Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (32 page)

The body sank quickly; fifty feet, one hundred, until it danced on underwater currents. Inside the cadaver, nature’s forces began their slow but inexorable process. Bacteria feeding on dead flesh in the belly and chest began to produce gas, carbon dioxide, hydrogen sulfide, methane—gases that caused it to rise like a balloon, though not all body parts rose at the same time. The torso was the first to bloat, as it contained more bacteria than the head, arms, and legs. The body was turned face down in the water, limbs dragging below and behind. Passing fish took their nibbles. About a week later the bloated corpse of Mac Halley rose to the surface. It wasn’t pretty. He had deserved a better death. He’d worked hard for it all his life.

W
E’RE NOW TRAVELING AT
the speed of a rifle bullet,” the fighter pilot said, “twice the speed of sound, over fifteen hundred miles per hour. We’ll arrive in Washington less than two hours from takeoff.”

“What plane is this?” the passenger in the seat directly behind him asked.

“F-15 Strike Eagle.”

The voice of the pilot was audible but tinny, transmitted into the earpiece of his flight helmet. Jock Boucher stared at the complex instrumentation in front of him, astounded by where he was at this instant and where he had been just thirty minutes ago. Wrapped in a towel in his hotel room in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, his evening shower interrupted, he’d been greeted by a U.S. Air Force colonel telling him he had orders from the President to fly him back to Washington without delay. He’d been rushed to Puerto Vallarta’s international airport, given a flight suit, and practically carried onto the tarmac, where he’d found this winged devil cleared for takeoff.

“How did you get permission to fly a fighter aircraft into Mexico’s airspace?” he said into the helmet’s mouthpiece.

“Our president spoke to their president. It’s unusual for a jet fighter, but our navy pulls into Mexican ports all the time.”

“This must be costing taxpayers a fortune. I could have flown coach.”

“I needed to log the flight time,” the pilot said. “I would have been up in this bird anyway; the President’s orders just gave me a mission. At least this is one thing they can’t assign a UAV” The last word was said with a sneer evident even through the lousy audio.

“UAV?” Boucher asked.

“Unmanned aerial vehicle, a drone. They’re taking more responsibilities away from us fighter pilots every day. I’m glad I’m going to be retiring soon. I hate what’s coming. Took me two and a half years and cost the government ten million dollars to train me to fly this aircraft. Now they’re teaching twenty-year-old kids to play video games. After a few weeks they’re guiding drones over Afghanistan from a cozy cubicle in Las Vegas. Not what I signed up for. Yogi Berra said it best. The future ain’t what it used to be. He should have been made our national poet laureate. Anyway, sorry to ruin your vacation.”

“Well, thanks for picking me up . . . I guess.” Boucher had one thought. The President of the United States must
really
be pissed off at him. A federal judge from the Eastern District of Louisiana, he had let it be known he was leaving the bench only months after assuming the position. His first case had caused him to question whether he was fit to sit in judgment of others. In self-defense he had taken the lives of two men with his bare hands. He had no remorse, in fact would do it again if given the chance. Bringing his girlfriend on vacation while he pondered the ramifications of his decision, he had been forced by this unexpected presidential command to leave her to make her own way home. The unheard-of abandoning of his judicial post must have caused anger and embarrassment to the man who had appointed him, and now the President was going to chew him up and spit him out in little pieces. He had sent supersonic transport in order to do it without delay. Jock Boucher was nervous.

“How high are we?” he asked.

“We’re climbing to our cruising altitude of forty-five thousand feet, over eight miles high. You can see the curvature of the earth from up there.”

“Am I in the copilot’s seat?” He wondered if the controls in front of him needed attention that he could not give.

“That’s the WSO’s position,” the pilot said. “Weapons systems officer. Don’t worry, I don’t think we’ll run into any hostiles between here and the nation’s capital. You do have a throttle and stick back there, and they have all the controls you need to fly the plane. HOTAS—hands on throttle and stick. Do you fly?”

“Does a Piper Cub count?”

“Same principle. Grab the stick. Get the feel. Got it? Great. I’m going to take me a little nap. Wake me up when—”

“Don’t you dare!”

The pilot laughed. “Just kidding.”

Boucher repeated the question he’d asked the colonel on first meeting him. “Is the President pissed off at me?”

