by Tom Hron
Walking around the Gulfstream, he drained the fuel sumps, checked the flight controls, and finished the preflight inspection he knew so well by heart. Next, he lowered the air stairs and climbed into the passenger compartment. Shaking his head in wonder, he gazed at the white leather chairs, inlaid European beechwood writing tables, and nickel-plated accompaniments. Satcoms, Satfaxes, and MagnaStar telephones, along with a complete entertainment center, were within easy reach of every seat. He closed the door, stepped into the cockpit, and saw no expense had been spared there, either. No one knew how to spend money like the Air Force.
The instrument panel had a Honeywell heads-up flight display system, color weather radar, dual flight guidance computers coupled to all the different navigation receivers, and full Collins avionics, including transceivers, transponders, distance measuring, and automatic direction finding. Equipped for CAT 2 approaches, it could land all by itself in zero-zero weather. The airplane had everything and left nothing to the imagination.
He turned on the master switch and watched the airplane’s LCD lighting come alive on the instrument panel. Setting the radios on the ATIS frequency, he listened to the automated information for the airport, giving him the wind, altimeter setting, active runway, and the identifier name of Echo. If there were any subsequent changes in the airport conditions, the next report would be named for the following letter in the alphabet, Foxtrot. He reset the radios to clearance delivery and keyed the microphone.
“Clearance, eight-eight Sierra Tango for Washington National. Can we get out early?”
“Eight Sierra Tango, stand by.”
He knew the controller would quickly see that he was a White House airplane and give him priority, the way things worked when you were an advisor to the president like Skeleter.
“Eight Sierra Tango, clearance,” said the controller.
“Eight Sierra Tango, go ahead.”
“Eight Sierra Tango cleared to Washington National as filed, squawk zero-seven-four-five.”
As required by FAA regulations, Harry repeated the clearance, paying close attention to getting the transponder code right. “Eight Sierra Tango cleared to Washington National as filed, squawking zero-seven-four-five.”
“Eight Sierra Tango, read back correct, have a good day.” He illuminated the start-up checklist and followed it. The Gulfstream shook as its engines spooled up. Next, he read the takeoff sequence, setting the flaps and altimeter, making sure the fuel selectors were on the main tanks. When he saw the airplane was ready, he switched the radios to ground control. Two ramp attendants, hands on their hips, were watching him.
“Ground, eight-eight Sierra Tango at AvAmerica with clearance, taxiing one-niner right with Echo.” The runway was only a few hundred feet away. The attendants were still watching.
“Eight Sierra Tango, taxi one-nine right, monitor tower one-one-eight-seven-five.”
Harry clicked the microphone twice to acknowledge the controller and then switched to the tower frequency. Pushing the power levers forward, he started taxiing as fast as he could, engines whining at bullet speed. One attendant raced for the terminal and the other for a tug.
“Tower, eight Sierra Tango is ready on one-nine right.” He had cheated by a couple hundred feet, praying the tower personnel wouldn’t get too upset with his early call. The tug was coming fast.
“Eight Sierra Tango … ah … position and hold one-nine right and you’re number two behind landing traffic on the crossing runway. Ah … and we have a vehicle on taxiway behind you as well.”
Glancing out the side window, Harry saw the tug was getting too close and in a matter of seconds he’d be blocked off. He added power, turned onto the runway, and keyed the mike. “Sierra Tango’s rolling on one-nine right.”
“Negative—negative, position and hold, eight Sierra Tango. Southwest eighty-six, go around—go around, we have an aircraft rolling on the crossing runway.”
Roaring ahead at full power, Harry rotated the Gulfstream off the runway, lifted the landing gear, and banked around the Southwest passenger jet all in one motion. There wasn’t any use in talking to the tower anymore, or anyone else for that matter, he thought to himself. He had committed another federal crime that meant a life sentence and now there was no turning back. A man on the run if there was ever one, the FBI would throw away the key if they ever caught him, as the timeworn saying went. Not surprisingly, he heard the tower call him again.
