by Rod Helmers
“What for?” Sam replied in a concerned tone.
“Ask Bubba.”
Sam made his way to the cockpit and was greeted by an older man who spoke with a heavy Southern accent.
“Bubba Williams. Glad to meet ya.” Bubba spoke loudly and with a smile.
“Likewise,” Sam replied, as he stood next to Bubba unsure of what to do next.
“How ewe?”
“I’m good.”
“You’re gonna hafta speak up. Hearing damage. Over twenty thousand hours in one of these contraptions will do that. Sit down, buckle up, and get those headphones on, son. The checklist is complete, traffic is light, and we’re number two for takeoff.”
The plane began to roll before Sam could reply, so he dropped into the co-pilot seat and did as he had been told. After turning the headphones on and adjusting the volume, Sam looked over at Bubba.
“I thought FAA regulations required two qualified pilots up front in all jet aircraft?
Bubba waved his hand like he was swatting at a fly.
“Here’s the deal, Sam. I’ll handle the radios. Don’t you worry about that. Once I bring the aircraft to a stop at the threshold you get on the brakes. When we’re cleared for takeoff, bring the power up to the takeoff setting. It’s marked right here. Pop the brakes when you’re ready. Rotate at 139 knots. Watch the airspeed indicator. It’s gonna spin up in a hurry. There’s a lot of thrust pushing your ass down the runway. Got it?”
Sam was more than alarmed, and spoke in a much higher pitch than he’d intended.
“What the hell are you talking about?’
“You’re gonna fly this sonuvabitch is what I’m talking about.” Bubba looked over with a grin that stretched from ear to ear.
“I can’t fly this airplane. The only thing I ever flew was a little 172, and that was several years ago.” Sam was talking fast and beginning to panic.
Bubba smiled again. “A plane’s a plane, son. It’s like riding a bike.”
“No it’s not,” Sam replied in a shrill tone.
“Look, son, I was a military instructor pilot for nearly thirty years. I’ll be with you every step of the way, so don’t you worry.” Bubba gave Sam another smile and a wink. “Piece of cake, son. Piece of cake.”
Sam looked over at the set of dual controls in front of Bubba and took a deep breath as the jet rolled to a stop at the runway threshold. He could feel beads of sweat collecting on his forehead as he nearly stood on the brakes of the aircraft.
Finally the radio crackled. “Citation four niner foxtrot zulu you are cleared for takeoff on runway two eight zero. Maintain runway heading and climb to six thousand feet before turning to a heading of one nine zero direct Key West.”
Sam barely heard Bubba repeating the instructions back to the tower as he reached for the throttle levers and brought the power up to the takeoff setting. The jet began to violently struggle against the brakes before Sam remembered to lift his feet off the pedals. The pilot and passengers were pushed back in their seats as the jet jumped forward and then rocketed down the runway. Sam soon became aware of Bubba’s booming voice.
“Airspeed, son. Airspeed.”
Sam looked down at the airspeed indicator and realized that the needle had already slipped past 160 knots. He yanked back on the yoke and the jet leapt off the runway. The plane began a stomach-churning climb and quickly shed airspeed. Suddenly the stall warning horn blasted throughout the cockpit, and Sam could feel Bubba gradually pushing the dual yokes forward. The nose of the plane dipped and the stall warning horn ceased.
“This isn’t an F-16, son. Now let’s climb out nice and easy at 200 knots. And maintain that runway heading of two eight zero until we reach six-thousand feet.”
“Sorry, Bubba.”
Bubba laughed. “No problem here, son. But my copilot back there’s probably gonna hafta remove a brick from his panties after we land.”
“That will make two of us,” Sam answered.
After the jet had leveled off at its cruising altitude on a direct course to Key West, Bubba engaged the autopilot and assumed the role of tour guide to his shell-shocked co-pilot.
“Immediately on your right you will see Naples and Marco Island. Rich white folk from places like Ohio and Indiana flock to the extreme southwest corner of Florida to retire.”
