by Marvin Wolf
“He won’t,” said Goldzweig. “At least not much and not for long.”
“Tell me,” said Chelmin.
“About two years ago he put in for the Master’s Program. There’s a long waiting list. I found him a slot at the Scotland Yard Academy. It’s a nine-month course that gets him a Master’s in Forensic Science. And he’ll draw full per diem.”
“And then what?”
“He’s been at Rucker almost two years. He’s got an agent there that he thinks is ready to ramrod that outfit. I want you to take over the Rucker office and oversee this investigation. Use Spaulding as your lead investigator, and give him whatever he needs. While you’re there, evaluate the agent that D’Angelo likes—Asher Shapiro.
“D’Angelo reports to Scotland Yard in fifteen days. I’ll give him ten days delay en-route, so it won’t cost him any vacation time. And I’ll have one of my top instructors come out to run your office at Fremont until you’re back. And Rudy—we’ve known each other for almost twenty years, and I’ve never done a damn thing for you personally, and you’ve never asked me to. So, when you’re finished in Alabama, whatever the outcome, you can come back to Fremont for another three years, which is to say, at least until I retire, or you can pick any CID office in the Army. Even the ‘Pineapple Pentagon’ at Fort Shafter, Hawaii.”
“How soon must I leave for Fort Rucker?”
“I’ll have my plane pick you up at the Fremont airfield tomorrow morning at 0700.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rudy, his disappointment evident.
“Thanks, Rudy. I owe you—now don’t let me down.”
Chapter 6
“Good afternoon, Mr. Spaulding,” said Rolf Rhenquist. “Thanks for calling me.”
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Will. “Thank you very much for sending me all that money, and this phone. I don’t feel like I deserve either, but I wanted to say thanks anyway.”
“Listen to me, Spaulding. I’ve got billions of dollars—more money than I could spend over the rest of my lifetime—over a hundred lifetimes. But only one son. You gave him back to me, gave him his life, and you risked your own to do it. Frankly, I don’t know why you’re still breathing. That stunt you pulled was the most outrageous bit of airmanship that I’ve ever seen or even heard about. So please, accept those small tokens of my gratitude and affection. And if you’re ever up in the New York area, or if there is ever something I can do for you—and I mean anything at all—please call me. I am honored merely to be speaking with you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Will said. “But the honor is mine. ‘Whoever saves a life, it is as if he saved an entire world.’”
Will heard Rhenquist suck in his breath. “A daredevil flier who quotes the Talmud. Unbelievable. Are you Jewish, Mr. Spaulding?”
“No, sir. And I’ve never read the Talmud. I’m not even sure what it is, exactly. I was quoting my father.”
“Your father is a rabbi?”
“No, sir. He’s the chief of police in Barstow, California. And an Episcopalian.”
“Clearly, a very wise man.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know what you’re going to do with your tiny fortune?”
“I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I have it. General Davis offered to introduce me to his stockbroker.”
“Do you belong to USAA?”
“Yes, sir. Joined the day I finished warrant officer school. I have a checking account with them and my car insurance.”
“That’s good. Unless you have time to manage your investments, I advise you to check out their investment options. They can help you set up an investment portfolio. Split it up between certificates of deposits for short-term, and then some mutual funds, maybe some bond funds. They’ll do well by you” Rhenquist said.
“But enough about money. Thank you again, and let me reiterate my earlier offer: If there is ever anything that I can ever do for you, anything in this world, please call me.”
“Yes, sir. And by the way, about that night in Pensacola: When we were clear of the aircraft—before the paramedics arrived—do you know what your son said to me?”
“I have no idea.”
“He said, ‘Hey, Mister—can we go again?’”
Again Rhenquist sucked in his breath. “Thank you for sharing that. I will cherish it for as long as I breathe.”
Chapter 7
Andrew Bender, the sergeant behind the Flight Operations counter at Cairns Army Airfield, was tall and slim with a sunburned face and forearms, His dark hair showed signs of impending baldness.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Spaulding,” he said. “We were expecting you a little later this afternoon.”