“Eight Sierra Tango, Las Vegas tower.”
Seconds passed, and then they called again. “Eight Sierra Tango, we need you to come around and land.”
There was a long silence. Everyone on the frequency was listening. He banked left and kept the airplane just above the ground.
“Southwest eighty-six, Las Vegas tower, do you have the Gulfstream in sight?”
“Roger, he’s heading for Boulder like a bat out of hell.”
Harry grimaced. Now everyone from the Department of Homeland Security to the county sheriff would be convinced that he was going to take out the Hoover Dam, as ridiculous as that was, given that the airplane he was flying could hardly scratch the cement on impact. It would take a nuclear bomb to hurt that monstrosity. And when he didn’t show up there, they’d clear out every hotel-casino in Las Vegas, if they weren’t doing so already. Afterward, they would remember the nuclear power plant at Palo Verde, Arizona, and go crazy trying to protect that place. He was in more trouble than could be imagined. Reaching over, he snapped off the radios. With freedom yet so far away, he didn’t want any more distractions, no matter what they were. It would take total concentration to stay alive, if not a miracle or two.
Blasting by the town of Boulder, he cut between two mountains and dove into the Colorado River canyon. Off radar and running—out of sight and out of mind, at least that’s what he hoped. Yet, deep down, he knew the phones were ringing off the hooks at the Nellis and the Luke Air Force Bases, telling them to scramble their fighters and shoot him down. All he could do was pray it would take them a while to find him.
He flew the Gulfstream along the river as low as possible, with the Willow Beach marina flashing by as he banked around a corner. People looked up in shock as he whistled by just above the water, both engines filling the canyon walls with thunder-shrieks. He went around another corner and under some transmission lines, remembering there was nothing harder to see in the desert. Taking still another sharp turn, he saw the river straighten itself and more transmission lines coming up. He had often flown the area in his Air Force days, and the reservoir above Laughlin and Bull Head City was just ahead. He pushed the Gulfstream even lower. The gamblers along Laughlin’s riverfront were in for a surprise.
Lining up on the Davis Dam, he shot over it and down along the S-turn of the Colorado River that ran past the casinos along the Nevada shore. The mountains on both sides had made him think of a stark moonscape in the past, but now there wasn’t enough time to even look at them, as low as he was flying. The first-floor windows were flashing by, and he’d glimpsed cars running off the road.
The river straightened itself again and headed for Needles. Now he was 200 miles from freedom—less than 30 minutes. His heart was pounding and his eyes ached. Rocketing just above the surface at 400 knots was never easy, and your first mistake was always your last. He streaked through the Mohave Valley, then between two low mountains just north of Lake Havasu and around the bend where the river turned toward Parker, California. Now there was only a 100 miles left. Who had ever said that time flew, especially when every second seemed longer than an hour?
Cold reality suddenly hit him, like a slap in the face. The F-16s and F-18s off Nellis and Luke weren’t his big worry. He had gotten too much of a head start and had been too fast for them. In addition, spotting an airplane against the desert floor, particularly above a winding river, was almost impossible. They were up high, circling, and wondering where in hell he had gone. Yuma would be his problem. He had forgotten the Marine Corps Air Station at the airpo
rt, the country’s busiest aerial weapons training center. He was about to slap what amounted to the world’s biggest hornet’s nest, although this time the sky would turn black with Harrier jump jets, rather than stinging bugs. He went past Blythe, jumped the bridge on U.S. 10, east of town, and followed the river as it ran south. Mexico was a little closer on the Mexicali side of Yuma, where the border made a sharp bend and ran west, saving him almost 20 miles, maybe the difference between life and death. Leaving the river, he flew over to a row of transmission lines running south and stayed close beside them, passing underneath whenever he could, one side to the other.