“What about Southeast Florida? Miami? Ft. Lauderdale?” Sam asked.
“Too ethnic. These boys like their ethnic on a stick.”
“Ethnic on a stick?”
“You know. On a hoe. On a shovel. On a vacuum cleaner.”
“How do you like your ethnic, Bubba?”
“Don’t let the accent fool you, son. The United States military is an integrated institution and has been since Truman. A true meritocracy that proves all racists to be truly full of shit. But I do admit, I don’t appreciate all this god-damned immigration that’s been goin’ on in South Florida for the last fifty years or so.”
Sam felt chagrined at his rebuke. Bubba paused for a breath and continued the tour.
“Immediately on your left you will find Ten-Thousand Islands. Lots of gators and some pretty good fishin’. Just don’t bring your damn dog along and let it hang over the side of the boat yappin’ its fool head off. Some dumbass Yankee does it every year. Pure gator bait.”
“It’s a maze of channels and streams and little islands.”
“Exactly. Get a good local guide or you’re screwed. Even a GPS won’t save your sorry ass. Gotta be in your DNA. You got families that have lived in and fished that country for generations. Those islands were a big drop zone during the cocaine cowboy days in the seventies. A q-beam and a john boat and grandpa and little Billy Bob could make more in one night than a whole year of fishin’. The feds tried to set up a sting and got so damn lost they had to send out helicopters the next day to find the mosquito-bitten sonuvabitches. Then they tried to infiltrate a couple of those tiny little towns. Nobody said nothin’. So they finally put up the radar balloons.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
Bubba smiled. “I do have a little brother named Billy Bob.”
“What are radar balloons?”
“You’ll see ‘em. Weather balloons with radar. Strung along the Keys at an elevation of one thousand feet. A damn flight hazard, but it put the feds on those boys before they could slip in low and drop the goods.”
“One east-west road down there?” Sam asked.
Bubba nodded. “Alligator Alley. Only way through that mess. If you’re driving to Key West, you gotta go almost all the way to Miami and then drag down Highway A1A thru the upper, middle, and lower Keys. Damn near seven hours driving time from here. And you and I, lucky aviators that we are, will be beginning our descent in about ten minutes.”
“At least this flight makes sense,” Sam mumbled.
“Look, son. You got any questions about this here outfit, you just ask. Pilots are sorta like rich peoples’ maids and nannies. We blend in with the furniture. People forget were there. We know a thing or two about the folks we work for. About what makes ‘em tick.”
“Thanks, Bubba.”
“You wanna take a shot at putting this aluminum bucket of bolts on the ground in one piece?”
“Maybe another time. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“A blue margarita on the rocks,” Dr. Bob replied to the waitress.
Sam and Dr. Bob were on the second floor balcony of the Blue Veranda overlooking Mallory Square in Key West. The sun had become an orange fireball and was sinking into the neon blue-green waters of the Keys. The arms of both men were draped over the black wrought iron railing; the infectious laid-back attitude of the Keys was already beginning to take hold.
“I’ll have the same,” Sam added.
Sam was both wired and wrung out from his unexpected flying lesson, and hoping that the alcohol would flush the remaining adrenaline out of his bloodstream. Suddenly the crowd below erupted in applause as the last orange sliver o
f sun sank below the horizon.
“What’s that about?” Sam asked.
“Key West tradition. Applauding Mother Nature for the show.”
Sam nodded his head appreciatively as he sipped his margarita.
“What’s the deal with the chickens?” Sam asked. Two huge blue roosters graced the front entrance of the restaurant. Placed where lions should have rested.
“There are a lot of free roaming chickens in Key West. Noisy as hell and they crap everywhere, but they’re actually protected. It’s crazy, but they’re sorta like mascots for Key West.”
“But this is a seafood place.”
Dr. Bob shrugged his shoulders. ”That takeoff was like an e-ticket at Disney World, Dawg. I thought you said you knew how to fly?”
“Barely. Certainly not a jet.”