Will nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s been a few months since I flew one of these, and I thought that before I head off into the wild blue yonder, it would be wise to do a thorough pre-flight inspection, and then spend half an hour re-acquainting myself with the hardware. Is the bird fueled and ready, Sergeant Bender?”
“It is that, sir.”
“Fine. Let me have a peek at the maintenance log.”
“Sure thing. I can save you some time—the only outstanding issue is the fuel sensor light. It sometimes flickers, even when there’s plenty of fuel.”
“That’s a fifty-cent part and a two-minute replacement job.”
“Yes, sir. It’s on back-order. Expect some any day.”
“There’s very little difference between this Lakota and other iterations of this aircraft. Are you telling me that there are no Lakota sensor lights in stock anywhere on this base?”
“As I said, they’re on back-order.”
“Okay,” said Spaulding, suppressing his annoyance. “But I’d like a peek at the maintenance log just the same.”
“Of course. If you’d like to get started on your flight plan and the other paperwork, I’ll go find it for you.”
Bender passed a clipboard across the counter and Will started on the flight plan, writing answers to each question. He looked up as Bender returned with the maintenance log.
He flipped through the multipage document, which listed every deficiency—anything on the aircraft, from a burned-out navigation light to a leaky fuel pump, a worn-out windshield wiper blade to engine failure—in reverse chronological order, with the dates when the problem was noted to when it was fixed, along with what was done to resolve the issue. To his surprise, there were only a few pages—the aircraft, tail number 7714, had entered service only a year and two months earlier. The document contained the expected—a couple of worn-out parts, and their subsequent repair or replacement.
Smiling, Will handed the records back to Bender. “This is probably your best Lakota, am I right?”
Bender smiled back. “Nothing too good for the Commanding General’s staff,” he said.
Will shook his head. “I’m not on General Davis’s staff. I’m just running an errand for Captain Johnstone.”
Bender said, “Same thing, skipper. And it looks like you’ll be running more errands. This aircraft is reserved for you, and just you, until further notice.”
Will forced a smile. The cat was out of the bag; he didn’t like it. “I guess that means I’m going to be working for Captain Johnstone for awhile. I thought it was just this one time.”
“Last to know, first to go. Welcome to the Army, Mister.”
Will laughed. “How long have you been in?”
“Twelve years, and counting.”
“Sticking around for twenty?”
Bender shrugged. “It’s ‘up or out’ for noncoms, too, If I get another stripe, I can stay for twenty. If not, I’ll be gone at 14.”
Will shook his head, genuinely surprised. “That sucks.”
Bender gave him a rueful grin. “How the little ball bounces. Don’t worry about me, Mister Spaulding. I’ll be fine, one way or the other.”
Will nodded to show that he understood. “How do I find 7714?”
Bender pointed to the far door. “Out the
door and straight ahead. First tie-down on the right.”
Chapter 8
Before heading for the flight line, Will moved to the end of the counter and consulted a large corkboard, upon which were posted several bulletins, known as NOTAMs, or Notice To Airmen. Presented in chronological order, they served to alert pilots to potential hazards along a flight route or at a location that could affect flight safety. He went through the notices, noting locations of hazards reported through official channels, usually by other airmen or by civilian aviation facilities. Dated three days earlier was a restricted airspace notice for the Montgomery area, likely because of a scheduled VIP visit, or the movement of hazardous material. Near the bottom of that page, he noted that the warning had expired at ten that very morning.
Next, Will scanned the weather summary, hanging on a clipboard next to the operations counter, and updated several times a day. A rapidly moving front was heading southeast across the Great Plains. Heavy rain, hail, and lightning were expected to begin in western Alabama after 2200 hours. After 2100, winds aloft were expected to be in the 40 to 50-knot range, with gusts up to 70 knots.
