by Ed Baldwin
Boyd was exhausted by the end of his story. He’d been in bed for most of the past three weeks, and the hole in his back still had Vaseline gauze covering it while scar tissue built up to cover the missing piece of scapula and rib. His face must have shown his fatigue.
“I know Constantine Coelho,” Ferreira said. “He lives in San Miguel, in a villa. He owns three tuna boats.” He then reverted to Portuguese, with Angeja translating.
“The Azores’ only exportable product is milk and cheese, but the European Community won’t allow any of it into mainland Europe because the pasteurization process isn’t up to their standards. Constantine smuggles cheese into Africa and sells it.”
“He couldn’t pay for three tuna boats selling cheese in Africa,” Boyd retorted, angry at what seemed a lie.
“He brings back hashish,” Angeja replied simply, not waiting for Ferreira.
“Oh.” Boyd nodded.
“For the tourists,” Ferreira responded quickly.
“There aren’t any tourists here,” Boyd said.
His companions squirmed a bit.
“There are tourists on San Miguel and at Horta. Some Azoreans smoke hashish. It is illegal, of course, and the police have attempted to arrest him, but, like in your country, it is not always possible to prove what everyone knows. Many people live by Constantine selling cheese in Africa.”
“We have people who make illegal whiskey. Moonshiners, they’re called. Their neighbors protect them,” Boyd said, eager to get beyond this part. He couldn’t care less about cheese or hashish, and he was so exhausted he was worried about making it back to the car.
“Azoreans feel left out of mainland politics, and resent any intrusion into their affairs,” Angeja said, “Constantine has played to that emotion very effectively. It will be hard to find him.”
“You said he has a house in San Miguel.”
“He isn’t there,” Ferreira broke in. “I called the police chief yesterday.”
“You have that Casa aircraft. Could we scout the islands in that?”
Angeja squirmed a bit, and Ferreira looked out at the sea. Boyd thought back to the rows of abandoned houses, built to house officers no longer needed, that they’d passed as they drove through the Portuguese section of the base. He’d seen cracks in the asphalt parking lot of the Portuguese Officer’s Club, cracks through which weeds grew because there was no longer enough traffic to keep the asphalt packed down. He recalled also how flying hours had been cut at his own base in South Carolina as the result of a shrinking military budget.
“My agency will pay for the flights, of course.”
“We can leave in the morning,” Angeja said in a rush.
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
Renk, South Sudan
They should have fed the monkeys first. A hungry monkey is an angry monkey, and things got out of hand when Abdul-Haqq opened the first cage. The plan was for him to grab a monkey and let Hassan inject it with a small portion of liquid they’d been given in Khartoum, and they were to then release it on the outskirts of Renk, the first town on the White Nile inside the boundary of South Sudan. The monkey had other plans.
Bypassing the leather glove Abdul-Haqq wore to protect his hands, the vervet monkey chomped down on his forearm with impressive canine teeth. Abdul-Haqq screamed, fell backward and tripped Hassan, who dropped the syringe of liquid. They fell to the ground, and the monkey escaped. Getting up, Abdul-Haqq found the broken glass syringe stuck in his buttock.
Abdul-Haqq wasn’t worried. The night before, when he’d been selected for this glorious mission because he knew how to operate an outboard motor, he’d been vaccinated with the vaccine to protect him from the “Wind of Allah” that would soon sweep the infidel out of the upper reaches of the White Nile.
“Allah will guide them,” Hassan said as he opened the other three monkey cages and stood back as the little band of four vervet monkeys ran into the swamp. He and Abdul-Haqq fired up the outboard and backed into the Nile, the current sweeping them rapidly downstream past the still sleeping guards at the border.
CHAPTER FORTY NINE
A Red Waco
“The National Security Council met last night. Sources from Doha to Cairo have picked up talk of a vaccine of some kind, and a new secret weapon,” Gen. Ferguson said on the secure line in the command post at Lajes.
