by Marvin Wolf
Two were UV-60 Black Hawk air ambulances, and one was General Davis’s MH-6 Little Bird, Lieutenant Cho at the controls. Davis hopped out and looked around.
Wearing his suit jacket over his bandage-swathed arm, Chelmin limped over to greet the general.
“Well done,” said Davis, extending his hand to shake Chelmin’s.
“Not my credit to take, General. This was mostly Spaulding and Shapiro. And may I point out that it was your idea to bring Spaulding into the mix. Having not just a pilot but an ace aviator running things made all the difference in the world.
“And by the way, were you aware that our helicopter was sabotaged? It flamed out at 7,000 feet, and he still managed to make a safe landing?”
“I didn’t realize that Spaulding had flown this morning’s autorotation event.”
“I sat next to him all the way down, and he never broke a sweat.”
“I see why Mo Goldzweig speaks so highly of you both.”
“Thank you, sir. Would you like to meet our repatriated POWs?”
“A fine way to put it, Chelmin. Yes, let’s do that.”
Chapter 104
Colonel Moffett stepped out of a four-wheel-drive SUV to find Pad 29 a beehive of activity. He watched four MPs manhandle a huge Pelican carbon-fiber case through the porta-potty door, and walked over to see what it held.
“What do we have here?” he demanded.
“Money,” said an MP corporal. “Two more cases down below, sir.”
“Let me see,” Moffett said, and the corporal unlatched the top of the case, and then lifted it to reveal a cubic meter of US currency in neat stacks.
“Nothing bigger than twenties,” the corporal announced. “Mostly fives and tens.”
“The other cases are the same?”
“Yes, sir. And there’s a room the size of a movie theater filled with flat-screen TVs, cell phones, laptop computers, and like that. Everything brand new, in boxes.”
“Astonishing,” said Moffett, then turned to find a large and attractive woman approaching. She wore the khaki uniform of a county sheriff, with four stars on her collars.
“Andrea Taliaferro,” she said, taking his hand. “Your men have done a great job, Colonel.”
Moffett was momentarily tongue-tied. “Excuse me…Sheriff?”
“Sheriff Taliaferro of Houston County. Call me Andrea.”
Moffett took a second look and liked what he saw. “Kenneth Moffett, Fort Rucker Provost Marshal. Call me Ken.”
“I came out to personally thank you for finding James and Roger Thompson, two residents of Daleville. And Walter Collins of Dothan.”
“Thanks, Andrea, but the credit goes to CID Agents Spaulding, Shapiro, and Chelmin.”
“Who all work for you, as I understand.”
“Correct. The Thompsons were taken to the base hospital, and I am told that their parents have been notified.”
“Thanks again, Colonel. Where can I find Agents Shapiro and Spaulding?”
“Left about half an hour ago. Probably back to their office by now.”
§
An MP driver dropped Elliot, Ash, Will and Chelmin at the door to their office, which was locked. While Ash negotiated the double lock, Chelmin took Will’s arm. “I’m going to take some Ibuprofen and lie down for an hour or so,” Chelmin said. “I’ll be on the sofa in my office.”
Will followed the others inside and then went to his desk, where he called Agent Lockwood’s cell and brought him up to date on the morning’s events.
“Did you arrest anyone?” Lockwood said.
“One suspect. She’s under guard in the hospital. I’m going to let her marinate for a while before we question her.”
“Keep me informed,” Lockwood said and hung up.
Ash appeared in the doorway to Will’s office, and looked at the conference room door, then went down the corridor.
He found her just inside the door of the darkened room. Clinging to each other, Will felt some of the day’s anxiety waning.
“I was so worried about you,” Ash whispered. “I thought that you and Chelmin had been taken, like the others.”
“We were. Thank God Katrina is such an amateur—she didn’t search us.”
Ash’s cell phone buzzed, and she pulled away to answer it. She said her name, listened, and then whispered a thank you before clicking off. Sobbing, she clung to Will in silence for a long minute.