Will went out the door and into the cold, bright sunlight of a late winter afternoon. The sky above was dotted with high, puffy clouds. To the west, however, the sky seemed darker, and a wall of dirty-white clouds spanned the distant horizon. He ducked back inside and found the meteorological center’s hotline.
As Will lifted the handset, the phone rang on the other end and seconds later a man came on the line. “Can I get an update on that storm front?” he said.
“Not looking good, sir,” said the meteorologist, a senior NCO. “Revised estimate is that after 1900, winds aloft are 50 knots. Gusts to 80. Rain is expected in the Fort Rucker area by 2000 hours. And we’ve had reports of tornadoes along the approaching storm front, so make sure you tie down extra well on your return.”
“Got it. Thanks,” Will said.
As he shouldered the bag containing his helmet, gloves, phone, and personal possessions, Bender called to him.
“A moment, sir?’
Impatient to start his preflight inspection, Will strode back to the counter. “Yes?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
Will bit back the obvious answer and nodded. “Go ahead.”
“That was you, down in Pensacola, saved the kid and his dog, wasn’t it?”
Will waited a long moment.
“Wasn’t it, sir?”
“Yes, it was me. I don’t talk about it. Was there anything else, Sergeant Bender?”
“I guess not, sir.”
“Thanks for your help, Sergeant.”
Maxwell Air Force Base is northwest of Montgomery, some 80 miles north of Fort Rucker—an hour’s flight time at most. Will put weather out of his mind and headed to the aircraft parking area behind Operations, one of several on Cairns where dozens of helicopters were secured to concrete pads with heavy straps.
He found his aircraft just where Bender said it would be. Putting his helmet and gloves in the front seat, he stowed the bag in the fuselage storage compartment, then found the aircraft checklist, a two-sided sheet laminated with clear plastic on both sides. Circling the aircraft, he examined the rotor, the blades, the transmission, the fuselage—each item in turn. He removed the fuel tank cap, pulled a long wooden stick out of his flight bag, and pushed it down to the bottom of the tank before removing it to check that it was wet, assurance there was fuel in the tank. He replaced the cap, dropped to one knee, and opened a petcock to allow any water that had collected in the bottom of the tank—there was almost always a little—to drain. After a few seconds, with the appearance of the first drops of fuel, he closed and tightened the petcock.
Finding nothing amiss, he climbed into the right front seat and continued the checklist: the shoulder harness lock, overhead switches, and circuit breakers, and ending with the flight controls and the throttle.
As he learned early in flight school, there are old aviators, and there are bold aviators. There are few old, bold, aviators. Will told himself that while he might take a chance in the air, a sloppy preflight was just plain stupid.
Everything seemed to be in good order. He glanced at his wristwatch: a little before 1530. He had plenty of time, and as Montgomery was almost due north, there was little fear of getting lost. Fort Rucker, however, is home to many small heliports, airstrips, and landing areas. At any hour on any given day or night, dozens of helicopters and fixed-wing planes might be aloft. He decided to leave immediately, head south for about ten miles until well clear of Rucker’s airspace, then swing west to pick up Alabama 231 north and follow it to Montgomery. As he approached the city, he’d circle to the northwest to skirt the densely populated city center, then drop down beneath the municipal airport’s flight pattern, and find Maxwell AFB and its runways a few miles farther north. If he arrived early, he could catch up on his reading.
But before pulling on his helmet and starting the engine, Will pulled out his phone—not the new satellite phone from Rhenquist, but a cheap three-year-old model that he’d bought after graduating from basic training. He tapped a number from his contacts list. A phone rang in base headquarters.
“Captain Johnstone,” said the voice in his ear.
“It’s Will Spaulding, sir.”
“What’s up, Will?”
“I’ve just completed my preflight and in a minute I’m heading up to Maxwell. I’m calling because the Operations desk sergeant, Bender, noticed that you laid on this aircraft for my exclusive use, and then connected the dots. By chow time pretty much anyone interested will know that I work for General Davis.”