Dr. Bob laughed. “You should have seen the face of that uptight dude sitting across from me. I swear he thought he was going to die.”
Sam shook his head as they both laughed. “So, Bob, where did you get your degrees?”
Dr. Bob studied Sam before he spoke. “Dade Technical Institute. Nine-month program. But that was really more of a certificate. Does my G.E.D. count as a degree?”
Sam stared open-mouthed before finally responding. “I thought you were a doctor of . . . something.”
“The title is more of an honorary thing.” Dr. Bob paused. “I knew you wouldn’t respect me in the morning.”
“No. It’s not that at all. I’m amazed. I have some experience in your area, and I saw some of your code this morning. Before you got to work. I don’t know what to say. Were you exposed to computing while you were growing up?”
Dr. Bob began to laugh, but his face bore a sad expression. “Dawg, the only thing I was exposed to growing up was junkies and whores. I just got lucky with my wiring, I guess. And lucky when Judge Mason took me under his wing.”
“Judge Mason?”
Dr. Bob finished up his drink and tipped the glass in the direction of the waitress after he caught her attention. “Marc’s dad. Believe it or not. He’s a federal judge in Miami. And a very good man. I probably owe him my life.”
“What happened?”
“I was doing a little self-medicating and got caught up in this federal drug bust. I was just a punk user. For some reason Judge Mason became interested in my case. Got a hold of some old IQ tests from when I was a kid. Thought I had potential. Put a Martha Stewart anklet on me and got me into some computer tech classes. I ate it up, Dawg. And here I am.”
“Sounds like you owe your life to yourself. Pulled yourself up by your own bootstraps.”
“No. That’s not true. I needed help. For some reason the Judge decided to reach out to a smartass Cuban kid on junk. He got me my first real job. And I’m still there seven years later. I owe him big time.”
“He got you a job at American Senior Security?”
“It wasn’t called that then. But yeah.”
“Was Marc there then?”
“Naw. I knew Marc was having some trouble on the employment front, so when an associate counsel position opened up I let the Judge know. Marc interviewed and got the job.”
“You got Marc a job at American, and now he’s your boss?”
“It’s cool, Dawg. Marc has done amazing things. It’s a whole new company now.”
“Do you still keep in touch with the Judge?”
“Of course. He’s the closest thing I have to family. As a matter of fact, Bubba’s gonna drop me in Miami on the way home. I’ll crash on the Judge’s couch, have breakfast with him and then catch the shuttle back to Tampa. You hang loose in the a.m., and I’ll pick you up for lunch. We’ll talk business tomorrow. Now we need to focus on the menu.”
“I thought we were having the yellow-tail snapper?”
“Yeah. But they serve it fifty-seven different ways.”
CHAPTER 12
The Cadillac slowly idled past the Mediterranean style two-story stucco home. Judge James Mason was at the wheel and Dr. Bob was slumped down in the passenger seat with his face lit by the dim glow of a laptop. James looked up at the two dormers that jutted out from the red tile roof. That was where he was going.
The house was actually two and a half stories with a full attic. He still technically owned the structure, but no longer lived there. He’d also driven by the previous night, and the same lights were on. The first week in November had always been Lorna’s spa week with her girlfriends, and she was proving true to form. He was sure that Lorna would be surprised that he remembered.
James carefully turned onto the narrow concrete driveway designed for vehicles of an earlier era, and the vehicle slowly crept past the large house. He came to stop in front of what Lorna called the garden shed. James called it an old garage that was too small to accommodate his vehicle. After sitting in the dark for several minutes to ensure that he had not attracted any unwanted attention, James set the interior light switch to the off position and stepped out of the big sedan.
All was quiet except for the year around hum of South Florida insects and the clacking of Dr. Bob’s laptop. The cloyingly sweet smell of night blooming jasmine hung in the moist air. It was a familiar scent to a man that had lived in the same house for most of his adult life. James gently pushed the car door shut and walked to the back door.
