Andrew Towning
Andrew had his first Jake Dillon adventure thriller, The Constantine Legacy, published in 2006. His writing is a reflection of his extensive travels and inherent interest in national security and covert operations. Andrew lives with his family in Dorset, where many of Dillon’s tours take him. Andrew is currently completing yet another in the Dillon series of adventure thrillers.
Dead Men Don’t Bite
---------------------------------Andrew Towning
Copyright Andrew Towning 2013 All rights reserved. There is no part of this book that may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, by any means without written permission of Andrew Towning, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in their review to be printed or reproduced for social media broadcast.
ISBN: 978-1482754667 First published in the United States in 2008 Second edition published in Great Britain in 2013 Published by Andrew Towning www.andrewtowning.co.uk
Chapter One
FLORIDA, USA Dillon pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road and switched on the interior light to check his map. It was just after four-thirty in the morning, outside the temperature was still in the high seventies and uncomfortably humid. Tampa was three hundred and eighty miles back up Florida State Highway forty-one, which meant that Key Largo, must be very close now. There was a crossroad about half a mile away. Selecting drive, Dillon spun the all terrain vehicle off the dirt and back onto the tarmac in a cloud of dust. The signpost showed the small town of Homestead to be no more than a couple of miles up ahead and Key Largo ten miles further on from there. Taking a cigarette from the open packet on the passenger seat, he lit it with a solid gold lighter.
It was raining very heavily. The road stretched out before him, a fork of lightning shot out of the low cloud to his right and he selected a station on the radio listening to a little night-time jazz music, occasionally humming the tune until he came to gates on the right and slowed to read the sign. Flaking paint and years of weathering made it difficult to read, but the inscription was clear enough. Johnson’s Field. He went through the gates and followed the dirt track to the edge of the grass runway.
Switching off the lights he paused thinking what a remote sort of place this was. A couple of wooden huts to one side and a large 1940’s Nissen type hanger but no control tower although there was a wind sock of sorts and light streaming out of the partially opened hanger doorway as well as from the window of the nearest hut. He gently eased the Jeep forward and across to the far edge of the field; keeping to the blind side of the buildings, he sat there in the dark, taking stock of his surroundings for a moment and then took the Glock from the holdall on the seat next to him. He checked the black 10mm automatic and slipped it into the shoulder holster then pulled up the collar of his flying jacket as he started towards the hanger in the rain.
Johnson’s Field is a crop duster’s strip, the overwhelming smell of Avgas drifted in the damp night air across from an old hand operated bowzer. Two antiquated aeroplanes stood to one side in the old run-down hanger but the aircraft that stood on the other side in the dim light looked well enough, a Cessna Skyhawk with a single prop piston engine. A young Hispanic looking mechanic in overalls had his head inside the open cowling. The cabin door was open and another much older man with a clipboard sat in the pilot’s seat.
The man inside the cabin climbed down and the mechanic closed the engine cowling, and as they emerged the older man called. “We’re finished over here, Mr Parker.”
A tall-distinguished looking man in his late fifties emerged from an office doorway at the side of the hanger. He wore a smart charcoal grey business suit and a white shirt and dark tie loosened off around the neck. “All right, you fellas can go.” As they walked away he said to the young mechanic in Spanish, “Any problems, Fernandes?”
“No problems, Senor Parker, just a little fine tuning.” “Let’s hope, Senor, that this Englishman Dillon turns up on time or else I will have been wasting my time.”
As Parker turned, a bearded man in his mid thirties came in, the baseball cap and waterproof bomber jacket he wore beaded with rain.
“He’ll be here,” Parker told him. I’ve been reliably informed that this is one party he’ll not want to miss.”
“An English thrill seeker” the young man said with a sneer. “That’s what we’ve come down to. The kind of man who is nothing more than an adventurer.”
“Listen up sonny, if you want to go instead of the Englishman, then what are you waiting for? The plane’s over there, be my guest. But the odds of you coming back at all are pretty slim. The DA’s department is all over us on this one and boy do they want a result. Hell; I’d deal with the devil himself to get this one in the bag.”
“Which you’ll probably have to, Senor.”
“Now that’s not a very nice thing to say – is it?” Dillon called in fluent Spanish. “Not nice at all,” and he stepped out of the darkness from behind a stack of old rusty fifty-gallon pesticide drums at the rear of the hanger.
The bearded man put a hand inside his jacket, and Dillon’s gun appeared instantly. “Hands high above your head, that’s it, nice and easy now.”
Dillon walked out into the middle of the hanger and ordered the bearded man down onto his knees extracting a Smith & Weston from his right hand jacket pocket. “Well look at this, you really can’t trust anyone these days, can you? Tut–tut, didn’t your mother tell you that you can pinch your fingers in these nasty noisy things?”
Parker said, “Mr Dillon? Jake Dillon?”
“That’s what it says on my passport.” Dillon slipped the Smith & Weston into his belt, took out a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket and managed to remove one while keeping the Glock trained on the man with the beard. “And you are?” His speech was clear with a very English public school accent.
