Lucid Intervals

by Stuart Woods

  Stone submitted to the tender ministrations of Ms. Ida Ann Dunn for the remainder of the week. Felicity was little seen and reported no further progress on substantiating the identity of James Hackett.

  On Friday afternoon Ida Ann closed the operator’s manual, switched off her projector and handed Stone a thick sheaf of papers. “Your final examination,” she said. “You have three hours.” She tucked the manual in one of her cases. “So you can’t cheat,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

  Ida Ann disappeared and came back in two and a half hours. “Are you done?” she asked as she walked into Stone’s office.

  “You said I have three hours,” Stone replied.

  “I didn’t say you had to take three hours.”

  “Give me a minute, all right?”

  “Take your time,” she sighed.

  Ten minutes later, Stone handed her the completed answer sheet. She placed a template over it and ran down the columns with a finger. “My, my,” she said.

  “That bad?”

  “That good. One hundred percent.”

  Stone sagged with relief, because he knew that if he had missed any answers he would have had to undergo a further lecture on the misses.

  Ida Ann tucked the answer sheet into her briefcase and offered her hand.

  Stone shook it.

  “Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, please meet Mr. Dan Phelan, your flight instructor, at Jet Aviation at Teterboro Airport. And take along your logbook, license and medical certificate.”

  “But tomorrow’s Saturday,” Stone complained. “Don’t I get the weekend off?”

  “You do not,” she replied, and with a little wave over her shoulder she departed.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING at eight, Stone walked into the pilot’s room at Jet Aviation and looked around. Various uniformed corporate crews sat around gazing blankly at CNN on a large television set. A man in a battered leather flight jacket, dark trousers and a white shirt stood up and walked over.

  “Stone Barrington? I’m Dan Phelan.” They shook hands.

  “I guessed.”

  “Let’s go sit down in a quiet corner for a few minutes.” They took a vacant table and two chairs. “Let me see your license, your medical certificate and your logbook.”

  Stone handed them over, and Phelan started with the license. “I understood you’ve been flying a JetProp,” he said. “How come you have a multiengine rating?”

  “I got it in anticipation of buying a Beech Baron twin, but then I changed my mind and bought a Malibu, and later had it converted.”

  “So the only twin time you have is your training for the rating? Six hours?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, by the time you take your check ride for your Mustang-type rating, you’ll have a lot more.” He examined Stone’s medical certificate and handed it and the license back to him, then he began flipping through the logbook. “I see you’ve flown in and out of Teterboro a lot over the past few years.”

  “I’m based here,” Stone replied.

  “That will stand you in good stead,” Phelan said. “Teterboro is the busiest general aviation airport in the country; if you can handle an airplane here, you can handle it anywhere.” He handed Stone a sheaf of copies of New Jersey instrument approaches. “Today, we’re going to fly out west of here to a practice area and do some air work: steep turns, slow flight and stalls. Then we’ll grab some lunch and fly some approaches at other airports. When we’re done, we’ll come back here and fly whatever approach is in use. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Stone said.

  Phelan opened his briefcase and unfolded a very large photograph of the Garmin G-1000 instrument panel in the Mustang. “I understand you’ve already got a couple of cross-country flights in with Mr. Hackett, so you must be a little familiar with this.”

  “Jim did all the avionics operation,” Stone said. “I just flew the airplane. I have read the cockpit reference guide, though.”

  Phelan produced a checklist for the airplane and had Stone go through it step-by-step and show him where the controls were for each item. Then they did it again. An hour and a half later, Phelan said, “Okay, let’s go flying.”

  They took over an hour to do a detailed preflight inspection of the aircraft, then go through the checklist of the startup procedures, entering the weights of people, baggage and fuel to be carried; getting a clearance; and entering a flight plan into the G-1000. Finally, they were ready to taxi, and fifteen minutes later they were in the air, climbing to 10,000 feet and headed west.

