by Tim Dorsey
Coleman tapped the man’s right arm. “Do you know when they start serving alcohol?”
Serge tapped his left arm. “Coleman and I have a bunch to discuss, but don’t feel like you’re imposing. We’ll just talk across the front of you, and you’re welcome to eavesdrop and join in.” He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “It can get pretty interesting! I was on a transcontinental flight with this one executive, having a great four-hour discussion on my favorite aviation disasters. Actually I was doing all the talking because I guess he was really interested in crashes, and then he couldn’t wait to look it up on the Internet because he was trampling people after we landed. Like this one plane exploded off San Diego. But just the front part with the pilots blew off, and the rest of the plane kept flying perfectly straight for almost a minute . . .” Serge made a downward gesture with his right hand. “. . . before slowwwwwwwwly nosing over into the sea. What would be going through your mind? ‘Hey, I can see the new mall from here.’ . . . We’re going to Miami for the fabulous Summit of the Americas! Dignitaries and countless journalists from twenty Latin countries about to overwhelm the city, actually making Miami less diverse . . .”
Coleman tapped the businessman’s right arm. “Going to be sick. My seat pocket doesn’t have a barf bag.”
The man dove for his own pocket and handed a bag to Coleman.
Serge tapped his left arm and stood up. “I have to pee. Excuse me.” He slid by the man’s knees.
Coleman held up a bag. “Serge, could you take this for me.”
Two hours later.
Serge looked out the window.
At the Tampa Airport.
“Why the hell are we still on the runway?”
“They mentioned mechanical problems,” said Coleman.
“Ten times.”
“This is your captain from the flight deck. The replacement part just arrived and we should be in the air in about an hour . . .”
“Another hour!” said Serge.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “You’re grabbing his arm pretty tight. I don’t think he likes it.”
“Oops, sorry. I’ll cope instead with a time-killing technique.” He stood. “Excuse me, I have to get to the overhead bin.”
Minutes later, Serge had an open laptop on his lap. He tapped the arm next to him. “Oh, Mr. Businessman, do you have any pen pals? Of course you do. But I just got my first one. He’s from some wacky foreign country with exciting current events. And I think we’re really hitting it off. I can be totally open and say the kind of things that make others hide from me, but he keeps writing no matter what. In fact, he contacted me first.” Serge rotated the computer toward the middle seat. “I’ve scrolled back to the top of our message string. Check it out! . . . No, you’re still staring at me. Look at the screen.”
The businessman gave Serge a final glance, then turned toward the computer and began reading:
Dear Sir or Madam,
It is with great trust and confidence that I contact you concerning a business transaction of large urgency. I am the nephew of Ishtwanu Gabonilar, who recently became deposed as finance minister of eastern Nabibiwabba province, prior to consummation of mineral lease with Swiss consortium that transferred funds of $100 million U.S. dollars prior to rebel offensive on the capital. With sad mourning, my entire family is disappear and believe executed. I require your assistance as such funds remain concealed in capital and must dispatch with trust to America before rebels discover. I cannot reveal source, but your name was recommended as person of extreme trust and dependency. For your services, you will received half ($50 million U.S. dollars). Awaiting your immediate speed response.
With much God bless,
Bobonofassi Gabonilar
Dear Bobonofassi,
Fifty million dollars! Holy fucking shit! My lucky day! How’d you get my name? Was it Coleman? Lenny? Who cares? The important thing is you got it. And perfect timing: I’ve been moping around lately over the oil spill while Coleman ran down my cell battery calling everyone for hashish, and we nearly got pinched when he shared a bottle of cheap rum outside a massage parlor with a drive-time radio personality who showed his wee-wee to an undercover cop, and we had to hide under some mattresses and walk home because they ran the plates on our stolen car after finding a teensy bit of blood in the trunk. Okay, a lot. Hey, some people bruise easily, others bleed. But it’s always my fault, and then Coleman almost got busted again in the supermarket because he did ’shrooms and ten hits from a skull bong, and the grocery people grabbed him by the freezer with a gallon of triple-fudge ice cream, which we tried to say we were going to buy, but they found him on his hands and knees with his face right down in the pail like a beagle, and the shit was in his hair and other shoppers getting squirrelly, so they ordered me to give them all the money in my wallet and never come back, and that’s why your timing is so great because even one million dollars right now would come in handy. Especially after the stock market whipped my ass like Sonny Corleone delivering a brother-in-law garbage-can beat-down (I love that scene). All my shares were in a friend’s name, because I can’t use mine right now, so I sit each morning watching CNN and the opening bell on Wall Street. And here’s what pisses me off about the opening bell: “Special guests” ring it, all these rich, connected, oh-so-self-pleased, never-done-a-real-day’s-work pussies grinning ear to ear up on that stand like Roman emperors while the whole country’s on foreclosure-fire. And even worse, they have goofy guests: people in Star Wars costumes and the cast of Jersey Shore, like it’s a big joke, this shit sandwich they’re force-feeding Main Street. And then I hear that ting-a-ling again and see those smug motherfuckers, and this is what I finally figured out it means: It’s a gleefully enthusiastic ringing of the funeral bell for the working class. And I begin calculating the trajectory of a perfectly tossed firebomb . . . Hold on, what am I saying? I’m here moaning about my insignificant problems, when you’re the one whose entire family is rotting in a mass grave. And rebels never dig good ones, so limbs are probably sticking out, flies buzzing around—and the smell! Do I feel silly! Back to your problems: I’m on the case! Please tell me at once what I have to do to help stop the rebels! (Don’t get me started on rebels—it’s all: me, me, me, I need attention.)
