Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series) (6 page)

“I could get used to that,” I said. “From a boat to a plane.”

Williams nodded, but didn’t say anything. We crossed the southeast corner of the Gulf of Mexico, glistening below us, in less than thirty minutes. Below and to port was Marco Island, the playground of rich Florida transplants. To starboard lay the vast expanse of the Everglades. Further ahead and to starboard was the clear blue waters of Lake Okeechobee. Deuce and Rusty were talking in the back about bass fishing in the Lake Okeechobee, but Williams was intent on flying, seemingly lost in thought.

Forty-five minutes later, we crossed Highway 70, north of Lake Okeechobee and Williams still hadn’t contacted Orlando air traffic control. I didn’t know a lot about flying, but if it was anything like driving in the Orlando area, we were headed into a lot of traffic.

I tapped Williams on the shoulder. “You okay?”

He seemed to snap out of whatever trance he was in and said, “Yeah, um, I’m fine. Just things on my mind, sorry.”

“It’s just that we’re well past Lake Okeechobee. Looks like Lake Wales coming up.”

“Oh shit,” he muttered and reached up to change the channel on the radio. Grabbing the mic off the dash he spoke into it, “Orlando
Control, this is Beaver one three eight five.”

The response was immediate, “
Beaver one three eight five, Orlando Control. Descend to 7500 feet, turn left to 350 degrees.”

Williams banked the plane sharply, added throttle and pulled back on the yoke. In modern private planes there are two separate wheels, each mounted to the dash. In this plane each wheel is mounted to a Y shaped yoke that is mounted to the floor. We leveled off at 7
500 feet at the correct heading.

“Something bothering you, David?” I asked.

“It’s my kid, my oldest. Remember I told you I had two Marine sons, Jared and Luke. The oldest lives in Key West now. He got out about a year ago and moved down here. He was in and out of trouble, both in the Corps and since then. Took a job at the Blue Heaven when he got here. I’ve been trying to get hold of him, but he hasn’t answered the phone in a couple of weeks. I stopped by his place a couple of times, once he told me to go away through the door and the second time he wouldn’t even come to the door. I don’t know if he’s drinking, on drugs, or what. He just hasn’t been the same since he came back from his third tour in Iraq and got out.”

“He works at the Blue Heaven you said? About six feet tall and a solid 220?”

“You know him?”

“Met him once, briefly. It was a few months back, just before Cuba.”

“He’s a good kid, Jesse. Something went real bad wrong when he was with 6th Marines in Iraq and it changed him.”

A lot of things go ‘real bad wrong’ in combat. In my 20 years in the Corps, I only lost two men killed in action, both times something went real bad wrong. After the first Gulf War, I lost three to suicide and dozens of others left a promising career. “He never told you what it was?”

“No,” he replied.

The radio interrupted our conversation, “
Beaver one three eight five, Orlando Control.”

Williams picked up the mic and said, “
Beaver one three eight five.”

“Orlando
Control, Beaver one three eight five, turn right to 10 degrees and descend to 5500 feet.”

I looked out the window on my side and could see the city of Orlando, as the plane banked to starboard and the nose dropped. A moment later, we leveled off with Lake Apopka just ahead and to starboard.

“I asked him about it,” Williams continued. “He was in his last year of a four year hitch. He’d talked about reenlisting, but suddenly he was out. He never told me why, or what happened. That was a year ago. He went home to Kentucky, but after a month called and asked if he could bunk with us. I found him a place in Key West, he got a job and everything seemed okay. I heard from others that he got a little crazy once or twice and was arrested once. I just don’t know what to do, or how I can help.”

Deuce’s voice came over the intercom, “You might not be able to. If something real bad happened, it might be psychological. Has he tried to get help from the VA?”

“That’s just it, Deuce. I don’t know. He won’t talk to me about it.”

Orlando interrupted again. “
Beaver one three eight five, Orlando Control.”