All at once he saw them, six black specks just above the horizon. He had won the top-gun award one year and knew what was coming. By now they would have figured out that he was fleeing to Mexico, and so at first they’d try to turn him, force him down by coming so close that he’d lose his nerve and land. If that failed, chances were they had orders to shoot him down. The military couldn’t attack a civilian airplane without the White House’s approval, but with all the high-tech scramblers on board made exclusively for them, he doubted the administration would wait for long. Forty miles from freedom—might as well be a thousand, he thought.
They would come at him in pairs. He climbed just above the transmission lines, then watched two Harriers dive after him. They shot by his nose like lightning, so close he could see the printing on the pilot’s helmets. Pushing the control forward, he flew lower than the lines, praying that he’d clear the creosote brush. The next two Harriers rolled in after him, screaming down, clearly determined to do better than the pair before them. All of a sudden he saw a blue explosion in front of him, the fourth Harrier having hit the topmost power lines, arcing them like a giant electric welder. The wounded Harrier quickly flew off, smoking and much slower now, heading for the Yuma airport as fast as its damage would let it.
Harry rolled, pulled up like never before, and flew the Gulfstream close behind the crippled jump jet, hiding inside its hot exhaust. Now no one could shoot him down, at least not without killing them both. The heat-seeking and infrared missiles wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the two. He had won, hope against hope, and now freedom was only a few miles away. The Harriers wouldn’t dare cross into Mexico, not without causing international outrage. All hell would break loose and Congress would be forced to investigate, something the White House wouldn’t risk.
One of the remaining Harriers came up on his wing and flew in close formation with him, its pilot watching him carefully. The gray, stub-winged fighter with all its weird louvers, exhausts, and weapon pods looked almost like a Mesozoic flying reptile, Harry thought to himself. He waited until the international border was almost below him, then dove across. A sense of loneliness set in, leaving him thinking of his home and his country. He might never be able to return, not after what he’d just done.
He turned on the flight director, started climbing to 40,000 feet, and activated the proximity warning system for any conflicting traffic along his flight path. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he found the phone number that Apache Joe had given him the day before. Stepping back into the passenger area, he sat in one of the posh leather chairs and dialed the number. It answered on the third ring.
“Joe, this is Harry Sharp.”
“Hey, how’d things work out for you?” Joe’s voice was filled with curiosity.
“Not so good, because I’m running for my life.”
“What in hell happened?”
“Some guys were waiting for me when I got home, and they wanted to take me on a one-way trip, if you know what I mean.”
“I told you that you should have stayed with me. Where are you at now?”
Harry took a deep breath. “Over Mexico in a White House jet, heading south at four hundred knots.”
The phone went silent for a moment, then Joe finally said, “You got to be kidding.”
“No, afraid not. It looks like an advisor to the president had something to do with my crash, though I have no idea why, or even how, for that matter. Anyway, I stole his airplane when he wasn’t looking.”
“How in hell did you do that, for Christ’s sake.”
“I saw him fly into the air base I used before I crashed, and after I tried calling from your ranch, he must have guessed that I’d return home. He flew into McCarren and waited for me. The airport always parks its visiting executive jets behind the Tropicana. Gives the high rollers easy access to the Strip.”
“You sure know how to burn your bridges behind you. Godalmighty, I wish I could have been there.”
“I guess you were in a sense, and so that’s why I’m calling. You better go on high alert. I’m sure by now the FBI has looked at enough video at the Phoenix Airport to know exactly who you are and where you live, and they’ll follow that up by studying satellite photos of your place. They’re probably on their way to see you right now.”
“Hey, once an Apache, always an Apache. They’re going to have a hell of a time finding me.”
“Maybe it would be better to just tell them the truth, that you don’t know a damn thing. The worst they could do is make you take a lie detector test. That isn’t going to hurt you.”
There was another pause on the line. “That might not be so good, you know,” Joe finally answered.
“What’s wrong? Are you wanted for something, for God’s sake?”