Your newest best friend in maximum trust,
Serge A. Storms
Dear Serge,
It pleases me greatly for you kindness in my people’s time of necessity. The rebels are in much control and transactions limited. For your assistance, I need you deposit $10,000. This is the minimum to open numbered account among our trusted friends for me to begin secure transfer of $100 million ($50 million to be your gracious fee). Please advise when you have funds and I will forward you account number and bank.
Many Blessings,
Bobonofassi Gabonilar
Dear Bobonofassi,
Ten thousand? Is that it? This just keeps getting better and better! And to think I almost missed your e-mail between “Meet hot singles in your area” and “Turn your trouser mouse into a one-eyed python of love.” I was distracted because of that new TV show Cougar Town, which is actually Sarasota (there’s a map of Florida’s Gulf Coast during the intro, if you need to check), and these smokin’-hot menopause chicks are banging an entire city full of nothing but young studs, except the average age of the guys in Sarasota is, like, dead. Such inaccuracies make me crazy and my picture tube now has a few extremely small bullet holes, but it still won’t work anymore. Was I overreacting? You can tell me, since we’re going to have a close cosmic connection for the rest of our lives, and even longer (hope you’re not in some religion where heaven is like a Jimi Hendrix album cover with elephants wearing jewelry and a dancing goddess flapping twenty arms). Can I call you Bobo? Speaking of dead, probably no word on your family. Better that way so you won’t know about the torture. Rebels always start with the head. They use these face-spreaders. That’s just mean. Of course I have a pair myself, but I always feel bad afterward. And mayb
e no TV isn’t the worst thing. The other night I woke up and there was some old movie with a Cyclops. Remember when a bunch of films used to have Cyclops? And now nothing. What the fuck? Did you see Christopher Walken on Saturday Night Live? “More cowbell”? They should do something like that with Cyclops. Okay, enough yapping: Send me that account info ASAP! I’ll be able to raise the ten Gs as soon as I reach Miami. And when this is all over, you should visit. Or maybe you should come right now, because I’ve become concerned about your safety. People say Miami’s dangerous, but at least America doesn’t have rebels. Actually we do, but they just wear funny hats and hold tea parties. No mass graves (yet). And if your family was tortured, the rebels are probably on the way to your house right now with the face-spreaders. You can always stay on our pull-out couch. Just think about it.
More Cyclops!
Serge
A businessman repeatedly tapped the flight-attendant call button over the middle seat of row 27.
A cheerful woman arrived. “How may I help you?”
“I have to sit somewhere else.”
“I’m sorry, the flight is completely full—”
“This is your captain again. We’re still experiencing some very minor problems with the engines. The replacement part didn’t fit right, so we’re having another flown in from Atlanta . . . Meanwhile, please relax and I’ve instructed the crew to serve soft drinks and complimentary cocktails . . .”
Two hours later.
Serge’s hand continuously pressed the flight-attendant call button.
The woman returned. “How may I help you?”
“I have to get off the plane.”
“Sir, nobody is allowed off the plane. We’ve already pulled away from the gate. Regulations.”
“But you don’t understand . . .”
A gentle smile. “It’ll just be a little bit longer.”
More tapping on the call button. A different arm.
The flight attendant looked at the businessman in the middle seat. “I want to sit somewhere else.”
“As I informed you earlier, the flight is full.”
Serge repeatedly tapped the button.
The attendant maintained poise. “Yes?”
“I can’t go into all the details,” said Serge. “But you really want me off this plane.”
The businessman nodded hard in agreement.
“I’m sorry,” said the attendant. “But they’re just about—”
“This is your captain again. The part from Atlanta fits, and we should be in the air in no time.”
“See?” the attendant said cheerfully. “I told you it wouldn’t be much longer.”
“I still want to get off,” said Serge. “Can’t you just let one person go?”
“The rules are very strict,” she said evenly. “After the doors are closed and cross-checked, absolutely nobody is permitted off the plane.”
At the front of the jet, two men in uniforms stepped out of the cockpit. The main cabin door opened. Sunlight streamed in. The men left. The door closed.
Serge looked up at the attendant. “What the hell just happened?”
“The pilots got off the plane.”
“Why?”
“They reached their FAA limits of how long they can work in a twenty-four-hour period. We’re flying a new crew in from Cleveland.”
“How long is that going to take?”
“Hard to tell because they’re de-icing in a blizzard.”
Serge rocked manically in his seat. “You don’t understand. I really need to get off this plane.”
