“I think I can fix that,” I said to Ollie, taking my own phone out.
Before I could pull up Deuce’s number, the phone in my hand chirped, displaying his name as an incoming call.
“I was just about to call you,” I said. “Everything’s under control here, and all the players are in custody.”
“Lane escaped, Jesse,” Deuce said.
Though the air was crisp and cold, I felt beads of perspiration forming on my forehead. Sounds became more acute and my vision narrowed.
“When? How?”
“Jimmy took him something to eat,” Deuce said. “He got too close and Lane knocked him out, then he somehow unlocked the handcuff on his ankle and stole Andrew’s boat.”
“Is Jimmy okay?” I asked, as I started toward my truck.
“Yeah, Lane cuffed him to the bed and when Jimmy came to, he got Finn’s attention, and Finn woke Andrew up. Jimmy said it happened at sunrise, so maybe an hour ago. It was slack tide and Andrew took one of your boats and could still see the line of disturbed water heading northeast. He’s giving chase, but you know what his boat has for power compared to El Cazador.”
“Northeast?”
“That’s what he said,” Deuce replied. “He also said he didn’t have much gas in the boat.”
“I’m on my way,” I said, spotting Sheena and angling toward her.
“They had two more gallons hidden in the lab,” Sheena said as I approached her. “It’s official; the biggest LSD bust in history. Right here in tranquil Shenandoah Valley.”
“I have to leave,” I said. “Stuart Lane is loose in south Florida, bent on killing my ex-wife.”
I didn’t wait for her reply but turned and started toward my truck.
“Craig, you got this?” Sheena shouted urgently.
“Yeah,” he called back. “What’s up?”
“I’ll text you,” she yelled back, then came running up alongside me with her pack slung over one shoulder. “I’m going with you.”
I didn’t argue. Having her along might expedite a few things. Minutes later, the truck was bouncing down the double rut toward the side gate, all four tires chewing and spewing snow and mud.
Powering onto the paved road, I left the truck in four-wheel-drive and drove faster than would be prudent on the snow-covered road.
“Do you plan to drive all the way to Florida?” Sheena asked. “I can arrange a plane.”
“I have a plane,” I said. “Just a few miles away, at the airport.”
“I can get a faster one,” she said. “But it’s at Reagan.”
Did Lane know the waters of Florida Bay? Nothing in his bio suggested he did. When looking at a map of south Florida, northeast would be a straight line between my island and Miami. But it was forty miles of open water, some of it not very deep, just to reach the mainland. Then it was another fifty across the southern half of the Everglades. No, he definitely didn’t know the water.
“Yours can’t go where we need to go,” I told Sheena.
“We can go into any airport in the country unannounced.”
“There isn’t an airport where we’re going,” I told her.
“Where’s that?”
“The Everglades.”
She turned in her seat to face me. “You have a seaplane?”
“An amphibian; a 1953 deHavilland Beaver and she can take off and land on a field or lake the size of a football field.”
“How far away and how fast?” she asked, typing on her phone.
“Almost a thousand miles,” I said. “We’ll have to stop once to refuel, but we can be there in six or seven hours.”
“We have a G550 available at Reagan. It can be in Miami ninety minutes after taking off. Is there someplace there to rent a seaplane?”
She had a point, but I had a better idea. I pulled my phone out and handed it to her. “Find Billy Rainwater in my contact list and put him on speaker.”
“S’up, Kemosabe?” Billy answered.
“I don’t have a lot of time, Billy. Driving fast on a snowy road. Can you have your Beaver warmed up and ready in two or three hours?”
Billy understood the urgency in my voice and didn’t ask unnecessary questions. “Yes. Do we need any special gear?”
“Have a rifle on board,” I said. “I’ll give you a precise ETA when we’re wheels up out of DC.”
“Headed over to the airport now,” he said, then ended the call.
“Where is your friend?” Sheena asked, as I turned onto the loop road around Staunton.
“Tell your Gulfstream driver to come to Shenandoah Regional to pick us up,” I said. “Have him file a flight plan to LaBelle Airport. It’s about halfway between Miami and Tampa, on the northern edge of the ’Glades.”
She typed on her phone some more, then paused for a moment. It pinged and she looked up. “The Gulfstream will be there in twenty minutes.”
Once on the interstate, we could make better time. There was little or no snow; it was all piled up on the shoulder, apparently by a snowplow.
When I turned into the airport’s general aviation parking lot, I saw the Gulfstream business jet taxiing toward the fixed base operation terminal. I could also see Island Hopper, her red aluminum skin glowing against the overcast sky. I loved the old bird, but she was slow in comparison to the Gulfstream.
When Sheena and I walked out onto the tarmac, the Gulfstream was parked right next to Island Hopper and the pilot was walking around her.
“Is that yours?” Sheena asked me, as the pilot turned and came toward us.
“Yeah,” I said. “She might not look like much, parked next to that jet, but she goes where I need her to go.”
“She’s a beauty,” the pilot said, extending his hand. “Bruce Carson.”
