Alpha Kat

by William H. Lovejoy

  But the airplanes continued to come and to go.

  And the master was often in residence.

  *

  Brock Dixon took the call on his secure line.

  “Marvin Nash, General.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “Phoenix.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Kimball blew my cover.”

  “Shit! What happened?”

  Nash reported the set-to with Kimball in the vacant hangar.

  “He got the camera?”

  “Yes sir, but it only had pictures of his own airplanes. He’s already seen them.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Well, there’s a few shots of some of his personnel.”

  Jesus Christ. All he needed was to have someone make a connection between Nash and the Air Force Intelligence agency. The papers would play it up for all it was worth: “AFI Spying on Civilian Manufacturers.”

  “Get the hell out of town, Nash.”

  “Yes sir. But you know something, General …”

  “What, damn it?”

  “That’s a hell of an airplane, sir. I’ve been watching it for two days, and —”

  “Back to Washington, Nash. Report to me.”

  *

  Kimball landed his Alpha Kat at the Buckley Air National Guard Base east of Denver at three o’clock in the afternoon. He fell in behind a blue Chevy pickup with a “Follow Me” sign on the back, and taxied to an area where a dozen elegant F-4 Phantoms were parked. He had always liked the Phantom, a stalwart of the Vietnam era.

  An airman waved him into line, then gave him a cutthroat signal. Kimball shut down the turbofan, then the rest of his systems. Raising the canopy and lowering the ladder, he shrugged out of his harness and parachute, then unstrapped his helmet and placed it on top of the instrument panel.

  He stood up in the cockpit and stretched. The flight from Phoenix had taken less than an hour. He had gone supersonic for about half of it.

  While a couple of ground crewmen chocked the wheels, he slipped his legs over the coaming, found the spring-loaded toehold doors for his boots, and worked his way down to the ladder, then to the ground.

  A beige Plymouth sedan crossed the tarmac and pulled up beside him. The back door opened, and he looked in to see Wilcox.

  “Jesus Christ, Kimball! You weren’t supposed to bring the goddamned airplane.”

  A crowd was already forming. Puzzled airmen and weekend fighter pilots emerged from hangars and airplanes and gathered to inspect the strange-looking Alpha Kat.

  “It’d have been out of character for me not to bring it,” Kimball said. “I advertise, remember? And would I give up a chance to park the Alpha on a military base?”

  “Get in.”

  Kimball got in and sat next to Wilcox.

  The driver kept his eyes trained forward. He was dressed in a dark suit, but he wasn’t a chauffeur by career choice, Kimball guessed.

  “We going to get us a drink or dinner?” he asked.

  “I was going to, yeah, but now I want you back in that plane and off this base.”

  Wilcox handed him a black attaché case.

  Kimball rubbed his thumb over the leather. “Nice case.”

  “Keep it. The data we have on Lon Pot’s operations is in one folder. All of your clearances and permits are in there. Also duplicate sets of passports and visas.”

  “Duplicate?”

  “For all of your pilots. If somebody goes down somewhere sensitive, we want him carrying bogus ID.”

  “That’s a little silly, isn’t it, Wilcox? All they’d have to do is round up a few pieces of airplane, and they could figure it out.”

  “Tomorrow morning, a Federal Express truck will deliver some packages.”

  “Christmas, already?”

  “They’re self-destruct devices. I want one mounted in every damned plane you’ve got.”

  “Ever since I said yes to this little enterprise, you’ve gotten pretty damned bossy, Wilcox.”

  “You going to do what I say.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not in this particular case.”

  “Then I guess we’ll sabotage the airplanes.”

  He was going to do it, anyway. Kimball didn’t want any of his personal high-tech secrets falling into the wrong hands. But if he could irritate the man from the CIA, he didn’t mind doing that, either.

  *

  Despite what he had told Emilio Lujan, Derek Crider did not return immediately to Washington. If he could avoid the truth, he always did. It kept people from knowing too much about him or about what he was doing.

  He flew to Puerto Rico and checked into the Condado Plaza Hotel in San Juan.