As he peered through the gauzy curtains, James could clearly see the blinking light. The alarm system had been activated. He could only hope that Lorna hadn’t changed the code. From years of practice the key easily found its mark and slid into the old deadbolt. But it wouldn’t turn.
“Damn it,” James whispered under his breath as he realized that the locks had been changed. He stepped back and looked at the door disapprovingly. If she changed the locks, then she probably changed the alarm code as well.
As he contemplated the situation, James recalled that the dormer windows were unlocked. The wood frame windows had swollen over the years and the clasps no longer aligned. He hadn’t bothered having the locks repaired for the same reason that he hadn’t bothered wiring the attic windows into the security system. Burglars didn’t bring ladders along when they robbed a house.
But there was an aluminum extension ladder in the unlocked garden shed. James moved to the hedge that ran along the property line and studied the pitch of the roof. He shook his head in silent and resigned acknowledgment of the inevitable limitations of age, and walked back to the car. The attic was his destination, but he wasn’t going to get there crawling around on a barrel-tiled roof.
Dr. Bob walked over to the grey plastic box attached to the side of the house and popped the cover open. He held a small penlight between his teeth. Judge James Mason stood beside him and slowly swiveled his head as his eyes scanned the neighbor’s backyard and the deserted street. Dr. Bob disconnected the telephone line in a matter of seconds.
“This is the number one mistake people make in securing their homes. The line should be buried and enter the home from under the foundation. And the telephone network interface box should be placed somewhere inside. Telephone companies prefer this arrangement for the obvious reasons. Ease of installation and ease of access. Now where is that extension ladder?”
“The garden shed. Are you sure you’re comfortable climbing around on the roof in the dark, Bobby?”
Actually, Dr. Bob wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea. Three hours earlier he had been drinking at the Blue Veranda, and despite a large dinner he wasn’t convinced the affects of the alcohol had completely worn off. But the Judge had insisted on picking him up at the airport and had driven straight to his old house. Dr. Bob had visited the home before the Judge and his wife had separated, but had never felt comfortable there. At least not when Mrs. Mason was around. And he knew he wasn’t gong to be any more comfortable on top of the house than he’d been inside it.
“Piece of cake, Judge.”
Dr. Bob returned from the garden shed with the aluminum extension ladder and placed it against the porc
h roof. From the porch roof he would pull himself onto the second story roof, and then climb on all fours up to the dormers. The high top sneakers he wore were perfect for the task. As he stepped onto the first rung of the ladder, he turned to Judge Mason to explain his plan.
“After I enter the attic I will disconnect the audible siren. Are you sure it’s mounted in the attic?”
“Right next to the dormer windows.”
“Good. That’s actually a pretty smart location. I mean it would have been if the attic windows had been wired. Now remember, after I open the attic door and enter the second story the alarm system will technically be activated. But it’s sort of like a tree falling in a forest when no one is there to hear it. Does it really make a noise?”
“Bobby.”
“Yeah, Judge?”
“We’re sort of exposed here. Let’s hurry this thing up.”
“Oh yeah, right. I’ll meet you at the back door.”
James Mason watched Dr. Bob climb up the ladder and scurry across the roof to the dormer windows. After he had pulled himself through one of the small windows, James retracted the aluminum ladder and carried it back to the garden shed. Then he walked to his car and retrieved a leather trial bag, which looked like a small fat suitcase and was designed for carrying case files. Dr. Bob was waiting for him as he approached the back door.
“Like I said, Judge, piece of cake.”
“That’s great, Bobby. Let’s get inside.”
After they stepped inside the back door, Dr. Bob continued with an explanation of his plan.
“I’ve already killed the power to the alarm system. When you’re done, I’ll reconnect the phone line and the siren and restore power. The system will return to its default settings, and the access code will be 0000. We’ll leave it that way because we have no way of knowing what code your wife selected. When she returns home and enters her code, the alarm will activate and the security company will contact her and have her disarm with the default code. They’ll attribute the malfunction to a power surge and have her reprogram her personal access code. Like I said. Piece of cake.”