“Like I said earlier, you’ll have to ask him. We’ll be touching down at Langley. There’s ground transport waiting to take you to the White House.”

“That seems kind of late. Maybe I could just find a place for the night and meet him in the morning.”

“I have my orders. Sit back and enjoy the flight.”

“Yeah, right,” Boucher muttered.

Despite his misgivings, it was a fascinating flight. The pilot explained the function and purpose of the screens and monitors and impressive equipment that were the responsibility of the weapons systems officer, or “wizzos” as they were called. The WSO station had four multi-purpose displays, MPDs, including a moving map that could show a TSD—tactical situation display. It showed the area over which the plane was flying, as well as the location of any enemy aircraft, its exact position and direction of flight.

“Wizzos are damned good instrument fliers,” the pilot said. “They have to be with their restricted vision back there. There’s probably not a closer team in the military than a Strike Eagle pilot and wizzo.”

They landed at Langley AFB, Virginia, where the aircraft and pilot were assigned to the 1st Fighter Wing, 27th Fighter Squadron. A long black limo was waiting on the tarmac, as were two assistants to help Boucher discard his flight suit, stripping him out of it like mechanics in a Formula One pit stop. Dressed in his civvies he looked down at his feet. He was wearing his well-worn loafers with no socks. Not the way to meet the President. It was also damned cold. He’d started this journey in the tropics.

It was after nine p.m., but there was still plenty of traffic on the George Washington Parkway. Boucher recognized Key Bridge as they crossed the Potomac and spotted the spires of Georgetown University on the other side. They turned onto M Street, which led to Pennsylvania Avenue, but a series of turns before nearing Lafayette Square meant he was not being taken into the White House through the front door. Instead, the limo parked outside an entrance to the Executive Office Building, where handlers as efficient as those who had disrobed him at the air base hustled him inside to an elevator that took him down to a basement corridor. They rushed through it to another smaller elevator, then pushed the button and the door closed. He rose alone. The door opened, and a Secret Service man with an earpiece attached to a white spiral cord that ran behind his neck and inside the back of his sport coat was waiting for him.

“He’s here,” the agent said into a microphone clipped to his lapel. As these words were spoken a door opened and two men in suits and ties stepped out, both dark-skinned with black hair, one with a small trimmed mustache. The President was right behind them. He seemed to be herding the two men toward the elevator and was frowning as if mulling over a deep thought that required perfect organization before speaking; this from a man whose extemporaneous communication skills were legendary. He stopped, turned, and stared at the new arrival.

“You’re Judge Boucher.”

“Yes sir, Mr. President.”

“And you just flew up from Mexico.”

“I was in Puerto Vallarta, sir.”

“ I think that’s quite a coincidence. Let me introduce you. Gentlemen, this is Federal Judge Jock Boucher of the Eastern District of Louisiana. Judge Boucher, this is Tony Torres, our ambassador to Mexico.” The gentleman with no mustache offered his hand. “And this is His Excellency Candelario Cuellar, the Mexican ambassador to the United States.” Boucher shook the Mexican diplomat’s hand, both giving a respectful nod.

“I hope you enjoyed your visit to our country,” the Mexican ambassador said.

“Very much, your excellency. I only wish I could have stayed longer.” Boucher did not look at his commander in chief as he said this.

“Then you will have to return.”

“ I am already looking forward to that.”

“Gentlemen,” the President said, “Judge Boucher is a friend, and this is just a social visit, but we’d better get started with it so I can have my family time.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Ambassador Cuellar said. “I am sorry for the imposition. Please forgive the late hour.”

“Not at all, your excellency. Thank you for coming.

When you live above the store like I do, you keep later hours but you don’t have a problem finding time for the wife and kids.” He turned to the U.S. ambassador. “Tony, it’s always good to see you. We’ll talk.”

“At your earliest convenience, Mr. President.”

The Secret Service agent held the elevator open for the men, and they both gave slight waves as the doors shut.

The President sighed and shook his head in the silent corridor. “Hell of a mess down there. I don’t suppose you saw any of it where you were.”

“Saw what, sir?”

“Cartel violence. Decapitations. Torture. Gruesome murders. God, the death toll down there exceeds our combat losses in Vietnam.”

“Sir, I saw sandy beaches, blue skies, blue water—and friendly people.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry to have cut your vacation short. Come into my office.”