The Jack Reacher Cases_A Man Made For Killing

by Dan Ames

  And right in among all of that?

  Paige Jones.

  Beautiful.

  Intelligent.

  And apparently vulnerable.

  Despite her conviction that dozing was not an option, Pauling began to drift off to sleep.

  Had Paige Jones met Jack Reacher? If so, how had this happened? Pauling figured that Reacher had arrived after the murder.

  Maybe because of it.

  One final thought entered Pauling’s mind.

  She wondered if Paige Jones ever had any inkling of the dangers surrounding her on San Clemente Island.

  In Pauling’s sleep, no answer came.

  Chapter Ten

  It was a smooth landing but Pauling was wide awake before the rubber hit the road. They taxied into their parking spot and soon she was off the plane, through the terminal and when she descended via the escalator, she caught sight of a driver holding up a card emblazoned with her name.

  Pauling almost laughed. When Nathan Jones arranged your travel, no expense was spared.

  She approached the man holding the placard bearing her name, showed her identification and he took her out to a black Cadillac Escalade.

  Fresh from the terminal, she stepped out into the southern California air and smiled. It was so much warmer and less humid than back in Wisconsin.

  She climbed into the back while the driver put away her bags.

  “From one airport to another,” the driver said. He smiled at her from the rearview mirror.

  “No rest for the wicked,” Pauling answered.

  He put the big SUV into gear and they wound their way out of the airport before merging onto Sepulveda. They were heading south and Pauling knew from what Nathan had given her that the airport she would be going to wasn’t exactly official. There were a number of planes and pilots that were pre-approved by the military people on San Clemente. It wasn’t possible to get there without permission in the first place. Every plane had to have its manifest approved by the authorities on San Clemente Island.

  Nathan had strategized that the best way forward was to have her listed as an employee of San Diego State who was volunteering her time with the Bird Conservatory. If anyone wished to take the time to run her identity, it would show the cover story Nathan had concocted; that she was an IT specialist. More of a general troubleshooter, really. That distinction would help her avoid anything too technical should an issue arise.

  The good news, and the reason Nathan had chosen that role was that Pauling had learned quite a bit about computers, and had spent the majority of her workday on one at the FBI.

  But she was not an IT specialist by any means.

  She didn’t really expect to have to defend her cover story that much anyway. She had gotten the sense that the bird people were constantly in the field while her story was that she would be checking and updating the main computer system in their office. And she could be vague enough about geeky computer code stuff to bore anyone to tears.

  They headed south and Pauling soon recognized the area south of Los Angeles. Manhattan Beach. Long Beach. The sight of industrial areas and loading docks.

  It was the part of Los Angeles tourists never saw and pictures of which never graced the front of postcards sent to the old folks back home.

  They made their way past strip malls and the occasional factory, with quick glimpses of tiny residential neighborhoods choked with parked cars packed tightly on the street bumper to bumper. Here and there groups of men stood on street corners and the occasional shopkeeper sweeping the walk in front of an ethnic grocery store.

  The driver turned onto a street that looked more to Pauling like an alley than an actual traffic lane, eventually arriving at an impressive gate topped with razor wire. The driver said something into the intercom and the sturdy gate, sporting wheels on the bottom, rolled apart and the driver pulled the SUV ahead to an open aircraft hangar. He parked, helped Pauling with her bag and thanked her when she slipped him a twenty.

  Hell, she had twenty grand in cash. The least she could do was be a good tipper.

  Once the Escalade drove away, Pauling went into the open hangar.

  There was a man with a clipboard and a walkie talkie on his hip. He was probably in his late thirties or early forties, brown hair with a touch of gray at the temples. He had on cargo pants and a jacket that was military green.

  Behind him was a vintage airplane on display. Pauling wondered if it was one of the original Pan Am airplanes that were pre-WWII.

  She was glad it appeared to be open to visitors.

  She approached the man with the clipboard.

  He looked up.

  “Lauren Pauling?” he said.

  “Hello.”

  He stuck out his hand. “Josh Troyer,” he said. “I’m the flight coordinator for NASSCI.”

  A puzzled expression on Pauling’s face made him chuckle.

  “Naval Air Station San Clemente Island,” he said. “We’re really fond of acronyms around here.”

  “Got it,” she said. Government speak was nothing new to her.

  “You’ve got about twenty minutes if you want to grab a coffee or something,” he said. “Facilities are over there.” He pointed to public restrooms as well as a set of vending machines.

  “Okay,” Pauling said. “Is that exhibit open for viewing?” she said, pointing to the ancient plane. “I’d love to get a glimpse inside.”

  “Sure,” he said. “An original DC-3. Built in 1930 or so. Yes, you can see the inside. After all, it’s what you’ll be flying in out to the island.”

  Chapter Eleven

  They carefully weighed and stowed Pauling’s gear and showed the same care for everything else that went onto the plane. Apparently they needed to be meticulous when it came to loading the old aircraft.

  Troyer introduced her to the pilot, a man named Brock Jamison. He looked to be a little younger than Troyer. Slim, with dark hair and intense blue eyes. When he smiled, his teeth were jagged and crooked, ruining what would have been a strikingly handsome man. Pauling guessed he was a civilian pilot otherwise the military’s dental plan would have taken care of those teeth.