“Alvie died,” Ash said, and resumed her sobbing.
Chapter 105
Will peered out his window at the darkening sky. Chelmin was still resting, Ash had gone to see Alvie’s partner to offer help in settling his affairs and planning a funeral. Steve was still with MPs searching the space below Pad 29, and Will had sent Elliot home. Will looked at his watch and realized that he hadn’t eaten all day.
His phone rang. “Special Agent Spaulding,” he said.
An oddly familiar man’s voice said, “This is Maxwell Burris. You said to contact you if I remembered anything.”
“Sorry, but would you say your name again?”
“Maxwell Burris. You and that oriental woman and a sheriff’s deputy came to my farm last week, left a card.”
An image of the aging farmer popped into Will’s head. “Yes, yes. Sorry. You have something to tell me, sir?”
“We’re just sitting down to dinner, Pearl and me, when we heard another one of those helicopters come by, very low, and then slow down, way slow, then speed up again. And then another one came by, but he didn’t stop, just flew slowly, and then both of those machines flew away, really fast, all lickety-split.”
Will said, “Thanks for calling, Mr. Burris. Could I ask you to do something for me? Take a flashlight and go look at your pond, and see if they dropped anything in it.”
“Well, sure. But I’d like to finish my dinner, first, ‘fore it gets cold, and Pearl gets all bothered at me.”
“I guess that would be okay,” Will said. “But please call me back, one way or the other.”
Burris hung up, and Will went to Chelmin’s office and rapped lightly on the door.
No response. He rapped again and listened. Still hearing no response, he opened the door a crack. The lights were out, but he could make out Chelmin on the couch, snoring softly.
Will closed the door, grabbed his jacket, and left the building, locking the door behind him.
Ten minutes later, as he was about to take the first bite from a double cheeseburger at the Officer Club’s casual-dress annex, his phone rang. He put the burger down and answered.
“Maxwell Burris again,” said the voice of the elderly farmer. “You better come out. They missed the pond, but there’s a naked man just near it. And he’s dead, I think.”
Chapter 106
Will had a little trouble finding the Burris farm; it was almost an hour later when he drove up the gravel driveway. The kitchen door opened and Burris, wearing an old coat over overalls, came out carrying a battery-powered lantern. Will shook his hand.
“Before we go down there, can you point in the direction that you heard them go when they left?”
Will enabled his phone’s compass app and when Burris extended his arm Will stood behind him and noted the direction: About 220 degrees, or Southwest. He followed the farmer about a hundred meters through the dark to the edge of the fish pond. A meter or so from the lower end lay the sprawled body of a nude man. Will took flash pictures of the crime scene with his phone’s camera, then squatted down to photograph the corpse up close. He made three exposures, then opened the gallery app and found himself staring at the wide-eyed face of Sergeant Andrew Bender. A small hole in the center of his forehead explained the cause of death.
Will straightened up and turned to the farmer.
“I’m going to call the sheriff,” he said. “They may send somebody tonight, or they might wait for morning. Can you put a tarp or an old blanket over him till then?”
“Sure thing,” Burris said. “And can you get those damned
flying machines to leave us alone?”
Chapter 107
On the drive back to Rucker, Will turned what he knew over in his mind. That Bender was working for the gang did not surprise him. That two large helicopters had dropped a body on their way southwest was interesting. How many of the gang had survived? At least eight had died during the hour or so that he and Chelmin were underground, but he thought that they looked too young and sounded too foreign to have “died” in Afghanistan a decade earlier. He and Ash had killed three men dressed in Army uniforms. Six Americans were on J.J. Richardson’s Blackhawk when it went missing—Richardson, Scherer, two door-gunners, one of whom was the crew chief, and two passengers, both sergeants. If the young men who died in the Pad 29 shootout were local hires or foreigners, that left three of the MIA crew. And suddenly Will realized why Katrina had taken ten-year-old Jeff from school: To be with his father. And then another flash of insight: Maybe Idelle Richardson wasn’t in Atlanta when she spoke to Jeff’s school. Maybe she was still in Switzerland. Or on Grand Cayman Island. J.J. had set up a family reunion.