“I’m Dan Parker of the FBI, and the man you have on his knees is Steve Rainer, head of our Miami office. He arranged the plane and just about everything else around here.”
“Did he now? Well that’s something to be said in his favour.” Dillon took the Smith & Weston from his belt and handed it back. “Perhaps, Mr Rainer here would feel far happier behind a desk. Playing with guns is a mug’s game, especially when you leave the safety on.”
The bearded man flushed deeply; took the Smith & Weston and put it back in its holster as he stood up. Parker said mildly, “Mr Rainer is far happier using a high velocity sniper’s rifle, and he is an expert shot as well as a first rate field operative. Who, I might add, has flown covertly into Cuba many times over the last three years.”
“Then why isn’t he going this time?” Dillon asked, slipping the Glock back into the shoulder holster.
“Because, I asked for you personally.” The accented feminine voice came from the hanger entrance. Only her silhouette could be seen in the powerful headlights of the vehicle that she had just stepped out of. The tall ravenhaired young woman walked slowly into the building and across to where Dillon was standing. With every confident step, her well fitting stone washed denim jeans, showed off long slender legs to full effect. “You - Mr Dillon are late,” she said in Spanish.
Parker quickly stepped forward. “Let me introduce you to Miss Catalina Romerez, Mr Dillon, our agent in Havana and your guide.”
“Is she now?” Dillon said. “So, tell me Agent Romerez, why choose me? Why not one of your own people, here in Florida or Cuba?”
“Because, Mr Dillon, I’ve been reliably informed by London that you are the best. I’ve also read your record and I must say it’s very
impressive; public school education, university honours degree in psychology, and then from there into Army Intelligence where you made quite a name for yourself. Since resigning your commission you have worked covertly on many assignments both in the UK as well as overseas.”
Dillon walked over to the stack of rusty old drums, and sat on one, he didn’t interrupt or make any comment, he just let her talk.
“Speaking to Mr Levenson-Jones in London, he informs me that you have been suspended from active assignments with his department indefinitely, and that your employers Ferran & Cardini have been advised by the British Secret Service to terminate your contract with immediate effect.” The twenty nine year old agent, with the pussycat like eyes, paced slowly around the hanger in a large circle while she demonstrated that she had done her homework. “I would have thought, Mr Dillon. As it was that unfortunate incident in Dorset which caused your present predicament, that this unofficial assignment would be just the kind of opportunity you’d be looking for? You also know Harry Caplin; what he looks like, how he operates and in particular his weaknesses. In fact I believe it was you, whom he, what is it you say in England? Ah yes, led up the garden path. Is that not correct?”
“Well now, listen to the little lady from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It’s plain to see that you know very little if anything about Harry Caplin, and even less about actually flying into Cuban airspace without getting blown out of the sky. Let me tell you something about dear old Harry, Agent Romerez. I do know what he’s capable of, and he really isn’t a very nice drug trafficker. As for the rest, well let’s just say that he’s extremely well practised in the art of lying.” He saw that the mechanic who was leant against the wing of one of the crop dusters was smiling.
“Ah, so you do speak English then?”
“A little Senor.”
“Fernandes is Cuban,” Dan Parker said.
Dillon looked up. “What do you think?”
Fernandes said, “I was in the air force for eight years. I know the airstrip that you will be flying to. It was abandoned by the military in the sixties during the Russian missile crisis. It’s only ever used as an emergency strip now, but the runway is sound enough though.”
“What about the flight?” Dillon asked Steve Rainer.
“It’s one hundred and forty miles of low altitude flying to the abandoned strip on the North East Coast of Cuba, very close to the infamous ‘Bay of Pigs’ Mr Dillon. But, if you’re just some weekend private pilot out here seeking revenge I’m afraid you won’t last more than forty miles.”
Dillon looked at the bearded man and speaking softly said. “Let’s just say, Mr Rainer that I’m not interested in taking revenge, that’s not my style, and I’m not that kind of pilot. So what can I expect along the way?”
“Water, lots of water, you’ve got the Atlantic on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the other. There are a few small islands along the way but nothing much until you reach Cuba. By the way, the twenty four hour weather forecast stinks, I checked it myself earlier but that’s not your only problem, it’s the air force, they patrol the whole area regularly.”
“Russian built Mi-8 helis – right?”
“Right first time, Senor.” It was the Cuban who answered in Spanish. He slapped the wing of the Skyhawk with one hand. “This is a first rate aeroplane, but no match for the heliii - copters, they are very fast.” He looked Dillon in the eye. “But maybe you have a death wish, Senor?”
“That is enough Fernandes,” Parker said angrily.
“Oh it’s been said many times before, goes with the job, old son.” Dillon laughed as he picked up his holdall off the floor. “Now then Miss Romerez, why don’t you and I go and take a look at the charts.”
As they moved towards the office Parker said, “Our people did make it clear? If the Cubans catch you, my orders are to deny all knowledge of this operation. You’ll be on your own.”
“Understood,” Dillon said over his shoulder.
They went into the office where a number of charts were spread across a large makeshift table in the middle of the room. Dillon took two and started to study them in detail pushing the rest out of the way.
“When would we leave?” Romerez asked.
