Daniel Ganninger - Icarus Investigations 01 - Flapjack (19 page)

-Chapter 35-

I arrived late to Montgomery Field the next day, an airport north of downtown San Diego, disheveled and tired.  Galveston was already waiting for me in the parking lot.

“
So how’d it go, Stud?”  He asked right away.

“
Fine, fine,” I said, getting my bag out of the back of my car.

“
Looks like you could have used a little more freshening up.”

“
No, I’m good.  Ready to go.”

“
Yeah, I bet,” Galveston said, smiling.  “A friend of mine is going to fly us.  Come on.”

We made our way to the security gate where
Galveston punched in a code.  We walked across the tarmac to an awaiting Cessna 400 Corvalis aircraft.

“
Where’s your friend?”  I inquired.

“
I don’t know, he said he would be here.  I’ll get the plane ready for him.  Put your stuff in the back and get in the passenger side.” 

I placed my things in the cargo hold and stuffed myself in the passenger right seat. 
Galveston climbed in the pilot’s seat and looked over the controls.

“
Pretty complicated, huh?”  He said to me.

“
Yeah, I’ll say.  Lots of knobs and buttons.”

“
Ah, it can’t be that hard.  You know, we can’t wait for him forever.  I bet we can get it going for him.”  Galveston started pushing buttons and moving knobs.  “That looks about right, I bet.”

“
Don’t mess with that,” I shrieked, clutching my seat.

“
He told me he keeps the keys under the seat.”  Galveston reached down and pulled out some keys.

“
Hey, what are you doing?  Put those down!”

“
Relax.  Let’s see what this sucker does.”  He put the keys in the starter, moved some knobs, and turned the key, starting the engine.  “Wow, just like when I play that game on my computer.”  I was petrified as I looked out the front at the spinning propeller blade.  “You better get your headphones on, it’s going to be loud,” he yelled.  I nervously stuck the headset on my head and reached for my seatbelt, following Galveston’s lead.

“
Okay, that’s good,” I yelled back, “turn it off!  That’s enough playing around.”  Galveston was clearly amused.

“
Ah, let’s just move it a bit.”  He moved the throttle forward and we began moving toward the taxiway.  “I just hope this thing has brakes,” he exclaimed through the intercom.  The plane jerked to a stop, right before the taxiway leading to the runway.  “Whew.  I thought I’d never figure that out,” Galveston said to me.  I was not amused.

“
Just shut it off, before we get into trouble.”

Galveston
was now laughing hard and could barely keep his headphones on.  He composed himself and keyed his microphone.

“
Montgomery Ground, Cessna two-zero-one-victor-tango with romeo, taxi IFR.”  The radio chattered with instruction.

“
Cessna two-zero-one-victor-tango, Montgomery Ground, taxi to Runway two-eight right via taxiway Alpha and Hotel.  Hold in the run-up area for a release time.”

Galveston
read back the instructions verbatim and was still stifling laughter while he taxied the single engine airplane toward the runway.

“
When were you going to tell me you could fly?”  I questioned him.

“
I was hoping you wouldn’t figure it out until we were in the air.”

“
How long did you have this planned?”

“
About five minutes before you got here.  I had already got our instrument clearance, and thought I would have a little fun with you,” he said as he negotiated the plane down the taxiway.

“
Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

“
Are you kidding?  It was great!  I’ll never forget your white knuckles on the dash.  That was priceless.”

Galveston
changed to the tower frequency and got a takeoff clearance almost immediately.  Galveston pushed the throttle forward and we lifted off quickly into the air.  We made a turn to the south before being transferred to SoCal Approach, the air traffic control for the area.  We would pass over San Diego, the border and Tijuana, and then a turn to the southeast to track our way to Monterrey, Mexico.  It was a clear day, and we cruised at 11,000 feet.  I finally began to relax more and more as the flight progressed, somehow trusting Galveston’s flying skills as we travelled farther south and into the Mexican interior.

I watched as the ground
changed from the city of San Diego to the roughness and chaotic outline of the city of Tijuana.  Eventually, all I saw was light brown ground dotted with scrub brush, winding dirt roads that crisscrossed in every direction, and alternating terrain that changed from mountainous to sprawling desert.  I silently ruminated over the cost of this little sojourn, and was privately peeved Galveston didn’t consult me, but this sure was an easy way to travel. 

We caught some mountain turbulence as we crossed over the
Sierra Juárez Mountains and left the Baja California peninsula behind.  Monterrey is situated in the interior of the country near the east coast of central Mexico, about 1,100 miles from San Diego, and 400 miles north of Mexico City.  The Corvalis is a fast airplane and travels at a maximum speed of 235 knots which allowed Galveston to calculate us at a flight time of four and a half hours.  I quit looking out the windows too often, and pushed the thought back that if the plane went down, there was nothing around but desert.

During the enroute phase of our flight,
Galveston briefed me on the newest member of this little fiasco, Senator Edward Eastman.  After he was finished, I used the remainder of our time to broach the subject of the cost of this flight.

“
When are you planning to let me know how much you spent on this flight?  You know you’re not supposed to try to make any financial decisions.”

“
My friend said we could use his plane for free.  He owes me a favor.  We just have to pay for fuel.”

“
That’s some favor.”

“
Well there is a catch.  We have to help his kid sell all of his candy for his baseball fundraiser.”

“
And how much candy would that be?”  I asked.

“
Oh, about twenty cases.  See aren’t you proud?  I figure we’ll get Alex to buy them all.  We’ll just tell him they’re fine French chocolates.”