Ferguson was in his element, Boyd knew. He could visualize him in the DTRA Command Center, barking into the phone, surrounded by scurrying staff officers, an air of urgency and purpose in every move.
“We don’t know anything more specific, but we’re taking it very seriously,” Ferguson said. “The Navy has P-3’s patrolling the Atlantic between the Azores and the mainland, and all along the coast of Africa and the Mediterranean, looking for a 90-foot tuna boat. We’re watching for anyone buying a quantity of the reagents for the polymerase chain reaction, and if anyone in the world tries to pass through an airport with a large aluminum suitcase, they’ll be stopped.”
“Is there really a vaccine?” Boyd asked, standing in the secure command post wearing a new flight suit in preparation for a flight to search the islands with Angeja and Ferreira.
“There’s a lot of skepticism about that here. Joe Smith’s position all along has been that a vaccine makes the disease a very powerful threat as a bio-warfare agent. But, we don’t have any of what Jacques made on that island to test. We have only his brief description of stripping the protein coat and using that as a vaccine, not enough to do anything with.”
“Jacques and his buddy out there on the island sure didn’t have a vaccine,” Boyd responded. “At least, not one that worked.”
“The CDC has isolated all the mutations that took place when Jacques heated the virus too hot, and they’re convinced that the ability to withstand the acidity in a mosquito’s stomach is somehow there.”
“Still got an epidemic back in South Carolina?”
“No! They had a hard freeze last week and we haven’t seen a new case in three days.”
“Any ransom notes?”
“Nothing.”
“How about the people who got sick?”
“Just like the wild virus; 80% have died so far.”
********
“Whoa. What’s that?” Boyd stopped in his tracks as he and Ferreira crossed between two hangars walking from Base Operations to the flight line after his call from Ferguson. Through an open hangar door, Boyd could see a red biplane.
“Our aero club owns that. It is being repaired,” Ferreira said.
Memories of Boyd’s childhood kept him rooted to the tarmac. Peering into the darkened hangar, he remembered souped up Stearman crop dusters swooping low over the cotton fields of his rural Southeast Missouri home. Later, he had flown his friend Ben Culpepper’s King Cat, a modern biplane, in the high plains of Colorado, 1,200 horses in a big radial engine whose deep-throated growl stirred something in Boyd’s soul.
“Wow. That’s a Waco,” Boyd said, walking into the hangar without waiting for permission.
Smaller than the Stearman or the Ag Cat, this Waco had been introduced as an all-purpose trainer in the '40s. Its two open cockpits lined up behind the aerodynamic cowling that housed a large-for-the-time 220-horsepower radial engine. The Waco had two wide stubby wings covered with cloth and braced for aerobatics. The bullet-shape aerodynamic wheel covers were a signature feature.
“Does it fly?” Boyd asked, walking to the front of the aircraft, savoring the aroma of high-octane aviation gasoline mixed with the unmistakable smell of the dope used to paint over the cloth on the wings.
“Sometimes,” was Ferreira’s reply, still standing in the door, smiling. “Angeja flies it. Ask him.”
*******
Banking over the island after their takeoff in the Portuguese Casa 212, Boyd wondered at the primal beauty of the place. The green volcanic mountains in the center were cloaked in cloud, and the verdant periphery contrasted with the deep blue of the Atlantic. By the time they had leve
led off at 5,000 feet, Boyd had spotted three other islands.
“Hey, they’re all right here together,” he commented to Ferreira over the intercom, pointing to the two nearest.
“Sao George, Pico,” Ferreira said, pointing in the direction they were headed. “Graciosa,” as he pointed out the right window. “There are nine.”
Capt. Angeja, the pilot, lit a cigarette, Ferreira followed. Boyd left the cockpit to walk to the back of the twin-engine turboprop. It was a small transport the Portuguese use to patrol the vast mid-Atlantic area for which they have search and rescue responsibility. Using binoculars, Boyd searched the sea on both sides, looking for any larger fishing boats. They descended to 1,000 feet and circled the coasts of Sao George, Pico, Faial and Graciosa, and returned to Terceira. At the end of the day, he’d seen hundreds of little fishing boats moored in scores of villages, a few sailboats, thousands of white stucco houses with red tile roofs, 10,000 black and white cattle, forbidding black lava cliffs smashed by waves, but no tuna boats hidden in any coves.