The businessman leaned forward. “Please let him off the plane.”
“I already told you that’s forbidden. No exceptions whatsoever.”
The attendant began walking away.
“Wait!” Serge called after her. “I’m not finished. I need to—”
“I’m sorry,” said the attendant. “I can’t talk to you anymore. I’ve also reached my twenty-four-hour limit.”
She got off the plane.
Chapter Four
South of Miami
Squawking green parrots in flight.
Other bright feathers.
Thousands. Macaws, cockatoos. Ninety-eight percent humidity. A higher number on the mercury.
The Metrozoo was known for its birds. Plus 1,200 other critters covering 740 acres on the distant underside of Miami, near the end of the turnpike. Hurricane Andrew was a jailbreak, tying up traffic with flamingos and zebras and the so-called AIDS monkeys. It was the oldest such attraction in Florida and the only subtropical zoo in the country.
Three animals started it in 1948.
Just past the zoo’s entrance: an unassuming road with guard gates at intended intervals. The pavement leads through brush, past something called the University of Miami Institute for Human Genomics, before finally reaching what is now the Richmond Naval Air Station.
A smattering of widely separated buildings designate the secure area, some distinctly old by Florida standards. One of the earlier wooden structures was quite the scene from 1961 until it closed seven years later, although there was little fanfare.
Building 25.
Headquarters of Operation Mongoose, otherwise known as the CIA’s campaign to overthrow Fidel Castro.
Sitting quiet for decades.
Until now.
“Let’s take it round the horn,” said field-station chief Gil Oxnart, striding hard into the room without waiting for the screen door behind him to bang shut. “Dazzle me.”
The room used to have a conference table during the Johnson administration. Today, a square grid of penknife-scarred school desks.
A junior agent in the front row went first. Pages flipped in a single-spaced surveillance report. “Subjects departed primary location 0730, took Biscayne to Flagler, where said parties parked for secondary observation. Departed 0948, for safe house.”
Oxnart flipped through a stack of telephoto eight-by-tens. “These aren’t shit.”
“Sorry, sir. Nothing happened,” said the junior agent. “Except that last photo.”
“What’s this picture of a dead shark in the street?”
“Three guys threw it in front of the Costa Gordan consulate. I think someone was sending a message.”
The chief tossed the photos back. “Ship them to Langley, computer section, but be discreet. Tell them it’s personal business on company time . . . What else?”
“Departed safe house, 1820; Subject Alpha arrived home 1847. Subject Bravo, 1901.”
“Keep up the good work, Huff.”
“Sir?” asked the agent.
“What?”
“Why is our CIA station conducting surveillance on the other CIA station?”
“Because they’re our biggest threat.”
Call it the current climate. A long, depressing streak of revelations, press leaks, and congressional hearings. Waterboarding, rendition, black-box prisons, false-flag interrogations, Gitmo, naked human pyramids. The clandestine service had become a reality show. Rumors of war crimes trials, politicians outing agents. An already paranoid culture became even more compartmentalized and firewalled with career preservation. And since they now knew even less about what the rest of the Company was up to, the biggest worry wasn’t overseas but the agent next door.
Station Chief Oxnart picked up an overlooked surveillance photo. “What’s this?”
“Station Chief Lugar eating dinner,” said a junior agent.
Oxnart handed him the picture. “Find out what this means.” Then he clapped his hands sharply and addressed the rest of the room. “Look smart, everyone. We got the Summit of the Americas, and I want to be all over Lugar’s men. Start with the airport. Make sure every inch is covered.”
Meanwhile . . .
“This is Monica Saint James with Action News Eyewitness Eight, reporting live from Tampa International Airport, where, as you can see behind me, a Miami-bound flight has been stranded on the runway now for almost seven hours. Our statio
n has received numerous cell-phone calls from passengers begging to be let off the plane . . .”
The camera zoomed on the window of row 27, where someone was clawing at the glass.
“. . . Our own calls to the airline and transportation officials have all been met with ‘no comment’ . . .”
Serge hyperventilated with his head between his knees in the crash position. He stood up and tapped the businessman, then slid into the aisle.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting everyone off this plane.”
Serge walked to the back, went in the restroom, and closed the door.
A minute passed.
The restroom door opened. Serge peeked outside. Nobody looking. He quickly slipped back into his seat.
Soon a squat woman in polyester waddled to the back of the plane. She went inside the restroom. And came right back out, running up the aisle.
The woman grabbed the first flight attendant she could find and pointed frantically toward the rear of the plane. The attendant hurried toward the restroom.
Back inside the terminal, TV crews continued filming.
“. . . Sources tell us there is a heated, backroom disagreement over the airline’s handling . . . Wait a minute. Something seems to be happening. It looks like the emergency doors have opened . . .”
The cameraman focused on yellow slides inflating. Passengers jumped from the doors and zipped down to the runway. Rescue vehicles raced across the tarmac.
“Thank God!” said Coleman, entering the terminal through their original departure gate and heading for the monorail to the parking lots and taxis.