  “Hope you’re not used to flying first class,” Jamison said. She noticed that he actively worked to hide his teeth. He smiled only with his lips and at times it looked more like a grimace.

  “No divas here,” Pauling said. “How long is the flight?”

  “Little over an hour, depending on wind,” Jamison said. “Plus, top speed isn’t very fast.” He gestured at the plane behind them. “But she’ll get us there. Hopefully.”

  Troyer made a sign of the cross and then both he and Jamison chuckled. It looked like a little comedy routine.

  It turned out, they were just getting started.

  Pauling boarded the aircraft with the other passengers.

  The interior was something else. It had been done up almost as some kind of Las Vegas lounge act. Velvet seats, velvet curtains over the windows, and purple carpet. The lights along the row between the seats were done in rainbow colors and there was rock music playing in the background.

  All this airplane needs is a stripper pole, Pauling thought.

  As the other passengers boarded, she tried to figure out who they were by their appearances, but it wasn’t easy.

  The military people were obvious, of course. She saw two people in Navy Seabee uniforms, one man and one woman. If Pauling recalled correctly the Seabees were the construction arm of the Navy.

  There were two men wearing ties who looked like engineers. They had already broken out their laptops and appeared to be going over spreadsheets.

  An entire group boarded the plane but Pauling had no idea who or what they might be. It was mostly guys, dressed in tan camo pants and Nike t-shirts. There was a woman, also dressed more in athletic gear than military gear.

  Once everybody had found a seat, and nearly every seat was taken, the plane began to taxi toward the runway.

  Troyer appeared from th
e cockpit, pushing a small cart. On its surface were bottles of beer along with an ice bucket in which a bottle of white wine had been placed.

  “May I interest anyone in a beverage?” he said. The passengers erupted in applause. Pauling laughed and took a beer, just to join in.

  As Troyer made the rounds, Jamison appeared, which made Pauling wonder, who exactly was in control of the plane?

  “As some of you may or may not know, San Clemente Island is one of the Channel Islands and home to a very robust population of sea lions.” He had a martini glass in his hand and gestured with it as he spoke.

  Pauling continued to look out the window as the plane flew, wondering exactly when autopilot had been invented and hoped that it was after the manufacture date of the aircraft. That, or maybe one had been retrofitted.

  Either way, she hoped someone was paying attention.

  “The sea lion’s main predator is a teeny weeny fish called the great white shark,” Jamison continued. He sipped from his martini and pulled out the olive and chomped it down.

  “They literally surround San Clemente Island and attack anything in the water within a few feet of them,” he said. He tossed down the rest of his martini and Pauling hoped that his title of “pilot” was ceremonious at best and there was really someone else who would fly the plane.

  “With that in mind, today’s entertainment on the short flight out to the island is a little film made by my good friend Steven Spielberg,” Jamison continued. “It really made his reputation as a filmmaker and most of all, accurately captures the dangers surrounding San Clemente Island, especially if this old gal doesn’t quite make it.” He patted the ceiling above him.

  “Enjoy the flight, folks!” he said and beamed at the passengers who half-heartedly raised their drinks in a mock toast.

  Jamison disappeared behind the curtains that blocked the view to the cockpit, and Troyer returned the cart (now empty) to a spot just in front of the first row. He locked it in place and then joined Jamison at the helm.

  On the video screens spaced periodically above the seats, the opening of the movie JAWS began to play.

  Pauling smirked and drank her beer.

  Well, she thought, it was a great film.

  Chapter Twelve

  The shark on the screen was not alone.

  As they approached the island, Pauling saw a huge, dark shadow languidly cruising less than a quarter mile from the island.

  As if reading her mind, Jamison’s voice spoke over the intercom.

  “There’s one of our native San Clementians as we speak.”

  Everyone found a window and watched the huge shark cruise its patrol.

  Pauling couldn’t help but think of Paige, and wondered if this was the same shark that may have gotten to her. All of the humor and jocularity of the flight instantly disappeared.

  She drew the curtain on her window closed and thought about the job ahead.

  There wasn’t much to her cover. An IT specialist. Helping the bird people.

  It could be done.

  The descent was loud, slow and jarring. When they landed, it seemed like they went on forever, but Pauling knew the runway was actually very short. And she had read that the flight conditions themselves were very dangerous. High winds. Short runway. Small margin of error. Despite their bad comedy show, Pauling figured that Jamison and Troyer were probably very good at what they did.

  Eventually the plane came to a stop and they disembarked. A young man in military clothing unloaded the gear and had it waiting for them on the tarmac. Although ‘tarmac’ was far too grandiose a word. The runway was cracked asphalt and another metal shed served as the airport’s headquarters.

  Pauling found her bags and carried them into the metal shed.

  It reminded her vaguely of the small airport in northern Wisconsin, but this one was even more rustic. The vending machines were older. The floor was dirtier. And the smell was, well, stronger.

  “Pauling?” a male voice said behind her.