  Phelan explained each air-work procedure they would do and then gave Stone the throttle settings and speeds for each. Stone performed them twice-a little shaky on the first try but much more confidently on the second-then they flew an instrument approach into an airport, had a hamburger and got back into the airplane. They flew another half-dozen approaches into various airports, a couple of them by hand without the help of the autopilot, then headed back to Teterboro and flew an instrument landing system to a full-stop landing.

  They put the airplane to bed and walked back into the terminal. “You did well,” Phelan said. “You’re clearly up-to-date on your instrument procedures, and you did a pretty good job of hand-flying the airplane.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Tomorrow we start on engine-out procedures: approaches, missed approaches and landings, all on one engine. It’ll be fun.”

  Stone shook the man’s hand, walked back to his car, got in and rested his head on the steering wheel. He felt as though he had been machine-washed and fluff-dried; every muscle ached. He got out his cell phone and called Mei, a Chinese lady, and scheduled a massage before dinner.

  BY THE TIME Mei had finished with him, he felt human again and hungry.

  Dino was waiting for him at Elaine’s. “You look like shit,” he said pleasantly.

  “Let me tell you how I got that way,” Stone said, taking his first, grateful sip of his Knob Creek.

  37

  When Stone walked into his bedroom, he found Felicity sitting up in bed, reading from a folder with a red stripe stamped across it. She closed the folder and put it into her briefcase, which was next to her on the bed. “How goes the flying?”

  “Pretty good, but I’m exhausted,” he said, peeling off his clothes and getting in bed beside her.

  “No playtime tonight?”

  “I’ll do better in the morning,” he said. “How’s the search for Hackett’s Paratroop Regiment records going?”

  “Extremely slowly,” she replied. “If my documents people don’t find something soon, I’m going to have to pull them off the job.”

  “How about the search for his fingerprints with the State Department?”

  “Oh, we found those,” she said. “They’re the same as Hackett’s current prints.”

  “I hate to let the air out of your balloon, Felicity,” Stone said, “but when Hackett came to this country twenty-five years ago, Whitestone was still working in your service, was he not? And he couldn’t be in two countries at once.”

  “Don’t you think we’ve thought of that?” she asked. “It’s funny, but the more convinced I become that Whitestone is Hackett, the more convinced you are that he’s not. Could that be because he’s letting you fly his jet airplane? Could that be because you like him?”

  “I do like him,” Stone confessed, “and I suppose that could mean I have a bias in his favor, but it doesn’t affect the facts of the situation, and you have a lot of facts that you just can’t reconcile.”

  “Yes, we do,” she admitted, “but you don’t have any facts to support Hackett’s innocence.”

  “Of course I do. Whitestone could simply not have worked for your service on a full-time basis while simultaneously establishing a fabulously successful business in this country. That is a fact.”

  “No, it’s not; it’s a factoid.”

  “What’s a factoid?”

  “Something that seems to be true, but isn’t what it se
ems, like a humanoid in a sci-fi movie?”

  “Well, I don’t know what else to do to help you. As it is, I’m spending all my time getting type-rated in an airplane I’m never going to be able to own or even fly, except with or for Jim Hackett. How is that helping you?”

  “You’re gaining his confidence,” Felicity said, “and he’s paying you to do it. That sounds like a win-win situation to me.”

  “Maybe for me, but not for you.”

  “When you’ve earned his confidence it will be easier to poke holes in his legend.”

  “When are you going to tell me why your people still care about Whitestone?”

  “When I’m allowed to but not before,” she replied. “And I may never be allowed to.”

  Stone pulled the covers up. “I can’t think about this anymore,” he said.

  “See you in the morning,” she replied and switched off her bedside lamp.

  THE NEXT DAY Stone and Dan Phelan were taking off from Teterboro with Stone at the controls, when Phelan pulled the left throttle back to idle and said, “You’ve just lost an engine; handle it.”