Johnstone sucked in a breath. “Well, that was stupid of me,” he said. “Should have had someone in G-3 Operations lay on the aircraft. Well, that’s that. Anyone asks you, tell them you’re my errand boy until the Army decides what to do with you next.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have a good flight. And watch the weather. That front is barreling for us, lickety-split.”
“Duly noted, sir.”
Chapter 9
At precisely 1646 hours, following instructions from the Maxwell AFB tower, Will hovered over a square of yellow painted on the Tarmac near the passenger terminal and gently set his bird down on its skids.
A hundred meters away sat a C-12 Huron, a twin-engine, low-wing aircraft, its cigar-shaped fuselage was painted brown below a short row of circular cabin windows. Above the windows, UNITED STATES ARMY was painted in brown capital letters against a field of white. The port engine was shut down, while the starboard idled, its propeller spinning. As Will watched, a hatch near the tail on the aircraft’s port side opened, a stairway descended to the Tarmac, and a familiar figure appeared in the doorway: Wiry, five-feet, seven inches tall and very strong, and with the steel-gray hair above his faintly Slavic features well over military length, Special Agent Rudy Chelmin, CID, was Will’s former boss at Ft. Fremont.
Chelmin waved to Will, then climbed down and waited for an enlisted crewman to unlock a storage compartment and hand down a big suitcase and a small travel bag.
Will cut his engine, waited for the turbine to whine to a stop, and hopped out.
By then Chelmin, walking with a curious stride that was not quite a limp but which Will knew was a function of his prosthetic leg, was halfway to the helicopter.
They met near the terminal door. Chelmin dropped the bags and they exchanged handshakes and then manly hugs.
“Great to see you, Will, and wearing wings, too!”
“Cut it out. Almost everybody at Fort Rucker wears wings.”
“But how many of them would fly through fire to save a dog, a boy, and two cops?”
“I did what was needed. Any of my classmates—any real aviator—would have done the same, and maybe he wouldn’t have lost his aircraft in the deal. That’s all I’m gonna say about it, Rudy. I’m not happy talking about that.”
“Fair enough,” Chelmin said.
“While we’re on the subject, Rudy, I don’t want anyone in the CID office to know that I’m an aviator. I don’t want all the foofaraw that comes with that Pensacola business. And I don’t want them to know that I’ve worked exactly one CID case before this one. I need to keep their confidence. At the proper time, I’ll reveal myself.”
Chelmin said, “I’m with you. And by the way, you cracked two CID cases. Remember the barracks thief?”
“Come on. That was two hours of paperwork to find a recruit whose civilian occupation was locksmith.”
“Even so.”
Will stowed Chelmin’s small bag in the helicopter’s storage compartment. He shoved the big suitcase into the back seat, where he secured it with two seat belts.
Will said, “If you need the latrine, now's the time.”
“Good idea,” said the older man. “And maybe we could get a hamburger or something?”
“It’ll have to be to go,” Will said as they headed for the terminal. “Wicked weather headed this way, and I’d like to be on the ground with my aircraft tied down before it hits.”
Ten minutes later, his bladder emptied, Chelmin laid a paper sack with his meal on the floorboards between his feet before buckling himself in. Spaulding started the engine, radioed the tower, and was directed to a taxiway lined with MQ-9 Reaper drones.
Five minutes later they were at 1,000 feet and doing 145 knots—about as fast the aircraft could fly safely. When they were well south of the civilian airport’s landing pattern, Will radioed that facility’s control tower and received permission to climb to 5,000 feet. While Chelmin was gnawing on his hamburger, Will tuned his radio compass to the Cairns Airfield beacon and aligned his aircraft with the compass needle, a few degrees east of due south.
The sun had now set, and the rumpled ground below was in twilight’s purple hues. From their mile-high perch, however, the sky remained bright. Will noted the ominous phalanx of dark clouds spanning the western horizon. Here and there, lightning flickered deep inside those clouds. He shuddered. Nothing that he wanted to fly through.