Will thought some more. A single Blackhawk could carry much more than three adults, a kid, and a body. There were probably a few of those big Pelican cases stuffed with cash aboard each aircraft. If J.J. Richardson was fleeing the country with his loot, and had a big military helicopter, where would he go?
Would he fly down to the Everglades and a pre-arranged refueling point, then head for Grand Cayman Island? Or to the Bahamas?
By the time Will got back to his quarters, he had worked out some possible escape scenarios. He booted up his laptop, got out a yellow pad, and began checking distances. He knew that a Blackhawk had a flight range of about 350 miles. Much more with external tanks, but that would mean that J.J. Richardson had equipment that was hard to find at Fort Rucker. Without the external tanks, he couldn’t reach Grand Cayman without refueling in Cuba. But, although relations between the US and Cuba had improved, would he really be able to land a US Army helicopter in Cuba?
It was possible, with an advance crew waiting in a remote corner of the island. But still very risky: Cuba has good air defenses against slow-flying aircraft. Also, his son was almost certainly with him. Would he risk his boy’s life?
Probably not, Will decided.
He opened Google Maps and plotted a course from Dothan southwest 350 miles. The line went between Pensacola and Mobile and on to New Orleans. Now he switched to satellite view. The first thing he noticed was that most of the Gulf of Mexico was very shallow for quite a distance from land.
Would Richardson land in some remote field, abandon the aircraft and transfer his money, possibly the counterfeit printing plates, and his small group of men to a truck and then drive to a port to board a ship to, maybe, Iran?
Too risky, he decided. Will wanted to talk this over with Chelmin. He dialed the office and got the recording. He called Chelmin’s cell, and it went to voicemail. He tried Ash’s phone, and she answered on the second ring.
“How are you?” he said.
“Tired, angry and sad. I’m going to spend the night here with Professor Lilly. He’s taking it very hard. And to tell the truth, I am too. Alvie was a great friend. Much too young, and much too good a man to die so young.”
Will decided not to raise the topic of his research. “Call me in the morning,” he said. “Maybe we’ll have breakfast?”
Ash said, “No, sorry. Sorry. I’m taking the day, Will. Got to help James and be there for Alvie’s family. Besides, we did it. We found our guys alive.”
“Take care of yourself, Ash,” Will said. “I love you.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
“Ash, you still there?”
“Yes, yes. I was just enjoying how good it makes me feel to hear you say that.”
“Then I’ll say it again—I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Ash said. “See you tomorrow night for dinner?”
“You bet,” Will said, and hung up.
Will looked again at the map on his computer screen. Would J.J. Richardson chance landing two Blackhawk helicopters on a ship at night in the middle of a busy international seaport?
Maybe, he thought. Maybe, if that ship was a submarine that could enter and leave a port without being seen.
Will peered again at the satellite images. He consulted Wikipedia and Google.
Pensacola was too shallow for a sub to hide and there were too many islands to maneuver around.
New Orleans was deep enough, but the long route in and out was very shallow in more than one place.
Gulfport, Pascagoula, and Biloxi were too small and marginally too shallow.
Mobile had a wide and very straight ship channel 75 feet deep that led through a narrow gap between islands, directly into the deepest parts of the Gulf.
He used his computer to look up the specifications of the Russian-built submarines that comprised Iran’s undersea fleet. He looked at photos and pictures of Russian vessels. Then he checked out Iran’s navy and that of the Revolutionary Guard.
He checked the tide tables for Mobile Bay.
He looked up some phone numbers and entered them into his satellite phone. Then he closed his computer, took a fast shower, and changed clothes.
Finally, he called Whit Johnstone.
“Will Spaulding, sir.”
“The man of the hour! What’s up?”