“FBI SAIC Sheena Mason,” Sheena said, shaking the pilot’s hand, and flashing her credentials. “This is my associate, Jesse McDermitt. You have the airport we need to get to?”
“LaBelle,” he said, leading the way to the boarding ladder. “Already programmed in. We’ll be there before noon.”
The turbine engines started to whine as we climbed up the ladder. The interior was luxurious compared to Island Hopper, with comfortable-looking tan leather seats for ten people. Carson pulled up and latched the door as the plane began to move.
“Have a seat anywhere and buckle up,” Captain Carson said. “We’ll be at cruising altitude in just a few minutes. Maybe then, Mister McDermitt, you can come up and tell me about your plane.”
“Sure thing,” I replied, looking past him toward the open flight deck. “Love to check this baby out, too.”
I was only in my seat a moment when the jet turned onto the taxiway heading toward the downwind end of the runway. A few minutes later, the engines roared and I felt myself being forced hard against my seat back, as I’d never experienced before. It seemed like only seconds before we were airborne and climbing rapidly at a very steep angle. Instantly, the plane was enveloped by the low-hanging snow clouds, but that only lasted a few seconds until we blasted out of the clouds into clear blue sky. Within five minutes, we’d leveled off well above them and a moment later, the hatch to the flight deck opened.
The co-pilot came back to where Sheena and I were seated. “Mister McDermitt, the captain asked if you’d like to join him on the flight deck.”
“What’s our plan when we get to LaBelle?” Sheena asked.
I looked out the window beside her. We were at least eight miles above the ground. “We’ll fly a lot lower and slower over the ’Glades and Florida Bay until we find Lane.”
Sheena started typing on her phone screen, and I rose and went forward.
“Permission to enter, Captain?” I asked at the hatch.
“Have a seat,” Carson replied. “I had to get out when I was on the apron and admire your Beaver, e
ven if only for a few seconds. When I was a kid, my dad flew one in Alaska. Is she all original?”
Sliding into the co-pilot’s seat, I looked over the array of gauges and switches, noting our airspeed and altitude. Gazing through the windshield, it was impossible to tell that we were traveling at nearly 600 miles per hour.
“I doubt there’s an all-original Beaver anywhere in the world,” I replied. “Island Hopper has her original engine, controls, and instrumentation, but the interior has been modernized. I use her to take fishermen into hard-to-reach places.”
“Exactly what they were designed to do,” Carson said. “My dad swore it was the best bush plane ever built. I remember him taking off from a snow-covered field behind our house. He’d be airborne within a hundred yards. So, you own a charter business?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Are you with the FBI, too?” I asked.
“Me? No. From what I gather, the FBI only has a few planes. They have contracts with several companies for when they need one. Our company sometimes works with them and other government agencies. The boss bought this a month ago and we just finished the trials. He wanted it just in case we need to move someone a long distance really fast.”
“It’s a beautiful aircraft,” I offered. “Who do you work for?”
“We’re actually a research company,” he replied. “But you probably never heard of us. Armstrong Research.”
The boat was incredibly fast. Once Stuart passed the green marker showing the entrance to the channel, he gleefully pushed the throttles farther until the boat was racing along at 50 miles per hour. And there was still some throttle left.
On the dash in front of the helm was a large, covered instrument screen. He removed the cover and saw that it was kind of like the GPS and fish finder on his bass boat, but a lot bigger.
Stuart slowed a little and studied the screen. When he turned it on, a map appeared showing his location as a boat-shaped icon near the bottom of the screen. It didn’t show much of anything else, though.
He turned the large knob at the top and the map image zoomed out, showing a group of islands behind him. He zoomed out further until he could see all of south Florida. The place he’d just left was in a cluster of small islands north of the center of a long line of them extending from the southern tip of Florida. The map showed Miami and he was headed straight toward it.
It also showed an area of light green between his location and the city. He assumed that was shallower water and he’d have to slow down when he got near it. But it looked like the shallow water extended all the way to the western edge of Miami.
The water had only a light chop, kind of like the lakes back home. Stuart kept looking back but saw no other boats. After fifteen minutes and what he guessed would be almost fifteen miles from where he’d stolen the boat, he felt sure that nobody was following him.
Looking at the map again, he noticed a panel beside it that listed a bunch of numbers. He got closer and saw that one box gave his location in degrees, another showed the boat’s speed, and another gave his heading. At the bottom, a steadily decreasing number showed that he was in only fifteen feet of water.
How could the ocean be this shallow so far from land? he wondered, as the numbers ticked down to ten feet.
“Holy shit!” Stuart shouted, as he looked ahead and saw a sea gull standing on an exposed sandbar.
He spun the wheel and pulled back on the throttles too hard, nearly swamping the boat. His wake passed him and washed up onto the sand, causing the gull to take flight, crying out loudly at the intrusion.
Stuart looked at the map. He was in only four feet of water and in danger of going aground. He zoomed in until Miami disappeared from the screen. The sandbar, along with a bunch of lines, appeared. The lines on the map had numbers, and he guessed that they were lines showing depth, since he was between the one that read 5 and the sandbar now lying fifty feet off to his right.