“No, but I got a few things hid back in the mountains, and, well, you know how picky the Feds can get nowadays.”
“Jesus, what kind of things?”
“Is it safe to talk over this phone, because I don’t want to get into more trouble?”
“I’m sorry, I should have said something right away.” Harry scrunched a regretful face. “This plane is so full of scramblers that no one can understand a word we’re saying. We’re as safe as it can get.”
“I’ve collected a few things through the years. An Army gunship and some M-16s, stuff like that. Things I used back when I was a lots younger.”
“You stole a helicopter?—” Harry shook his head. Joe was not only a surprise, he was a giant, freaking enigma. “What were you planning to do, start a war, for Christ’s sake? I don’t believe it.”
“No, nothing like that. The thing was sort of mine once. The one I got shot down in, anyway. I took it from the military bone yard in Tucson that was going to cut it up for scrap metal. I thought I might just need it someday.”
“I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. If you get crosswise with the government, it might be a lot sooner than you think. Maybe you better get out of there.”
“Can I come join you? My friends will look after this place while I’m gone.”
“Sorry, but I can’t let you do that. Right now, I’m number one on all the wanted lists, and you don’t need that kind of trouble. I like you too much.”
“Where you headed?”
“I’ll land in Mexico City and catch a flight to Bahrain, which is an island state in the Persian Gulf. I have a friend who lives there, Shawki al-Hada, an old college roommate of mine who’s a nephew of the emir. He’ll protect me until I can decide what to do, and the Middle East will be the last place in the world anyone will look for me, especially these days.”
“Will I ever hear from you again? I want you to keep in touch.”
Harry waited a moment. “Okay, I promise, just give me a little time. The thing I’m in the middle of … well, it just doesn’t make any sense to me right now. Wish I could talk more about it, but I don’t want to compromise you any more than I have. You might be in enough trouble as it is.”
“Don’t worry about me none,” said Joe. “Listen, there’s the dumpy country bar at the end of the road where it comes out on the highway that I took you on. It’s called Cannibal Junction. Maybe you remember it?”
“A little…”
“The guy who runs it is a friend of mine and his name’s Max. He’s an ornery old bastard with only one leg, but he always knows what’s going
on and how to keep his mouth shut, if you know what I mean. Get hold of him if you ever can’t get hold of me or need to leave a message or something, okay?”
“Now you’ve got me more worried than ever.” Harry shook his head sadly. “Don’t get into a fight with the FBI because it’s just not worth it. Be careful.”
“Jesus, you’re the one to worry about. What are you going to do when you land in Mexico City, and how do you know customs isn’t going to throw you in jail for the rest of your life?”
“Not to worry. I’ll give the commandante the airplane keys and a couple thousand bucks, then tell him to have a nice day. He’ll be happy to see me disappear, since it’ll just make things a lot easier for him. His government will probably put a hundred hours on the plane before they give it back to Washington, meanwhile blaming me for everything.”
“I sure envy you and wish you’d let me come along.”
“Joe, I’ve lost everything, probably forever. Right now, there’s nothing I have that you should ever want. Be happy right where you are.”
“I suppose … Listen, will you let me know how you’re doing then, you know, when you get settled over there?”
“Okay, I promise.” Harry caught himself nodding his head, even though there was no one to see him. Somehow, Joe had become the surrogate for the family he’d lost so long ago, a simple honest heart from home. Saying good-bye, he hung up the phone and looked down at the lonely brown mountains of Mexico.
The world seemed so perfect from above, as if there were never any iniquities anywhere and the angels had only left good things behind. Yet, the ugliness was still down there, waiting. He then wondered what the morrow would bring him. Regardless, he would have to start over and get even stronger.
CHAPTER 7
JOE’S RANCH
After Harry’s call, Joe sat at his kitchen table thinking about the single thing more certain than death … change … everything always changed and that inevitable change never stopped. You were a long way toward becoming sagacious once you got that in your head.