Will said, “Two Blackhawk helicopters carrying the ringleaders of our kidnap and counterfeit club, and what I think could be more than $20 million in cash, left here about three hours ago. I think I know where they’re going, and how to stop them. I need a Kiowa Warrior armed with two Stingers and a rocket pod with H-E.”
“Live air-to-air Stingers? Live high-explosive rockets?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You really don’t mess around at all, do you?”
“Not this time.”
“Supposing I was able to put that together. How soon do you need it, and what are you going to do with it?”
Will told him.
“Say that again?”
Will repeated his statement.
“Have you been drinking?”
“No, sir.”
“Smoking weed, tweaking speed, shooting smack?”
“No, never, and hell no.”
“You do know about the Posse Comitatus Act? The military can’t arrest civilian lawbreakers.”
“We’ll be arresting deserters, sir. And apprehending foreign invaders. Plus, the Coast Guard and the Secret Service will make the actual arrests.”
“We?”
“Yes, sir. I need you to come with me if this is gonna work.”
The line went quiet for several seconds. Then Johnstone said, “On the record, this is a pipe dream. Won’t-see-TV. A one-way ticket to Fort Leavenworth.”
“And off the record?”
“I’ll meet you at flight ops in thirty minutes.”
Chapter 108
By the time Johnstone ambled in wearing a flight suit with Senior Aviator wings, Will had called Special Agent Lockwood, spoken with Chelmin, and left a detailed message for the duty officer at US Coast Guard Sector Mobile.
“They’re arming the aircraft now,” Will said.
“Let’s have coffee, and you can give me the details,” Johnstone said.
“At this hour, we’re stuck with machine coffee,” Will said.
“Not so,” replied Johnstone. My wife is a champion barista. I brought a thermos and cups,” he said, displaying them.
They sat in Will’s truck and went over the details.
“You’re sure they’ll come from the east?” Johnstone said.
“Ninety-nine percent. They can set down almost anywhere in the Eglin AFB training area and nobody will bother them. Or in a forested area east of Mobile. They’ve got enough fuel to make Mobile and orbit for a while if that’s required.”
“And we’ll be on the ground?”
“At the Coas
t Guard Aviation Training Center.”
“And you’re certain it’s a Kilo Class diesel submarine?”
“Every sub in Iran’s navy and the Revolutionary Guard naval forces is Russian made. They have four Kilo-class. Built for shallow waters. Nothing smaller is big enough to land a Blackhawk on. Nothing bigger in their inventory.”
“What if it’s a Chinese sub instead?”
“They’ve got more to choose from, but nothing bigger than their Kilo-class can enter and exit Mobile Bay submerged. They have a slightly smaller boat, Song class, that’s a little quieter and a little faster, but I don’t think a Blackhawk could land on it.
“The Coast Guard will bring two 270-foot cutters from Biloxi and Pascagoula, to block both passages out of Mobile Bay. They’re both equipped for anti-submarine warfare.”
Johnstone said, “What can go wrong?”
The Blackhawks might have air-to-air missiles. In which case, we’re probably swimming. But there are two Coast Guard aircraft available, and they will be above us.
“Or, the sub could remain out in the Gulf. But the water is shallow, and tonight there’s quite a bit of wind, which means big waves—a Blackhawk will have trouble landing in a small area like a sub. And of course, there is always a chance that something will happen that I didn’t anticipate or prepare for.”
“Ye gods,” Johnstone said. “You mean if it’s not a sub but a warship, and it’s not Mobile Bay but twelve miles out in the Gulf? Then what?”
Will shook his head. “They’d never risk a surface vessel in US territorial waters.”
Johnstone said, “One more question: Why a pod of 2.75-inch rockets that might miss the target instead of a Hellfire guided missile that will destroy it?”
Will smiled. “I don’t want to sink it. I want to disable it.”
“And a bonus question: Why do need me along?”
Will laughed. “To balance the aircraft. The Stingers are much lighter than a loaded rocket pod.”
§
An hour later, Will set the Kiowa down on the small pad of the USCG Mobile Sector on the west side of Mobile Harbor.