He’d have to be careful and keep the map zoomed in to show detail. He studied the lines and saw that the five-foot depth marker curved away to the south, blocking him from reaching Miami. He’d have to go back a considerable distance and then go east to get around it. The other way, it curved closer to the green area.
Green, he thought. Not shallow green water, but land. He zoomed back out until he again saw Miami.
“So why no roads or towns?” he asked aloud.
The gull landed on the sandbar again and cried out, as if telling him to go away.
Stuart realized that if it was a map for boats, there was no reason for it to show roads and towns and stuff. It’d just show the water and the outline of land.
He zoomed out again until he could see where he’d started from. He was more than halfway to land. He just had to go around this shallow spot.
Putting the boat into gear again, he steered due north, zoomed in on the map until he saw the depth lines, and then followed the ten-foot line. He soon felt comfortable enough to go a little faster and pushed down on the throttles. Once the boat got up on plane, he could see the color change as the shallow, greenish-gold water to his right dropped away to darker blue on the left.
Finally, the ten-foot line swirled back to the east and he could resume his northeasterly course. He kept the map zoomed in so he could check it now and then for other shallow places.
Ten minutes later, he could see palm trees ahead. Dry land. He could ditch the boat, find a car, and make it to Miami before nightfall. The people who’d stopped him the night before would probably be watching the house again, but he’d find a way to get past them. There was always a way.
He thought again of the hot, older woman who was staying with her tall, hard-bodied daughter. He’d find a way, and he’d make sure that he was compensated for the extra time and humiliation of being caught and tied up like a dog.
One of the engines sputtered and the boat suddenly slowed. Stuart pulled back on the throttles and looked at the gauges, just as one of the tachometers dropped to zero. The engine had died.
Then he saw why. The gas gauge was bouncing on empty. With just the one engine running, he kept going toward shore, the beach now just half a mile away.
The water got shallower. He looked at the gauges and hoped he’d have enough gas and water to reach shore. A beeping sound came from the map thing on the dash. The depth number was flashing 4 and when he looked over the side, he could clearly see the sandy bottom.
Stuart had no idea how shallow the boat could go but knew that the propellers were probably the deepest part. Finding the engine tilt controls, he raised the engine that wasn’t running until it was all the way out of the water. Then he raised the other engine so the prop was just below the surface and continued onward. Still several hundred yards from shore, the other engine died.
“Dammit!” Stuart shouted, as he looked around. The beach was vacant, which struck him as odd. He thought all of Florida’s beaches were covered with girls in bikinis and surfers and backed by high-rise condominiums. There was none of that here, just miles of empty beach.
Stuart looked down at the bottom. The water was only three feet deep, but the boat was now drifting away from shore. He needed some time to figure things out and he didn’t need to spend that time moving away from his destination.
He moved to the front of the boat and studied the anchor. It was resting on a pulpit, but the chain fed through a round thing, then down through the top of the boat next to a hatch. Stuart opened the hatch and saw the chain was probably thirty or forty feet long and was tied to a heavy rope of what he guessed was a hundred feet or more. There was a release lever on the side of the mechanism and when he flipped it, the anchor fell into the water with a splash.
The anchor reached the bottom almost immediately, but the chain continued to rattle up and out of the storage area. Stuart waited until nearly all of the chain was out and flipped the switch back to lock. A sudden silence fell
all around him.
At the helm, he zoomed the map out until he could see Miami again. He’d made it less than halfway and would have to continue the rest of the way on land. Stuart looked toward shore. All he had to do was find a car. He glanced back down at the map.
The beach ahead was called Cape Sable.
Just an hour after we took off, the plane started its descent toward tiny LaBelle Airport. Noting a handset in a cradle, I pointed to it. “Is that a satellite phone?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Would you like to make a call?”
I took my own satellite phone from my pocket and pulled up Jack Armstrong’s number. “Yeah, if you don’t mind. I don’t want mine to interfere with your instruments or anything.”
Carson lifted the handset and gave it to me. I punched in the numbers from my phone and waited.
“It’s me, Jesse,” I said, when Jack Armstrong answered.
“I was just thinking about you,” Jack said.
“Why’s that?” I asked. “Because I’m on your plane?”
There was a brief pause, and Carson looked over at me.
“I knew the FBI was using it,” Jack said. “Are you with them?”
Quickly giving him the information about the bust at Pritchard’s barn and Stuart Lane being on the loose, I asked if he could have the Gulfstream stand by in south Florida for a while.
“I don’t see why not,” Jack replied. “Is the pilot available?”
Grinning, I handed the phone to Carson. “Mister Armstrong,” I said. “He wants to talk to you.”
The pilot took the phone and spoke into it. “Captain Bruce Carson.”
He listened a moment then said, “Challenge word: insomniac.” His eyes went wide as he heard Jack’s response, then he said, “Yes, sir, Mister Armstrong. As long as you like.”
Finally, he ended the call and looked at me. “I never would have guessed you were ARMED.”
“I think that’s the intent,” I said. “I’ve been a contractor for Armstrong Research’s Mobile Expeditionary Division for a couple of years.”
Rising Spirit Page 18