  After an excellent and leisurely dinner of lobster tails, Crider took a taxi to Old San Juan, then got out and strolled along Avenida Ponce de Leon. The tourists swirled around him, reacting negatively and positively to the chants and promises of the hawkers outside storefronts. Trinkets and T-shirts, scarves and baseball caps were offered at supposedly cutthroat prices. A little something to prove to the neighbors that Thelma and Walter had actually made it to the island.

  It was a sultry night, the heat not dissipated by any breeze from offshore. Crider ambled along the sidewalk, letting others dodge him since he was bigger. Everyone was happy. No one seemed to notice the cold gray eyes that swept the street, looking for inconsistencies in the crowd.

  He saw no problems for himself, and he turned down a side street to the Avenida Fernandez Juncos and slipped into a small bar. It was smoky and loud. A jukebox thumped hot reggae. The long bar was crowded, and all of the tables were occupied. He found the one he wanted far back, just outside the corridor to the reeking bathrooms.

  He walked up to it and looked down at the four men sitting around it, drinking from long-necked bottles of Corona.

  “Hey, Crider. Take a load off.”

  The man named Wheeler slid his chair sideways and grabbed a fifth chair from the adjacent table.

  Crider sat down and nodded at the others. He had met them and fought with them at various times in his life.

  Wheeler, the only name he ever gave, was an ex-Navy SEAL. The right side of his face was scarred from a splash of napalm.

  Del Gart had been in the Fifth Special Forces at the same time as Crider. He was as hard and tough now as he had been then, though now his skin was tanned the color of deer meat and his fair hair was bleached to white. His specialties were munitions and communications.

  Corey O’Brian started out with the Irish Republican Army and, when the manhunt for him became too intense, volunteered elsewhere. Crider had met him in Angola. He was almost as good as Gart with bombs. Almost, since he was missing three fingers on his left hand.

  Alan Adage was a hell of a sniper, a trade taught him in the Marines’ First Recon. His dark blue eyes were as cold as an Arctic night, and his nerve was smooth and steady. He wore a full beard which matched the brick red of his hair.

  “Everybody must be hungry,” Crider said, “or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Always use a spot o’ cash,” O’Brian told him.

  “Anybody to wonder where you went?”

  They all shook their heads. They lived in places like Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras, and their neighbors were probably glad to see them leave.

  “You said the money’d be good,” Wheeler said. “How good?”

  “Hundred grand apiece. You’re in for the duration, but that’s maybe a month, five weeks. If it goes longer, I’ll boost the money.”

  “Who’s the contractor?” Adage asked.

  “No need to know,” Crider said. Hell, he didn’t even know, but he had some good ideas. He would never pursue them, of course, because people in his profession did not do that. Not if they wanted future work.

  Wheeler asked, “This gonna to be wet work?”

  Crider canted his head sideways and raised his hands palms up. “Don’t know about that, yet. Could get
that way, but preferably not. If it gets to hostile fire, you get a bonus of twenty thou.”

  “I’m in,” Adage said.

  “Why not?” O’Brian agreed.

  Wheeler nodded his head.

  Gart asked, “We get to play with HE?”

  Crider said, “High Explosive figures prominently in this job.”

  “Yeah, I’ll go along,” Gart said. “What’s the action? Political?”

  “There’s probably some politicking involved, but nothing that concerns us. We just guarantee that some airplanes don’t fly.”

  “Piece of cake,” Wheeler said.

  Takeoff

  Eight

  Shortly before four o’clock in the morning, Jimmy Gander turned his F-150 Ford pickup into the parking lot. From the height afforded by the oversized wheels and tires, he could see across the lot to three rows of cars idling in front of the hangar. The violet sodium lamps of the lot cast an eerie glow over everything.

  He pulled up in the third row behind Luke Frale’s Buick Regal, and the pickup’s headlights shone through the rear window, illuminating Luke saying goodbye to his wife and three kids.

  Shifting to neutral, Gander set the parking brake.

  “I thought I was long past being an Air Force wife,” Mollie said.

