Shake the Trees

by Rod Helmers

  Governor Lord uttered the words with a cautionary solemnity. He’d called in favors. Primarily from his friend and Republican predecessor in the governor’s mansion, who also happened to be the President’s younger brother.

  Tillis looked over at Sally and winked. “No shit? How’d you pull that off?”

  Lord ignored the question. “There’s a lot on the line here. I know you don’t play well with others, but try. Please try.”

  “I’m thinking about going to Defcon 1.” Tillis announced.

  “What?” Lord almost shouted.

  “I’ve always wanted to place the country on its highest state of military readiness. I’d be making history - the highest we’ve ever gone was Defcon 2 during the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

  “Damn it, Tillis.”

  “Come on. The cold war is over, for god’s sake. It’s not that big a deal anymore.”

  “Tillis, please.” The Governor pleaded.

  “All right. But I would like to carry the football. You know. The briefcase with the nuclear codes. That would be good too.”

  “I’m going to regret this. I know I‘m going to regret this.” Lord was clearly talking to himself now.

  “I’d love to chat, Chuck, but I have to go. I’ve repositioned our carriers, and the Joint Chiefs are pissed.”

  Tillis hit the end button and turned to Sally. “We’re in charge.”

  “Of everybody?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Damn.” Sally sounded awestruck.

  “It’s what I’ve always wanted. All the authority with very little responsibility.”

  With adrenalin surging through his system, Sam yanked Bubba’s body off the yoke and onto the floor. But the corpse was still in the way. In halting bursts of effort, he moved the body out of the cockpit and dropped it near Ellen’s crumpled remains. Sandi looked on, seemingly in shock and unable to move. She was unnerved by the two violent deaths, one of which occurred only a few seconds before and a mere four or five feet away. But Sam finally had enough. He was tired of being a victim.

  As soon as Sam pulled Bubba’s body off of the yoke, the plane’s autopilot had immediately began to recover lost altitude. The angle of ascent had assisted Sam in pulling the inert body down the aisle, and the jet leveled out at fifty thousand feet as Sam turned to make his way back to the cockpit.

  Sam immediately slipped into the left seat of the aircraft and twisted the autopilot bug on the directional gyrocompass exactly 180 degrees. The plane gently turned until it had fully reversed course and was returning to the coast along the same path it had traveled earlier. Sam leaned back in the seat and breathed a temporary sigh of relief.

  Sandi eventually tiptoed around the bodies, and sat in the right seat. After adjusting and securing the shoulder harness, she looked over at Sam and produced a tentative smile. Sam acknowledged her smile and turned his attention to the instrument panel.

  After locating the transponder, Sam changed the code from 7500 to 7700. From hijacking in progress to general emergency. Then he turned the knob on the radio to a frequency of 121.50 - the international frequency reserved exclusively for emergency communications. Information he’d learned almost a decade earlier had somehow been retrieved by his adrenalin-shocked brain.

  Sam reached for Bubba’s headset that had fallen to the floor, adjusted the mouthpiece, and hit the push to talk button on the yoke. “Center, this is Citation Four Niner Foxtrot Zulu.”

  “Go ahead, Citation.”

  “Citation is declaring an emergency.”

  “State the nature of your emergency, Citation.”

  “The pilot is dead. There’s no co-pilot.”

  “Who’s flying the airplane, Citation?”

  “The auto-pilot.”

  “Hold one, Citation.”

  The FAA controller in the tower at Roswell Industrial ripped the headphones off and yelled at Tillis. “I have your bird patched through from Los Angeles Center, squawking 7700 and transmitting on 121.50. It’s reversed course and is heading back toward the coast at 50,000 feet.”

  “Put us on speaker,” Tillis barked as he grabbed a headset. “Go ahead, Citation.”

  Sam looked down at the radio; the gravelly drawl was distinctive. “Tillis?”

  “Sam? Is that you?”

  “Yeah. Where are you?”

  “Roswell Industrial. They patched you through.” Tillis paused and then spoke with obvious concern. “What’s going on there?”

  “Bubba’s dead. Ellen shot him. Just before she killed herself.”

