Rose English again.
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