“
From now on though, tell me about all the expenses.”

“
Yes Dad,” Galveston said sarcastically and I smiled.  Galveston had worked out a good deal, and it didn’t mean schlepping bags through security with all the other cattle.

The rest of the flight was uneventful, and we were afforded a nice tailwind
from the west that sped our progress.  We flew over Monterrey about 2 P.M. Central time.  Galveston set the plane down gently while fighting a nasty little crosswind blowing over the runway.  As we taxied to a tie down spot, we were met by a Mexican customs agent who was nice enough to rifle through our bags.  We tied down, prayed the plane would be in the same place when we got back, and made our way to the front of the airplane terminal.  A short, skinny, young man approached us.

“
Hola Senors’.  Are you names Dan Galveston and Roger Murphy?”  He said in broken English.

“
That’s us,” Galveston answered.  “You Manuel?”

“
Si Senor, that is me,” and Manuel pointed to himself.

“
Excellent.  You know where we’re going?”

“
Jes, I know where the Colonel Espinosa is.  Here I have a car.”

Manuel
led us to a rental, an old Volkswagen Beetle, slightly destroyed.  Manuel drove us through the streets as he used the horn religiously and cursed the other drivers.  He must not have been a day over 22 or 23.

“
So how do you know Alex?”  I asked.

“
He stay at the villas where I work.  I help him many times.  He got me a promotion, and now I have nine people work under me.”  He pulled both hands off the wheel to show us the number on his fingers.  “He is big help to me.”

“
That guy sure gets around,” I told Galveston.

“
I think he spent a good amount of time in Mexico.  You know, when he had to lay low,” Galveston informed me.

We arrived at our destination,
Universidad Autónoma de Nuevo León
Hospital
, a large, white stone building on the campus of a university.  Manuel parallel parked the Volkswagen skillfully between two other non-descript cars on the street, making sure to tap the bumpers of the other cars with his own as he angled in.

“
We here,” he announced proudly.  Galveston then explained to Manuel why we were in Monterrey, and laid out our plan.

“
Were you able to find out his condition?”  Galveston asked him.

“
Jes, the Colonel is in very bad shape.  He in the main medical ward.”

Galveston
had thought out the plan carefully.  He pulled a bag toward the front of the car and set it on his lap.  From it he pulled two white lab coats and a stethoscope, placing it in one of the coat pockets.  He then pulled two cards from the bag, one for me, which he handed to me in the back seat, and the other one for himself.  On it was my driver’s license picture, a picture he knew I was not fond of.  On the I.D. I had a cheesy, pencil thin mustache.  I didn’t remembered growing one, ever, but upon further inspection, I could see it was added in.  “Dr. Joseph Rogers, Epidemiologist, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Atlanta, Georgia”, it read.

“
So I’m a medical doctor now?”

“
Yeah,” Galveston answered, “you’ve been promoted.”

“
Let me see yours.”  Galveston handed back his I.D. and it read, “Dr. David Hammerstein, Epidemiologist, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Atlanta, Georgia”.  I studied it over and noticed something different about the picture.  I held it up to Galveston’s face and saw that he had a new chin and nose.

“
I see you went with a musical theme,” I said, tapping his name on the card.

“
Very observant,” he replied.  It was an ode to the great musical producing team of Rogers and Hammerstein.

Galveston
handed me a coat and instructed me to put it on.  It was itchy, and in ninety degree heat, uncomfortable.

“
Manuel, you’re just our translator, that’s it, okay?”  Galveston told him.

“
Jes sir,” he answered.

“
Roger?”

“
Yes,” I answered, trying to get my arms in the sleeves of the white jacket.

“
Memorize your new name.  I’ll do most of the talking, but I want you to talk to the Colonel.  We need to know what information he has, where he went, and what he was doing there.  I don’t care how much you have to lie, or ‘fib’, if that makes you feel better.  I’m going to try to keep the doctors and nurses occupied, if I can.”

“
I don’t know, it sounds awfully risky.”

“
Nah, it will be fine.  Just get him to talk.”

“
And how do I do that?”  I asked nervously.

“
I don’t know.  Just do the best you can, but stay in character.  Don’t lose sight of that.”  Manuel now looked nervous.  I pictured him wishing he would have asked for more money.  “Okay, we’re all clear, right?” 

Galveston
slid his coat on and handed me a folder with a few papers inside and had another for himself.  We got out of the car and straightened our coats.

Manuel followed behind as we made our way to the hospital doors and went inside.  There was a crowd of people in the main lob
by, some sitting in wheelchairs and others talking loudly in Spanish.  My heart raced as we approached the receptionist, who was busy looking at a Mexican newspaper.

“
Manuel, ask where we can find Colonel Espinosa and his doctor.”

Manuel moved to the front of the desk and spoke in quick, succinct Spanish.  The receptionist continued to look at the paper in front of her, stopping just long enough to peruse a patient list.  She non-chalantly answered him and pointed to a bank of elevators behind her.

“He in medical ward two, third floor, intensive care unit,” Manuel told us.

We moved toward the elevators before she stopped us, handing out three visitor tags.  I was already beginning to sweat in my white coat, the air as stifling inside as out.  We took the elevator to the third floor.

“Okay, its showtime,” Galveston said as he smoothed out his coat and checked his glasses, as if he were entering the stage for a performance.

The doors opened and we stepped into the second world’s answer to medical care.
  I was shocked and surprised that it resembled the hospitals in the States.  This particular hospital was one of the best in Mexico.