The Bombardier Challenger 604, a long-range wide-body corporate jet, could fly at speeds of four hundred sixty knots for a distance of nearly thirty-eight hundred miles. Equipped with state-of-the-art instrumentation, the jet sported what was known as a full “glass cockpit,” rapidly becoming the norm among general aviation aircraft. Sixty-eight feet long and nearly twenty-one feet tall, the jet had a wingspan of just over sixty-four feet. Although not nearly as corpulent as airline aircraft, the Challenger dwarfed the ground crew.
The jet’s paint scheme was unusual, with both wings and the underside of the aircraft burgundy, and the top two-thirds painted white. The required registration number was painted across each of the two General Electric CF-34-3B turbofan engines in burgundy twelve-inch-high numbers—N319CB.
While the Challenger was being fueled, the lineman buried his hands under his armpits in a vain attempt to keep them warm, all the while bouncing on his toes.
Two men in pilots’ uniforms, with classic leather bomber jackets, gloves and aviator-style Ray-Ban sunglasses, walked around the aircraft conducting a preflight inspection. One of the pilots pointed to the landing gear door at the nose of the Challenger.
Another man, in a considerably different uniform, loaded food and beverages from the catering service van onto the aircraft.
Out of the cabin doorway stepped a large man wearing a jumpsuit with the Longhorn Aviation logo on the left breast pocket and carrying a toolbox and a clipboard. He adjusted his cap against the gusting wind, then descended the stairway and walked over to the pilots. He set his toolbox down on the tarmac and handed one of the pilots the clipboard. The man cupped his hands in front of his mouth and blew his breath into them. A puff of steam slipped through his fingers. He spoke to the pilot, who signed the clipboard and handed it back to him. Tucking the clipboard under his arm, the man picked up his toolbox and disappeared into the hangar.
The lineman secured the fuel pump, logged the number of gallons pumped on his clipboard, tore off the top copy and handed it to the copilot. With the sheet in hand, the copilot climbed the stairs into the aircraft to make required weight and balance computations.
The black limousine pulled onto the tarmac and drove toward the Challenger, stopping within thirty feet of the cabin door. Two men in navy blue trench coats scurried from the limo, taking their places next to the rear passenger door. The men could have passed for brothers except for their age—maybe father and son. Both were large, six-four, maybe six-five. Both had broad shoulders, red hair and freckles—the elder’s hair a shade darker than the younger man’s.
Their trench coats draped over them, concealing their weapons. The bodyguards scanned the area, moving in synchrony, each keeping one hand in his coat pocket and using the other to open doors and move luggage. The elder of the two men opened the limousine door and a tall man dressed in a dark brown three-piece suit stepped out.
Laurence O’Rourke had gained more than twenty pounds since his days in the Maze prison. Weighing in now at one hundred ninety pounds, his six-foot-three frame made him look tall and lanky. He stepped from the limousine, a gust of wind rocked him backwards and tousled his gray hair. He placed his hand against the limo to catch himself. He took off his silver metal-framed glasses and tucked them into his vest pocket, retrieved his briefcase from the seat, and walked toward the jet, flanked by his two bodyguards.
The pilot greeted O’Rourke with a handshake. The lineman took the baggage and secured it in the aircraft while the pilot escorted O’Rourke onto the aircraft.
The lineman spoke into a handheld radio and one of the pilots closed the cabin door. Within two minutes the left engine started the familiar whirling sound of the turbines spooling up, followed by the thundering sound of ignition. The smell of burning jet fuel flooded the tarmac.
The Challenger remained motionless for several minutes. Then, with a short burst of power, it started to move. As the jet taxied away from the hangar, the right engine ignited with another roar. The aircraft disappeared from sight as it taxied to the departure end of the runway.
Standing by the edge of the hangar, the assassin watched the Challenger thunder down the runway, past the hangar, becoming airborne and then banking into a climbing left turn. He unzipped his coveralls and stepped out of them, revealing his new appearance—khakis and a button-down blue oxford shirt. He wadded up the coveralls and tossed them into the corner of the hangar. He slipped on a brown corduroy sport coat with brown leather elbow patches, threw his mechanic’s cap onto the crumpled coveralls, put on his Donegal tweed cap, and grabbed his travel bag.
Casually walking into the parking lot, he pulled out his Blackberry and sent a message:
O’Rourke enroute to Savannah, departed 7:40 lcl, expect arrival approx 10:40 Eastern Time As before, he sent the message to more than one recipient. Finally, he could get the hell out of Dallas. The first stage of the project was complete. What a God-forsaken piece of land Texas turned out to be. And the people, their obsession with the Old West, couldn’t they just move on?
O’Rourke was finally on his way to Savannah where the assassin’s trap awaited him.
Collins parked Sanders’ old pickup in long-term parking and discarded the keys in a trash bin along the walkway to the terminal building. Arriving at the ticket counter, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his Southwest Airlines ticket, a ticket for a nonstop flight from the Dallas Love Airport to Jacksonville International Airport. There, his leased black Cadillac Escalade was waiting for him in another long-term parking lot. Within a few hours he would be in the Escalade driving to Savannah for the final stage of the Savannah Project.