“Tomorrow, San Miguel and Santa Maria,” Angeja said as they shut down the engines back at Lajes.
Boyd had the feeling they would fly him around all he wanted, but they didn’t expect to find anything.
********
The giant aircraft appeared to float around the island on its downwind leg. Boyd and Angela had driven up the hill at the end of the runway and set up a picnic by the small block building that housed the radio navigation beacon for Lajes. Waves crashed into the island a hundred feet below; a C-5 was on final.
“Look at the wheels. Can you believe the thing has 20 tires?”
The C-5 flew past, at their level, and descended to hit the runway at the end. Smoke from the tires swirled in the eddy currents as the behemoth settled sedately down. It taxied to the end of the runway and then followed a blue pickup truck toward the parking ramp. When the C-5’s four gigantic engines shut down, there was no noise but the wind and a few birds trying to find a roost for the night. Boyd drained the first bottle of beer and opened the cooler for another.
“I’ve seen a few people who’ve been shot,” Angela said, taking bottled water. “I worked the surgery ward at D.C. General in nursing school.”
“I don’t recommend it,” he said, opening a second Sagres.
“You’ve recovered faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“Healthy guy,” he said, brushing it off.
“No.” Her eyes probed his.
Boyd broke eye contact, turned and sat on the blanket.
“I’m not over it. I still can’t raise my hand above my head,” he demonstrated, wincing as his shoulder painfully stopped with his hand still in front of his face.
“You’ll be stiff for awhile. It doesn’t really bother you, does it?”
“No.” He might as well tell her so she could get on with whatever her point was.
The sun touched the horizon, and the outline of Graciosa, not visible until now, was clearly visible, like a bite out of the bottom of the great red ball. Turning to look along the coast, they saw the spray from the waves hitting the rocks for five miles to the southwest turn pink as the sun’s crimson deepened just before it disappeared. The magic light changed the island from the ordinary to a land where anything might be possible, and lasted for several minutes before dusk settled in.
“Do you believe in God?” she asked.
“Yes.” He’d known this would come.
Watching the sun set, he remembered a night long ago, sitting on the porch with his father. He was 9. His father, not a churchgoing man, had told him sunset was a time to think about God. Tonight, he’d been thinking about both of them.
“You should talk about it.” She was looking again.
“It won’t work, Angela. You think I’m this bundle of neuroses because I got shot, and if I talk about it I’ll be better, and you’ll know me.”
He was annoyed.
“Yes, I thought I was going to die. It didn’t bother me. I still do. When it happens, it happens.”
She looked down.
“Getting shot is not the problem. That’s a passive thing. It can happen to anyone.”
He was angry. She’d wanted to know him, and now she was going to.
“There’s something worse than getting shot. On my first combat mission, in Iraq, I felt a mixture of fear and excitement. It was an energy I’d never felt before. I liked it. Then, last year, I had to kill two men, and that energy helped me to do it. It made the difference. Then, after, sitting there with the bodies, I …”
He finished the beer. She was watching.
“I was different after. Later that same day I had to kill another man. He came this close …”
He held up his thumb and index finger, nearly touching, trembling.
“It could have gone either way, but it was me still up at the end. After that, I wasn’t one of the boys anymore. They had wives, families. I had Eight Ball, my dog, and something I don’t understand.”
She approached him, eyes glistening to put her arm around his shoulder. He stepped away.
“No. Hear it all.” He reached into the cooler for another beer. “Anger opens the door to Hell. I enjoyed the strength, used it to win. It took something in return.”