  Tillis glanced at Sally as they both silently acknowledged the accuracy of his grim prediction. “What’s your status?”

  “I brought the bug around 180 degrees; we’re still on autopilot. I think I have about three hours of fuel onboard.” Sam explained.

  “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Sam responded glumly.

  “You’re a pilot. And you have some time in that bird.”

  “I’ve never landed it. I’ve never landed anything except for a little 172. And that was almost a decade ago.” Sam’s voice sounded hollow.

  “I have the best Ten pilot in the world sitting next to me. And I’m looking at a runway that’s over two miles long. We’re gonna bring you back here, and we’re gonna land that bird. You and me.”

  “You’re bringing me all the way back there? Why? To burn off fuel?”

  Tillis looked at Sally and then answered. “That’s part of it.”

  “So the fireball won’t be so big when I land?”

  “Sam, listen to me. I promise that you and Sandi will walk away from this landing. I promise.”

  “Okay.” Sam answered dully.

  “How’s Sandi?” Tillis asked.

  “Fine. Sitting here next to me.” Sam seemed to discover some shred of hopefulness as he continued. “She appears to have more confidence in the pilot than I do.”

  “Let’s get you squared away, Sam. Bump the bug back to a heading of two six five.”

  “Okay. Coming around to two six five. Now what?”

  “The auto-pilot has a descend mode. It’s coupled with the flight management system. I’ll walk you thru the menu.”

  “I’m pretty good with computers,” Sam offered calmly.

  “Right. Sorry. Bring up that menu and punch in a 500 feet per minute rate of descent.”

  “Done.”

  “Good job. Let the autopilot do the work for now. Take some time to relax and collect yourself. Monitor 121.5 and I’ll be back with you in ten.”

  “Standing by on 121.5.”

  Tillis ripped the headset off and turned to Sally. “Call Rodger Rimes and tell him everything. He deserves to know.”

  Immediately after saying goodbye to Sally and hanging up the phone, Rodger Rimes picked it up again and dialed the San Luis Land and Cattle Company. His good friend of nearly fifty years was foreman there, and he needed a favor.

  Actually, the San Luis Land and Cattle Company sold neither land nor cattle. It sold five star accommodations and five course gourmet meals to lawyers, doctors, and corporate executives who hunted and fished its nearly sixty thousand pristine mountain acres. It sold ten thousand dollar bull elk hunts to the rich and powerful. Men who spilled blood in courtrooms and on the trading floors during the week, but whose bloodlust nevertheless remained insatiable.

  But the reason for his call involved none of this; Rodger Rimes was interested in the private runway and the corporate and chartered jets that shuttled sportsmen to and from the mountain hideaway. A runway that was only twenty-five minutes driving time from Rimes Ranch. All of which explained how he and Dustin found themselves hurtling toward Roswell Industrial in a privately chartered Learjet less than an hour after receiving a call from Sally Cummings.

  Tillis peered over the shoulder of the controller. He had the Citation circling Roswell Industrial at ten thousand feet. The glowing radar screen painted a large circle with a radius of nearly fi
fty miles. A hundred mile wide circle of apprehension.

  Tillis and the representative sent by Cessna had gone over everything with Sam. They’d given advice and performed dry runs until everyone involved was numb with mental exhaustion. Now Sam needed some quiet time. Some time for reflection, and some time to recharge his mental batteries. And time was needed for first light to arrive from the east, and for the jet to burn off more fuel. Just in case all the preparations had been for nothing.

  As Tillis leaned back in his chair, expelled a huge breath, and looked with disgust at the sweat soaked shirt clinging to his body, the controller pushed the mouthpiece of his headset away and spoke with equal parts apprehension and concern. “I have an inbound Lear.”

  “God damn it,” Tillis slammed his fist down on the table hard enough to hurt. “I told you to divert all incoming traffic.” The stress of the past two hours was beginning to tell, and he immediately regretted his behavior.

  “I know, but the pilot wants me to tell you that Rodger Rimes and Dustin are on board.”

  “What! How the hell did that happen?”

  “There’s more,” the controller added.