CHAPTER 5
Gregg Kaplan stood inside the doorway of the radar room at the Savannah Air Traffic Control TRACON, as the Terminal Radar Approach Control was known.
The TRACON was the portion of the air traffic control facility that handled arrivals, departures and over flights by providing radar separation between aircraft. The control tower cab, recognized by its stereotypical glass enclosure at the top of the tower, handled clearances, ground movement of aircraft and other vehicles, and cleared aircraft to taxi, take off and land. The control tower and the TRACON worked in concert to sequence and choreograph arrivals and departures from the Savannah International Airport. The timing had to be precise. The air traffic controller could never make a mistake. Mistakes could cost lives.
Kaplan stepped forward, headset in his hand, and waited at the front line manager’s desk while his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the radar room. “Front line manager” was the coined title the Federal Aviation Administration decided to call supervisors after the agency imposed work rules on the air traffic controller workforce in 2006. An imposition that lasted three years.
In the center of the radar room the manager sat at a gaudy rectangular behemoth the FAA called a desk. It was made up of two three-section consoles, each wrapping around a hundred eighty degrees. A space between the sections allowed the managers to walk through and sit in the seats in the middle. From the center of the radar room, the desk overlooked the four radar scopes.
Four radarscopes and the flight data position, lined up next to each other, occupied the fourth wall. Three walls in the nearly square room were devoid of any air traffic control equipment. No pictures. No tables. No chairs. Nothing—just empty, black walls.
Kaplan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness within a couple of minutes and he saw only two radar positions open. The other two radar scopes were unmanned and their traffic combined on the open scopes, standard procedure when traffic volume decreases or staffing is inadequate.
The West and North Radar sectors were combined on the North Radar scope. The South Radar position provided final approach service to inbound aircraft by providing vectors for the approach, prior to transferring control of the aircraft over to the control tower when the planes got within a few miles of the airport. The air traffic controller up in the control tower cab then cleared the aircraft to land.
The controller rolled his chair back without getting up, and Kaplan whispered, “What’s going on over there? Looks like Annie’s down the crapper.”
The controller replied, “It’s been like this all morning, a steady stream of inbounds. I hate St. Patrick’s Day. It’s getting worse than Thanksgiving. Everybody’s comin’ to the party.”
Kaplan walked up to the South Radar position, plugged his headset into the slot next to Annie’s and said, “Tuber!” She grinned at the word, a dig made among controllers when they got extremely busy.
The term supposedly originated from the dropping of flight plan information printed on strips, usually several in rapid succession, down a tube from the control tower cab to the radar room signifying that there would soon be a departure push and the controller would get very busy—otherwise known as “going down the tubes.”
Annie Bulloch, Kaplan’s girlfriend for more than ten years, had tucked her long auburn mane in a bun. She wore khaki capri pants, his favorite, and, as was her style, a blouse that accentuated her shapely five-foot-three figure. A splash of freckles showed across her upper back just above the low neckline of her shirt.
“I can’t do a repeat of last night if I have to open the next morning,” she whispered. “I’m just getting too damn old to make that kind of turn-around on that little sleep.”
“You didn’t seem too old last night. If I recall correctly, you had enough energy for three rounds.”
She shot him a dirty look. “Have I told you lately that I hate you?”
“No, you don’t, you love me.”
“Dream on, lover boy. You know the attraction’s purely sexual.”
“Whatever. I’ll come by after work and maybe we can head down to River Street. I hear there’s a pretty good Celtic band at Barry’s.”
“Okay, it’s a date.”
Their romance started fast, with fire and passion. At first he likened it to something along the lines of what is now called ‘friends with benefits.’ And the benefits were awesome. Later he realized their commitment to each other was at a deeper level. She had mentioned marriage to him more than once. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea, and deep down he didn’t think she was either. His mindset was that their current arrangement had suited them well, so why change it?
He leaned over and looked at the radar scope. “Mac said you are going home early, give me a briefing.”
Annie pulled up the automated position relief-briefing checklist. “You are working South Radar and Arrival, the weather at the field is marginal VFR with strong winds from the west. The ceiling is low enough to require instrument approaches so we’re using the GPS Runway 27 almost exclusively.
“Some aircraft have used other approaches but all have to circle to land on runway two-seven. Equipment is up and operational except for the primary radar. There is no back-up but it hasn’t caused a problem this morning.”
She continued, “Traffic has been steady but seems to have tapered off for now. Flow control, to Atlanta as usual. They just canceled the ground delay program for Atlanta, but there are ground stops for several airports in the New England states due to the winter storm. You’re working these four here,” she pointed to the data block tags for the aircraft. “This is new business, and it looks like you have another inbound. Any questions?”
“No questions, I got it.”
She unplugged from the position, got out of her chair, kissed him on the cheek and left.
Kaplan, in his usual unflappable fashion, worked his sector load…
“Savannah, Challenger three one niner Charlie Bravo descending to one one thousand with Foxtrot.” “Challenger three one niner Charlie Bravo, Savannah Approach, roger, turn right heading one one zero, descend and maintain five thousand, Savannah altimeter two niner niner eight.”