“You can learn to …”
“No,” he said, taking a long pull on the beer. “They’re everywhere, guys like me. I went to a VFW and saw three sitting at the bar at one time. We never spoke. We all knew. I recognized Wolf Goebel as one of us before I heard him speak. A month ago, I nearly killed him when he pulled a knife while I was pulling him off Donn. I lost control and threw him overboard. I saw something in his eyes I didn’t understand. That bothered me more than anything that happened that night. Then, when it was me going overboard, I understood.”
“Boyd, please, I …”
“It’s OK to die!” He turned suddenly and hurled the beer bottle toward the now dark Atlantic. It arced high, whistling, then descended over the cliff into silent oblivion.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Angela
Wind roared by Boyd’s ears as he looked down at the base from 5,000 feet. Angeja had put the Waco into a vertical dive, and they were screaming down at the antique trainer’s top airspeed of 125 knots. In spite of the leather helmet he wore, Boyd was deafened by the noise, both wind and engine. In his F-16, he’d already be pulling out, going four times as fast, looking up to see where he’d be making his first turn if he were on the range, his escape if it were for real, and grunting against six G’s. Angeja let the plane slowly spiral as it plummeted down, giving a changing panorama of base, blue ocean, foamy coastline or green hills.
With only muscle to pull the Waco’s nose up and make it ride on the wind instead of hurdle down through it, their pullout was more gradual than dramatic.
“Whoo, yeah!” Boyd yelled, raising an arm in triumph and looking back at Angeja.
The smile and the 360 degree roll told Boyd his sentiment was shared. There was no intercom in the old aircraft, and the only radio was in the rear. By arrangement, Angeja turned over the aircraft controls after wagging the wings. Boyd was to try a few turns, a roll, and then head into the downwind leg and land. He found the controls easier than he remembered the Ag Cat in Colorado, but sluggish compared to his Falcon. The little trainer stayed trim and practically flew itself on the downwind leg. The landing was smooth.
*********
“Wouldn’t it be easier to lug up the hill if you drank beer in cans? You know we have to bring the bottles back down tomorrow,” Angela asked innocently, eyeing the cooler filled with ice and beer.
They’d unloaded a small tent and sleeping bags they’d checked out from the base and were preparing to walk up to a campsite Boyd had seen from the air. It appeared to be a perfectly formed miniature volcano, only 200 feet high. He thought he’d recovered enough to make it that far.
“I could drink it from cans, but it wouldn’t be as good. It’s got to slide out of that lo
ngneck,” Boyd shot back, smiling, then turned toward the hill they were preparing to climb. “You can tell from the air that this whole plain is the crater of the main volcano that formed the island. Those hills over there are one side of the rim and over there is the other side. This is a vent, a smaller opening that spewed out ash and lava after the main crater had cooled and filled.”
It’s an island tradition to allow free access to any part of the island, as long as cattle and fences are minded. Boyd lifted the cooler and tent over the fence, and they both slipped through the barbed wire and headed up the hill.
Rich, black volcanic soil covered the sides of the cone, and grass grew long and verdant. They followed a faint trail through the growth, indicating scant interest in the place. Boyd stopped to catch his breath halfway up. Looking around, he could see several other vents, but none as perfectly symmetrical as this one.
“Wow! It has a crater just like the big volcano,” Angela said, reaching the top 20 paces ahead of the already winded Boyd. The crater inside the vent was 50 feet across and 30 feet down. Steep walls were covered by ferns and small shrubs with a few small trees at the bottom. The grass was even thicker inside than the walk up.
“I could tell from the air that the inside would be flat and protected from the wind,” he said, panting as he set down his load. “It should be a great place to watch the stars. Hope it doesn’t rain.”
Later, after pitching their tent, building a fire in a ring of stones, cooking a hobo stew over the coals, and placing their sleeping bags side by side in the open, they walked to the rim to watch the sun set.
“I hope you didn’t ask me along on this adventure with expectations that we’d have sex,” Angela said, midway through the sunset.
“Of course I did,” he said.
He’d been pretty sure that wouldn’t happen.
“Poor Boyd. Have you ever been turned down before?” she asked with mock sympathy.