  “Good Lord Almighty. What else could possibly happen?” Tillis threw his arms into the air.

  “The pilot says Rodger Rimes wants a fly-by with the Citation. He said to tell you that Rodger says it’s for Dustin.”

  Tillis was speechless. He turned and looked at Sally. Sally looked at the Cessna rep.

  “No bullshit. What are his chances of landing that airplane and everybody walking away?” Sally asked.

  “This guy?” The rep slowly shook his head. “Fifty-fifty.” The man paused. “On a good day.”

  Sally looked over at Tillis. “You’re an asshole if you don’t let that little boy say good-bye to his mother.”

  Tillis bit his lip and motioned for the controller to give him the headset.

  “Lear, this is Roswell.”

  “Go ahead, Roswell.”

  “Listen, we’re considering your request. But we’re very worried about in-flight turbulence. A fly-by might be too risky for our pilot. We don’t want to unnerve him.”

  “Roswell, you do what you need to do. But I’ve flown close formation, refueled in flight, and played tag at Miramar. I can drive the airplane. Your boy won’t feel a thing. Guaranteed.”

  “Hold one, Lear.” Tillis pulled the headset off. “Fuck me if the guy’s not a former Top Gun. How come absolutely nothing’s easy with this case?”

  It was still dark outside as the Learjet eased up next to the Citation on the right side. The pilot of the Lear brought up the cabin lights; after fumbling around for a moment, Sam did the same. Rodger and Dustin had their faces pressed against the windows. Tears had left shiny trails on their cheeks, but Sandi was dry-eyed and smiling. She waved and mouthed three words several times, and Rodger and Dustin did the same.

  And then it was over. She was looking at the underside of the Learjet as it lifted its left wing. Then all she could see was a small red wing-tip light. Soon even that disappeared. Sandi turned toward Sam, reached over and squeezed his arm.

  Sam was choked up and it took a moment before he could speak. “How can you be like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this. Like everything is going to be okay.”

  Sandi nodded back toward the cabin. “She’s dead.”

  Confusion washed across Sam’s face. “What?”

  “She’s dead. And we’re alive. Everything is going to be okay. You can land this airplane. I know you can.”

  For the first time in hours - maybe years - Sam felt a burst of confidence.

  CHAPTER 57

  Tillis had Sam on a twenty-five mile straight in approach, and he was about to have him initiate a gradual descent. At the risk of sounding like a nag or, even worse, sounding as if he lacked confidence in Sam’s ability, he decided to voice his main concern one more time.

  “I know I’ve been harping on this, Sam, but I’m going to say it one more time. This airplane has a swept back wing and a relatively high stall speed. We have a two-mile long runway, so it’s okay to come in hot. If you get slow, you’ll enter a flat spin and won’t be able to recover.” Tillis paused and then spoke more sternly. “Slow will kill you in this airplane, Sam.”

  “Okay.”

  “Everything is going to start happening real fast now. You have to keep up. Mentally and physically. The speed is going to scare you. I’ve been there. Your natural instinct will be to slow things down. If you give in to that instinct - to that fear - it will kill you.”

  “Okay. I know.”

  “Speed is life. Slow is death.” Tillis repeated the mantra of the night.

  “I get it already.”

  “Speed is life.” Tillis droned. “Repeat it.”

  “I get it.” Sam responded.

  “Repeat it.”

  “Speed is life.”

  Tillis turned to Sally. “Where are Rodger and Dustin?”

  “Downstairs. Watching.” Sally answered reluctantly.

  “Good Lord Almighty. He needs to get that boy out of here right now.”

  “I tried. But he said he’d have to hog tie him to do it. And he’s not going to do that. He’s leaving it up to the kid.” Sally stated matter of factly.

  ”That’s great. That’s just great.” Tillis growled.

  Sam was approaching from the east into a slight headwind. The sun had not yet come up behind him, but a slight miscalculation had been made and the jet was nearly out of fuel. He’d been forced to rely on the moon to brighten the desert landscape below.