“Eighteen hundred hours,” Dillon told her. “Best time of all, we’ll arrive just before sunset. I really do hope that this rain keeps up though.”
Romerez, genuinely curious, said, “Why did you agree to do this? Why risk your life? It’s certainly not for the pay and you don’t seem the type to have to prove yourself.” She seemed suddenly embarrassed. “What I mean is. I know something of your past, but…”
“Is that so?” Dillon said. “Well as Parker said, this is one party that I wouldn’t miss. I owe dear old Harry a very long time in the State Penitentiary.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, why risk your life? Because that’s exactly what you’re doing, you know?”
“Oh, I’m forgetting.” Dillon looked up and gave her a lop sided smile, his face took on warmth and immense charm. “I should tell you Romerez, that I’m the last of a long line of great British adventurers. Now let’s see exactly where it is we’re going, and by the look of these charts, we have a lot to get through today. So we’d better make the most of the time we’ve got.” Leaning over the charts he began to study them, and her, more closely.
It was 17.45hrs, the rain was much heavier now, the clouds staying low and menacing as Dillon stood in the doorway of the wooden hut, and peered out across the field. Every now and then a fork of lightening would appear somewhere in the distance. Dan Parker and Steve Rainer came out of the hanger and walked toward him.
The tall-distinguished looking man in the suit said, “Romerez tells me that you’re going to fly, can you really expect to take off in this weather?”
“The problem is not taking off, it’s the landing, now that will be fun.” Dillon called over to Fernandes, “Is everything set?”
Fernandes sauntered as far as the hanger entrance wiping his hands on an oily rag, he looked out, standing just inside and keeping well out of the rain. He called over to where the three men stood under the canopy of the hut. “Yes Senor, both fuel tanks are full and everything is working perfectly.”
“And what about this?” Dillon asked Steve Rainer, pointing up to the dark sky.
Looking up towards the thick black clouds the bearded man said gloomily. “As of thirty minutes ago, the short range weather forecast for this region is the same as was earlier today. This is here to stay for at least the next twelve to twenty four hours and it’s going to get far worse before it gets better, have no doubts about that.”
“Excellent news, then let’s get this show on the road shall we?” Dillon said cheerfully and walked over to the hanger entrance, Fernandes gave him a sullen look of contempt as he passed by towards the Skyhawk.
He climbed into the interior and started to go through a series of pre-flight checks. Looking around the cabin everything appeared to be in order. Stepping out of the small aircraft, Dillon checked that both fuel tanks were full, and did the same with the engine oil. Walking once around the Skyhawk he inspected the condition of the airframe, wings, rudder, and ailerons. This done he climbed back into the cabin to find Romerez already sat in the co-pilot’s seat running through the instrument checklist.
Dan Parker came over as Dillon settled into the pilot’s seat. “Good luck Agent Romerez and may God go with you, Mr Dillon.”
“I very much doubt that Agent Parker, but I suppose that there’s always a slim chance that he may.” And he closed the door and clamped it in place.
He turned the starter switch, and the engine coughed, roaring into life. Romerez set the GPS navigation system, while Dillon checked that the oil pressure was correct, and that both magnetos were ok, with a quick pull back on the controls to make sure they were full and free moving. Dillon then set the channel frequency to the one Dan Parker had given him to monitor the Cuban Air Force, and then switched th
e radio off. He checked the brakes and then throttled up gently, easing the small aircraft forward.
Outside the hanger he paused to strap himself in. Rain streamed off his windscreen, as he did one last instrument check, and then taxied to the other end of the runway to turn the aircraft’s nose into the wind. He glanced across at Romerez, and then pushed the throttle lever fully forward. The single engine roar deepening as he boosted the power. Thundering down the bumpy grass strip, he checked his speed, sixty and seventy, eighty knots. Rotate, he said to himself, and then gently pulled back the stick, within seconds the Cessna had disappeared in a southerly direction into the stormy Florida sky, the sound of the engine already fading.
Parker ran a hand over his cropped silver coloured hair. “God, what a crap job this is sometimes.” He turned to Rainer. “What do you think? Has he got any chance at all of bringing this guy Caplin back?”
Steve Rainer shrugged. “He’ll be all right, that one is like a fox, cunning and resilient. But then who knows, he may get his British head blown off?”
Parker said, “We’ve got a long wait ahead of us, let’s get some coffee.”
Fernandes said sullenly, “I’m going back to the hanger to clear my tools away.”
Parker and Rainer walked the short distance towards one of the huts. He watched the pair of them go up the steps and inside the timber building before taking out his mobile phone and dialling a series of numbers. When a voice answered he spoke rapidly in Spanish. “This is Fernandes, get me Colonel Serra.”
The clipped reply came almost immediately. “Serra.”
“This is Fernandes, I’ve got something for you Colonel. A Cessna Skyhawk has just left Johnson’s Field, two occupants, one FBI, heading for the abandoned military strip on the northeast coast. The aircraft radio has been set to your own frequency, but I’ve no doubt the Englishman will have it switched off until the very last minute.”
“Who is this Englishman, anyone we know?”
Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 1