  Stone applied right rudder and used the rudder trim to take the pressure of holding it off his leg.

  “Very good,” Phelan said.

  “The airplane doesn’t really handle any differently on one engine as long as the rudder is neutralized,” Stone said.

  “That’s right; the airplane is very benign. Now let’s go fly some single-engine instrument approaches and missed approaches.”

  AFTER THEY LANDED at Teterboro and secured the airplane, Phelan said, “You’re doing well, but you’re going to have to pay a lot more attention to your heading, airspeed and altitude when you’re hand-flying the airplane. Your FAA check ride will be to Air Transport Pilot standards, and that means plus or minus five degrees of heading, ten knots of airspeed and a hundred feet of altitude.”

  Stone nodded wearily. “I know,” he said.

  FOR THE FOLLOWING three days Phelan ordered Stone around the sky while he honed his skills in every phase of piloting the airplane. On the fourth day Stone arrived at Teterboro to find Dan Phelan talking with a tall, slim, red-haired man.

  “Stone,” Phelan said, “let me introduce you to Craig Bird.”

  Stone shook the man’s hand.

  “Craig is an FAA examiner, and he will be conducting your check ride today.”

  “Today?” Stone asked, astonished. He had not prepared himself mentally for this.

  “Today,” Phelan said. “I’ll leave you two to get on with it.” He walked to the other side of the pilot’s lounge, picked up a newspaper and began to read it.

  “Let’s sit over here,” Bird said, and they settled at a table. “I gather you weren’t expecting this, but Dan feels you’re ready, and we’ve already completed the paperwork for your check ride. You’ll probably do better for not having worried about it.”

  “I hope so,” Stone said.

  Craig Bird began asking him questions about the Mustang’s systems, and Stone supplied the correct answers that had been ground into his brain by Ida Ann Dunn. An hour later, Bird said, “All right, you seem to know the airplane well; let’s go fly it.”

  Bird watched as Stone performed the thirty-minute preflight inspection that he had performed for every day of his training. Then they got into the airplane and closed the door.

  Stone picked up his voluminous checklist and turned to the first page. Bird took it away from him. “We’re not going to use the checklist,” he said. “Don’t worry if you forget something, I’ll remind you. I’m not going to break your balls. I just want to know if you can fly this airplane well and safely.”

  Stone worked his way across the instrument panel from left to right, putting them in their proper positions from memory, then started the engines.

  THREE HOURS LATER Stone performed the best landing he had made during all his training. “Congratulations,” Craig Bird said, “you’re now single-pilot type-rated in the Cessna 510 Mustang.”

  Back at Jet Aviation, Phelan greeted them in the pilot’s lounge. “How did it go?”

  “He did just fine,” Bird replied. He got on his computer and produced a document that was Stone’s temporary license and type rating, pending receipt of his new license from the FAA. Bird shook his hand and left.

  “I told you you’d do all right,” Phelan said. He handed Stone a key to the airplane. “Mr. Hackett asked me to congratulate you and give you this,” he said. “He said to use the airplane whenever you like. Just check the schedule with his secretary first.”

  Stone drove home with his type rating and the key burning a hole in his pocket. He wanted to fly somewhere.

  38

  Stone arrived home, garaged his car and walked into his office to find Felicity and Joan sitting on the leather sofa, sipping tea. Felicity looked shaken.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  Joan spoke up. “Felicity had an encounter with Dolce,” she said. “I was getting out of the Rolls,” Felicity said. “My driver was holding the door open for me, and suddenly this woman appeared out of nowhere with a knife in her hand. She swung it at my throat, but my driver got an arm in the way and took a bad cut on his forearm. Fortunately, the woman ran away.”

  “Was he badly hurt?”

  “We had the police and an ambulance, and he was taken to an emergency room. He’ll be back at work tomorrow morning.”

  “And you… How are you?”

  She held up her teacup. “Joan has kindly administered the cure-all for any British subject,” she said. “A nice cup of tea. I’m just fine.”