  “Hey, baby, it’s only for a couple of weeks. We hop into one place, hop out, and head for another place. It’ll be over in no time.”

  Gander shifted around to face her, leaned forward, held her cheeks in both of his hands, and gave her a kiss on the lips.

  “You be careful, James Gander.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I mean it. No risk-taking.”

  “You know me, Mollie.”

  “You’re damned right I do. That’s why you’ve got to promise me.”

  “No risks,” he said.

  “Cross your heart?”

  “And yours,” he said and did.

  He kissed her again, then opened the door and slid to the ground. He fished his duffle bag out of the pickup bed as Mollie closed the door and rolled down the window.

  “Tell Timmy goodbye for me.”

  “We could have wakened him.”

  “He needs his rest.”

  “And I need you,” she said. “Remember your promise.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She leaned through the window to kiss him again, then released the brake, shifted into first, and rolled away. The dual exhaust gurgled merrily behind her, and Gander watched after her until the truck turned out of the lot.

  Heading for the door, he said hello to wives and kids he knew and greeted the sleepy-eyed men who would be going with them. The atmosphere had a carnival edge to it, and once inside the hangar, away from their families, the male voices picked up tempo and volume. They were off on a happy crusade, a long-promised quest to sell the airplanes and realize some of the gold.

  It was a vacation, long overdue.

  His cowboy boots clacked on the linoleum as he went down the hall and into the hangar proper. A crowd was gathering near the hangar door, and the chatter was lively and vibrant.

  Sam Eddy McEntire stood near the Judas door in the sliding hangar door, and he called out, “All right, you guys! Nobody goes through that door until I’ve checked your passports and luggage. Ain’t no snakes, booze, Gila monsters, or Playboys going with us, so get rid of them now. We’re not taking this trip to offend our hosts.”

  “Ah, hell!” somebody called back to him.

  “Shed the contraband and line it on up, boys! Let’s get this show on the airways. Command pilots, check in with A.J. first thing.”

  Since he was a command pilot for the first leg, Gander sidled through the crowd to where Kimball and Soames stood together.

  “Mornin’,” he said.

  Kimball grinned at him. “Come on, Gandy, smile!”

  “It’s too damned early in the morning. But I’m happy, Kim, believe me.”

  “Good deal.”

  Soames handed him a thick attaché case. “There’s your paperwork, Jimmy. It’s so pristine, it squeaks.”

  “Damned better squeak,” Gander said.

  “Main thing,” Soames said, “don’t get nervous when the Customs boys are going through your stuff.”

  “I got bogus passports stowed all over the plane, and I got fifteen tons of illegal missiles, A.J. Why should I get nervous?”

  “You’re a good actor,” Kimball said, “that’s why you drew the assignment.”

  “Never acted in my life.”

  “You’re a natural,” Soames said.

  “Break a leg,” Kimball added.

  Shaking his head, Gander moved over to get in line for McEntire.

  When he reached him, McEntire said, “What’s in the bag, Gandy?”

  “Shorts and socks.”

  “Good enough. Passport?”

  Gander handed it over, and McEntire leafed through it, then gave it back.

  “You’re all set.”

  “You want to trade places, Sam Eddy?”

  “I know too much. Luck be with you, Gandy Dancer.”

  Gander stepped through the Judas door and crossed the tarmac to the transport. He met Walt Hammond, who was serving as crew chief on the C-141, and they did their walk-around together. They poked their heads into wheel wells and access doors, looked for fluid leakage, and checked for free movement of surfaces that were supposed to be free-moving.

  People were clustered around both Starlifters when he climbed through the crew hatch and shoved his duffle into one of the lockers in the crew compartment.

  He opened the door into the cargo bay, turned on the overhead lights, and walked through the seventy-foot long space.