Williams picked up the mic again and said, “
Beaver one three eight five.”

“
Beaver one three eight five, turn left to heading zero degrees. Maintain 5000 feet. Contact Jacksonville Control when you’re over Lake George. Have a nice flight.”

Williams banked the plane and picked up the old heading. Apparently Orlando didn’t want our old plane anywhere near their bustling airspace. We flew on in silence for another fifteen minutes. I could see the concern in Williams face and one look at Deuce and Rusty told me they both were thinking the same thing I was. Something bad happened. That’s what combat is. Bad. Without knowing what his son did in the Marines, I could only guess. So I asked.

“What was Jared’s MOS?”

Williams looked confused for a second and then replied, “His job? He started out in infantry. He was always real good with a rifle as a kid and they sent him from there to scout/sniper school.”

A sniper. That opened up a lot of possibilities. I was a Marine sniper for a while, myself. Had Jared been a few years older, I might have trained him.

“Maybe when we get back,” I said, “I can go down and talk to him. Meantime, how about letting me take the controls for a while?”

Rusty’s voice came over my headset, “This ain’t no whirly bird, you know.”

That brought Williams out of his funk and he laughed along with Deuce and Rusty. Williams raised both hands and said, “Off stick.”

I took the wheel in front of me and taking his cue, replied, “On stick. Now, where’s the collector?”

Williams changed from a troubled dad to a flight instructor instantly. “Controlling a fixed wing isn’t a lot different than a chopper, Jesse. The foot pedals control the rudder, the same way they control the tail rotor in a chopper. Push the right one and the plane will turn right, but you have to combine that with ailerons to bank the plane, using the wheel. Pushing or pulling on the yoke, will move the elevator to climb or dive. Go ahead and try an easy right turn, then come back to the same heading.”

I did as he said and banked the plane, making an easy turn to starboard, then banked left and came back on course. I noticed the altimeter showed we’d descended nearly a hundred feet and pointed it out.

“When banking, the plane will slide a little and loose altitude. Compensate for it, while turning, by pulling back slightly on the yoke to maintain the same altitude. Try it again to the left this time.”

I banked slightly left, added a little left peddle and pulled back on the yoke just a little. Then I did the same thing to the right and brought us back on course. We’d actually gained a little altitude.

“The balance comes with lots of practice. Different planes react differently. The Beaver’s a pretty heavy plane for a single engine. She can carry six people, with luggage, or up to 2000 pounds of gear. They’re used a lot up in Canada and Alaska by bush pilots.”

The old plane didn’t have an autopilot, so I stayed on the controls until we were over Lake George. Williams took the controls back as he switched the radio to the right frequency for Jacksonville.

He picked up the mic and spoke into it, “Jacksonville
Control, Beaver one three eight five.”

“
Beaver one three eight five, Jacksonville ground,” came the response

“
Beaver one three eight five, requesting landing instructions to refuel before heading on to Jacksonville, North Carolina.”

“
Beaver one three eight five, ceiling is 10,000 feet and scattered, visibility is 10 miles, wind is out of the east at 5 knots. Turn left, heading 350 degrees.”

As we neared Jacksonville, the instructions came faster, “
Beaver one three eight five, turn right to heading 15 degrees. Traffic six miles out and above, heading east, triple seven heavy.”

Williams acknowledged the controller and I asked, “What did he just say?”

Williams pointed ahead and slightly up until I spotted it. “It’s a Boeing 777 on approach, we’ll follow him in.”

The controller’s voice came over my headset again. “
Beaver one three eight five, turn right to 90 degrees. Maintain five miles to triple seven heavy. You’re clear for VFR approach to runway 26. Call on 118.3, when down.”

He again acknowledged the controller and I said, “Five miles is only a couple of minutes behind him right?”

“Yeah, but the 777 will be going faster than us. By the time we touch down, he’ll be taxiing.”