  The landing gear was down and locked, and he had full flaps. The added drag had slowed the plane considerably, but as he broke through 1,500 feet the ground seemed to rush up to meet him. The plane seemed to be rocketing toward the runway lights at an unnecessarily high rate of speed.

  Had Sam looked at the airspeed indicator, however, he would have found the opposite to be true. But he did not look at the instruments. His eyes were glued to the earth and asphalt and shadows below, and his hands were wrapped around the yoke, holding on with all the strength he could muster.

  The Cessna rep, the FAA controller, and Tillis all held binoculars to their eyes as they strained to make out the aircraft from the tower.

  “He’s getting slow,” the controller announced.

  “Yeah. He’s going to stall.” The Cessna rep added.

  Tillis brought the headset microphone up with one hand while continuing to hold the binoculars with the other. “Power, Sam. More power.” He said calmly.

  The wingtip lights of the sleek jet begin to wobble as it passed through 1,000 feet, and Tillis spoke more frantically and more loudly with every word. “More power. You’re slow. Damn it, Sam, more power. Right now. Power.”

  Sam’s mind had walled off Tillis’ pleas. Just as it had muted the blaring stall warning horn that signaled impending doom for the aircraft and its occupants. The wingtips began to rock back and forth, and the controls felt mushy and useless. But Sam sat rigidly in his seat, his hands still maintaining a white knuckled grip on the yoke.

  His vision had narrowed and his mind closed ranks. It recognized nothing outside of what was already found there. Sam looked up at the moon winking in and out of the scattered clouds as a soft but insistent inner voice bounced from synapse to synapse. Sam’s right hand finally loosened from the yoke and slowly found the power levers and stopped. Then he gently pushed the levers forward.

  The wings leveled, the nose came up, and the jet shot forward with a burst of power. Suddenly the wheels slammed into asphalt and the plane jumped back into the air.

  “Cut power. Full back on the yoke.” Tillis screamed into his headset.

  Sam heard this time, and slammed the power levers back and pulled the yoke into his chest. The plane continued to hop down the runway like a desert jackrabbit. One tire on the main gear finally succumbed to the tremendous stress of the landing. Smoke began to pour
off the burning rubber of the blown tire as the nose wheel finally settled onto the runway and the jet rolled out at a high rate of speed.

  “Gentle on the brakes, Sam.” Tillis cautioned. “There’s plenty of runway left.”

  “I have smoke in the cabin.” Sam’s shrill voice could be heard over the speaker in the control tower.

  “Go Fire Rescue. Go EMS.” Fric announced over his radio.

  Tillis glared at the FBI agent.

  “Stand down, Tillis.” Fric snapped.

  “What?” Tillis was nearly dumbfounded at the order.

  “My orders say you’re in charge as long as the plane’s in the air. Stand down.”

  Tillis shook his head in disbelief and brought the headset microphone to his mouth one last time. ”Sandi. Remember what we talked about? The cabin door?”

  Sandi had donned the copilot’s headset. “Got it,” she answered readily.

  “Go. Stay low. Cover your mouth. Sam?”

  “Yeah,” Sam answered breathlessly.

  “Expedite shut-down and evacuate.”

  Tillis tossed the headset aside, grabbed a pair of binoculars and walked over to the window facing the now nearly stopped aircraft. The tarmac was lit up like a night football game. Sally grabbed another pair of binoculars and followed. The scene below was already one of barely controlled mass confusion.

  Fire trucks were flooding the landing gear with foam even before the jet had come to a full stop. Uniformed fire rescue men and women wearing respirators were rushing toward the jet, nearly pushing each other aside in an attempt to be first on the plane. EMS techs rushed rolling gurneys toward the scene, and already had oxygen tanks and masks at the ready. Dark colored sedans and New Mexico State Highway Patrol vehicles had screeched to a halt near the aircraft and their occupants were milling about. In the way of those who actually had something to do. And half a dozen reporters had somehow managed to get on the tarmac.

  “Now that’s a circle jerk,” Tillis commented with the binoculars still held to his eyes.

  “Cluster fuck,” Sally replied.

  Tillis dropped his binoculars. “You’re absolutely right. That’s not a circle jerk. It’s a cluster fuck.”