  “Does Eduardo know about this?” Stone asked Joan.

  “I called him as soon as it was over. He was shocked, of course, but he took it well. He said he would do everything possible to see that such an incident not happen again, but he advised you to leave the house for a few days while he takes care of it.”

  “I can go back to the embassy,” Felicity said.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Stone replied. “What do you need to work besides a phone, a fax machine and a computer?”

  “Those are my basic tools while I’m here,” she said.

  Stone went to the phone and called Jim Hackett’s direct office line.

  “This is Heather Finch,” a voice said.

  “Ms. Finch, this is Stone Barrington.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Barrington. Congratulations on your success with the jet. Dan Phelan has faxed us a glowing report on your performance.”

  “I’m calling because Jim kindly offered me the use of the airplane if he didn’t need it.”

  “He’s out of the country at the moment and won’t be back for another week or ten days, so I’m sure that will be all right. Just leave me a number where I can reach you.”

  Stone gave her the number and his cell number, thanked her and hung up. He walked back to where Felicity sat. “Pack a bag,” he said. “I’m taking you away from all this tomorrow morning.”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Stone backed out of his garage and drove Felicity to Teterboro Airport, with a black SUV in tow, containing two armed guards. An hour later they were in the air, headed to the Northeast.

  “I don’t understand why you won’t tell me where we’re going,” she said, when they were at 33,000 feet and Stone was no longer so busy with navigating his way out of New York airspace.

  “If I didn’t tell you, then you couldn’t tell anybody else,” he said, “and I didn’t want anybody else to know. Once we’re there, you can tell whoever needs to know.”

  “Once we’re where?” she demanded.

  “I expect that, in the course of your work, you must have met Richard Stone.”

  “Of course. Dick was the CIA station chief in London some years ago,” she replied. “He directed the agency’s European operations from there. I was very sad to hear of his death.”

  Stone nodded. Dick Stone and his wife and daughter had been murdered on an island in Maine. “Dick was my fi
rst cousin,” Stone said, “and in his will he left me the use of his Maine house for my lifetime. After I’m dead it will be sold, and the proceeds will go to an agency foundation set up for the widows and orphans of personnel killed in the line of duty.”

  “I had heard that you two were related and that you were responsible for the solving of the murders.”

  “I was able to help,” Stone said.

  “Where is the house?”

  “It’s on the island of Islesboro, in the village of Dark Harbor, in Penobscot Bay, the largest bay in Maine. Dick had a very well-equipped office there, with everything you’ll need.”

  “I can establish secure computer and other communications links with my office, then.”

  “I rather thought you could,” Stone said. A little later, as they were descending through 11,000 feet, he pointed to the airport at Rockland before turning for Islesboro and beginning his final descent through the last 3,000 feet to the airfield, which lay dead ahead several miles.

  “Can you land a jet on that little strip?” Felicity asked.

  “We’re about to find out,” Stone replied. “I’m going to make an approach, and if I don’t feel good about it, we’ll go back to Rockland and get someone to fly us to Islesboro in something smaller.”

  “Nothing like experimentation,” Felicity said.

  Stone canceled his flight plan with Augusta Approach and descended toward the Islesboro airfield. He retarded the throttles, lowered the landing gear and put in a notch of flaps to lose speed. “The key is to cross the threshold at Vref,” he said, “which is the final approach speed, given the landing weight of the airplane. We’ve burned off a thousand pounds of fuel, and there are just the two of us, so we’re light.”

  “That’s terribly reassuring,” she said, looking unconvinced. “Exactly how long is that runway?”

  “Two thousand four hundred and fifty feet,” Stone said.

  “Have you ever landed on a runway that short?”

  “No, but I’ve landed on several that were only three thousand feet and with plenty of room to spare. Our speed is right on the money, and it takes only twelve hundred feet to stop the airplane once it’s on the runway, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Trust the airplane.”