  She turned to find a curly-haired man, brushed with gray, wearing wire-rim glasses, a thick barn coat, blue jeans and Sperry boat shoes.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “My name is Dr. Abner Sirrine.”

  Pauling shook his hand, noting the soft grip. He made no move to help her with her bags. She thought he looked nervous.

  “I’m parked right outside.”

  He turned and Pauling followed him to a filthy, older model Jeep Cherokee. It was white underneath a layer of dirt and grime.

  Dr. Sirrine got behind the wheel.

  Pauling loaded her bags into the backseat and then climbed into the front passenger space. The interior of the jeep was just as dirty as the outside. Gum wrappers, chunks of mud and grass, an empty Diet Coke can.

  “So I guess I’ll take you back to our HQ.”

  His voice was soft and tentative. She thought he sounded like a college professor or a high school biology teacher.

  “Actually, can you give me a quick tour of the island?” Pauling asked. “Just to help me get my bearings.”

  She smiled at Dr. Sirrine and thought he seemed to relax a bit. In that moment, she understood why he was nervous. As always, she weighed the pros and cons of alleviating the tension. Sometimes it worked in your favor. For now, she decided to help him out.

  “What were you told about the work I would be doing while I’m on the island?” she asked.

  He gave her a look that was a cross between guilt and panic. “Well, no one would tell me exactly. Something about computer systems which is kind of odd because ours is really old and basic. Not much to analyze, really.”

  Nathan had told her she would be given a solid cover and she hadn’t been on the island for more than a few minutes and someone was calling bullshit. Not a great start.

  “That’s part of it,” Pauling said. “To study what you have and possibly make some recommendations on how to upgrade it or scrap it altogether and get something new.”

  “I see.”

  “And it’s not just computers. My role is really to analyze the technology you’re employing and prepare a report on how things can be improved and made more efficient. That’s why I’ll be involved in all aspects of what you’re doing out here.”

  She thought he was going to protest so she quickly added, “Just as an observer, though. I’m not a biologist so I’ll just try to stay out of your way.”

  This was also Pauling’s way of letting him know that she would be needing to talk to everyone. From top to bottom.

  “So what can you tell me about the island, Dr. Sirrine?” Pauling asked.

  She’d already done her homework, but she got the sense that this was the kind of man who liked to hear himself talk, especially when it came to educating someone. Perhaps a female was also an inspiration.

  “Fascinating history, really,” Dr. Sirrine said.

  Pauling chuckled silently.

  Bingo.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “The earliest remains are from nearly ten thousand years ago. Most scholars believe it was the Tongva Native Americans with some influence from the Chumash as well.”

  They rounded a sharp curve and Pauling braced herself. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to distract Dr. Sirrine. His driving skills couldn’t afford it.

  “From there the next stage was the Spanish conquest. A man named Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo discovered the island but it was named by a later explorer, Sebastian Vizcaino, who arrived on the island on the Feast of St. Clements Day. Hence the name.”

  “They must not have stayed around very long,” Pauling said. “They didn’t build anything. Not even a church?”

  Dr. Sirrine shook his head. “No, the island is too far from the mainland.”

  Pauling watched a seagull fly over the jeep and in the distance, she saw a military helicopter.

  “The most fascinating part of the history of the island though isn’t the people, it’s the animals,” Dr. Sirrine continued. “Although, I admit
I’m probably not terribly objective.”

  Pauling was listening but she was stunned by the scenery. It was nearly apocalyptic. Very little shrubbery. Dirt roads that seemed to disappear over the edge of a cliff. Just bare land, the ocean in the background and sky. Fascinating. And surreal. She realized she’d never seen a place like this before. Anywhere.

  “Feral animals, to be more specific,” Dr. Sirrine continued. “It seems that some of the early peoples, or settlers after the Spanish, had goats. And when they left, a few of the goats remained. And naturally, the animals did what animals do. They ate and they reproduced. And ate some more and reproduced a lot more. At some point there were ten thousand goats on the island and not a stitch of green. No grass. No shrubs. No trees. Nothing.”

  It made sense to Pauling. To her, it looked like the landscape hadn’t really recovered. The whole place felt like a Mad Max movie setting, on an island in the middle of the Pacific.

  “So when the military bought the island, they had to get rid of the goats.” Sirrine smiled and waggled a finger in the general direction of the windshield. He was really loosening up now. “They didn’t kill them. Oh no, the public found out somehow and caused a huge uproar. So they had to airlift them off the island!” He laughed. “Can you believe it?”

  “Operation Goat Removal,” Pauling said.

  “Yes! How bizarre!” Dr. Sirrine said. “And that’s the whole story of why I’m out here. But there’s plenty of time to tell you about that.” His voice had taken on an edge of mystery.

  “Habitat destruction?” Pauling said. “That’s what led to the decline of all animal populations, right?”

  Dr. Sirrine’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “Yes, exactly. You’ve done your homework.”

  He sounded impressed and disappointed that he had been denied the answer to his mystery.

  “I always took my homework seriously,” Pauling said. Which was total bullshit. She had rarely done her homework when she was a student, preferring the all-night cram sessions fueled by pressure. It had been a game to her. It was only when she’d gotten a real job that she finally realized the need for daily focus.