  The loadmasters, sternly governed by Tex Brabham, had carefully placed the cargo, spreading the weight. Most of the ordnance was tied down near the front end, the specially marked boxes and crates at the bottom of the stacks. There were 30,000 pounds of live missiles, bombs, and cannon rounds under there somewhere, and a like amount was aboard the other C-141. Thirty tons of lethal weaponry on both transports. Just enough to allow them seven sorties, if that many were required. Kimball and McEntire seemed to think they could accomplish the mission with three raids. On top of that in each plane was another twenty tons of demonstration ordnance. The rest of the bay was filled with two startcarts, a tow tractor, missile dollies, big tool chests on casters, crates and cardboard boxes of replacement parts, jerry cans of lubricating oil, water cans, and boxes of Meals Ready to Eat (MREs) in case anyone got hungry along the way.

  His plane carried a small portable crane, its boom folded back over its squat body.

  There was slightly over forty tons of materiel, near the cargo weight limit for the transport.

  The other Starlifter, commanded by Mel Vrdlicka, was provisioned the same way except for the addition of a spare KM-121 turbofan engine on its own dolly. It was the only complete spare engine they had.

  As he headed back toward the front, Howard Cadwell stepped through the hatch.

  “How’s she look, Jimmy?”

  “All tied down, Cardsharp.”

  “How come you don’t look proud?”

  “If I wanted a bunch of passengers on my airplane, I’d be flying for United. I like a cockpit with just me in it.”

  “Ditto.”

  They went back to the crew compartment, and Cadwell climbed the short ladder to the flight deck to begin the checklist. From his attaché case, Gander took his passenger manifest and checked off everyone that was supposed to be with him. Counting Cadwell and himself, there were ten.

  The count of noses came out right, and Gander said, “Okay, Walt, button her up.”

  Hammond secured the hatch, and Gander climbed to the flight deck. George Wagers, known as the “Gambler,” followed him up. Wagers was acting as navigator/flight engineer for the cross-country trip.

  Sidling into the lefthand seat, Gander took off his cowboy hat, hung it on a bulkhead hook, and donned hi
s headset. He rested his feet on the rudder pedals. Checking his watch against the chronometer on the instrument panel, he said, “Six minutes after four, gentlemen. We’re already late.”

  “We’re late, we’re late! For a very important date,” Cadwell said.

  “Ah, shit, Howard. Don’t go quoting literature all the way to Africa.”

  “You know Alice?”

  “She’s the only one I know.”

  “The Alice I like,” said Wagers, “is from Massachusetts. She used to run a restaurant.”

  “Goddamn it. This is going to be one damned long trip,” Gander said. “Light ’em up.”

  He wished Kimball had assigned him to an Alpha Kat, where he could be by himself.

  *

  Since the view all around the compound he called Fragrant Flower was so dismal, Lon Pot had provided his own view. The window wall of the main house looked out upon a garden fabricated by his architects and landscape designers. It filled the entire courtyard of the compound.

  Orange trees, Russian olives, pine, and Colorado Blue Spruce had been imported in near full-grown sizes and planted randomly. Gravelled walks meandered through the forest, skirting elevated ponds that spouted miniature waterfalls. Rocky outcroppings had been transposed from the nearby mountains, and their crevices were filled with gold, red, and yellow blossoms.

  The garden seemed to flow inside the house, which is what it was supposed to do.

  The two-story-high ceiling of the living room and the walls were finished in matte white, and one wall was spanned from one end to the other by a black marble mantel. Centered beneath the mantel was a large fireplace, flanked by sunken bookcases. All of the books were bound in black leather, and their titles were stamped in gold. There were over three thousand books written in English, and although Lon Pot’s reading ability in English was not yet rapid, and he stumbled over many of the longer words, he intended to read them all. He had already read Thackeray, Machiavelli, some of Emerson, one volume of Winston Churchill’s work, and a Harold Robbins’s book called The Adventurers.

  He particularly liked Machiavelli.

  His living room had been copied from a picture he saw in a magazine in Hong Kong, though many of the touches were his alone. The carpeting was deep and plush and ultra white. The tables and sideboards were of hammered brass and had come from Saudi Arabia. All of the randomly spotted chairs and sofas were upholstered in bright red. The lamps were of crystal, and their shades were covered in pure white silk. Over the fireplace was an oversized copy of a Picasso print.