We landed without incident and Williams switched the radio frequency for taxi instructions and directions to the fuel pumps. Thirty minutes later we were back in the air, with instructions to contact Charleston, South Carolina when we were 40 miles away from there. Leaving Florida behind us, we climbed to 7
500 feet and headed out over the Atlantic on a heading of 45 degrees. All but the last 75 miles or so would be over water.

We made it through Charleston approaches without having to change course, but they did have us drop down to 3
500 feet. The sun was still well above the horizon as we crossed back over land southwest of Wilmington, North Carolina. We were vectored around the west side of the city at 7500 feet and we made our approach to Albert J. Ellis Airport, near Camp Lejeune thirty minutes later.

We unloaded the gear from the plane and helped Williams get her refueled and tied down on the tarmac near the hangers of Jacksonville Flying Service. Deuce had made arrangements for a car to be waiting for us. Of course, his car of choice was a black Expedition, with dark tinted windows. The keys had been left at the incoming flights desk at the JFS office.

We carried our baggage out to the parking lot. Rusty looked at the behemoth and then at Deuce. “Don’t you feds ever drive anything low profile?”

“Have you seen what’s available at Hertz these days, Rusty? The
y call a Corolla a mid-sized car. I was only thinking of you when I had the company send this over.”

“Where’d they send it from?” I asked.

“FBI residential office in Wilmington.”

“You can do that?” asked Williams. “I thought you worked for Homeland Security.”

“All the agencies work together, or we’re supposed to. Sometimes, we get good cooperation, sometimes we don’t.”

We loaded the gear in the back of the big SUV and climbed inside. Deuce immediately pushed all four buttons to send the windows down, as it was over 100 degrees inside the car. He started it up and cranked the A/C up to high. By the time we got to the airport exit, the stifling air had been blown out the windows, so he closed them.

Sitting up front with Deuce, Williams asked, “Which way?”

“Surprised you ain’t got satellite imaging in this tub,” Rusty said from the back.

“Head east and turn right on Catherine Lake Road,” I replied. “Should be at the end of the road we’re on.”

“Should be?” he asked.

“I haven’t been here in eight years. But we’ll find it. Just head in the direction the other cars are coming from.”

“Yep,” Rusty said. “That’ll get us to Swoop Circle.”

“Swoop Circle?” Williams asked.

“Yeah,” Rusty said. “It’s a gathering spot for Marines after liberty is sounded on Friday. Guys with cars pick up guys without cars and head home for the weekend, splitting the gas. It’s called swooping.”

We turned onto Hwy 111 toward Jacksonville and passed Lake Catherine a few minutes later. I used to live on the north side of the lake. It seems like a lifetime ago.

“Remember when you used to live up there?” Rusty said reading my mind.

“Ancient history, Rusty.”

“When’s the last time you talked to them?” He was referring to my two daughters from my first marriage. She divorced me in 1990, when I volunteered for an advance unit going into Saudi Arabia before the run up to Desert Shield.

“Fourteen years ago,” I replied. I didn’t even know if they still lived in the area. I still sent them cards on their birthdays and at Christmas. The checks inside were never cashed.

“Maybe while we’re here, you could…” Rusty started to say. I cut him off as we approached Highway 24.

“Take a right up here, Deuce. We’re staying at the Fairfield on the other side of town. Around the next curve, stay left on 178.”

After a few stoplights, we crossed the bridge over New River. I knew Rusty would remember this area, as it was the off duty gathering spot for Marines stationed at Camp Lejeune for many years.

“Hey,” Rusty said as if on cue. “Wanna head down to Court Street? We could check out Birdland and have a cold one at Sam’s pool hall.”

“Not there anymore, Rusty.”

Rusty was craning his neck to look down Court Street angling away behind us on the right. “Which one?”

“All of them,” I said. “The city was in the process of cleaning things up last time I was stationed here. I bet there’s not a single beer to be found on Court Street now.”