“Challenger three one niner Charlie Bravo roger.”
“Departure, Cheyenne three one four six two off two-seven out one thousand for three thousand.”
“Cheyenne three one four six two, Savannah, radar contact, fly heading two niner zero, climb and maintain one zero thousand.”
“Heading two niner zero and up to ten, Cheyenne four six two.”
Static…unintelligible.
“Aircraft calling Savannah, transmitting carrier only, unreadable.”
“Attention all aircraft, Savannah ATIS information Golf now in use.” “Challenger three-one-niner Charlie Bravo, the one-five-fiveone METAR wind two eight zero at one-zero, gust to one-five, visibility seven, one thousand six hundred overcast temperature one-one, dew point zero-eight, altimeter twoniner-niner-eight, cleared direct WORIB, expect GPS runway two seven approach.”
He was somewhat relieved that this was his last inbound of the rush to Savannah. He had issued the same weather sequence to every aircraft. The same clearance to the same approach with the same instructions. Boredom took over quickly.
“Challenger three-one-niner Charlie Bravo copy the weather direct WORIB at this time.”
“Cheyenne three-one-four-six-two proceed direct Dublin, contact JAX Center one three two point five.”
“Direct Dublin thirty-two-five, Cheyenne four-six-two. Tell the tower thanks for the graveyard tour.”
“Will do.”
Static…unintelligible.
“Aircraft calling Savannah unreadable.” “Challenger three-one-niner Charlie Bravo maintain two thousand five hundred until initial approach fix WORIB cleared GPS runway two-seven approach at Savannah, report over final approach fix SINBY.”
“Two thousand five hundred until WORIB, cleared for approach, call SINBY, Challenger three-one-niner Charlie Bravo.”
Kaplan leaned back in his chair and readjusted his headset. Air traffic volume at Savannah had calmed down after the arrival rush from earlier in the morning. With St. Patrick’s Day just two days away, many revelers were already flying in for the Irish festival, among the largest in the nation. March 17th was a day when the entire city turned green in celebration. Children and adults looked forward to the excitement as the whole community, regardless of ethnic background, went into a celebratory mode. For Savannah, this time of year turned into a prodigious festival. Vendors would line the streets peddling trinkets and beads, hats and horns, and t-shirts galore, all of them shamrock green or trimmed in neon emerald
The river turned green, the fountains turned green, even the beer turned green. All of this in anticipation of the hordes of people who migrated to Savannah once a year to lavish in the traditional revelry.
What earlier seemed like an endless stream of inbounds had dwindled down to one business jet, two turboprops, and a singleengine Cessna.
A cold front had passed through Savannah overnight. The low pressure center stalled over New Jersey and shut down airports in the New England states with record snowfall and ice from Virginia all the way to Maine. Even the best-equipped airports couldn’t de-ice aircraft fast enough to allow for takeoffs, and with visibilities approaching zero, no landings were being accomplished or attempted for that matter. Hundreds of flights in and out of the Northeast had been canceled and it would be days before the airlines could resume normal operations.
Meteorologists were forecasting this freakish winter storm to stall for the next three days and anticipated snowfall in the Northeast to be measured in feet rather than inches. In its wake it left Savannah with overcast skies and exceptionally strong winds from the west. With winds calming by evening, the temperature was expected to drop, bringing thick fog to Savannah by morning.
“Savannah, Challenger three-one-niner Charlie Bravo, roger, coming up on SINBY leaving one thousand eight hundred” “Challenger three-one-niner Charlie Bravo, roger, radar service terminated, contact Savannah tower now, one one niner point one.”
“Nineteen one, nine Charlie Bravo.”
“Mayday, Mayday, we just had an—”
“Challenger three-one-niner Charlie Bravo, Savannah.”
“Challenger three-one-niner Charlie Bravo, Savannah.”
He pressed the tower cab button and called the controller in the tower cab.
“Local,” the tower responded.
“Jerry, did nine Charlie Bravo come over?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, try him and see if he’s sitting there, will ya?”
“Okay, stand by …”
“Gregg, he’s not here.”
“Well, shit, that’s what I was afraid of.”
He turned around and stolidly called to the front line manager, “Hey Mac, I might have just lost one.”
CHAPTER 6
Jake Pendleton stood in the cold rushing water of Mountaintown Creek in Ellijay, Georgia. The pressure built against his waders, but he wouldn’t yield. He’d been stalking a rainbow trout that had taunted him for two days—he wasn’t about to quit now. Overcast skies kept the temperature pleasantly cool. A passing cold front left it breezy down in the valley by the creek where it was generally sheltered from the wind. The breeze ruffled his dirty blond hair as he watched the rapids. With each gust of wind, a weeping willow reached down to take a sip from the creek.
Twenty feet from the willow was a fire pit. Oak logs still smoldered from the fire he’d started earlier that morning. His gear bag sat atop a pine picnic table next to the pit.
The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series) Page 3
