The Trojan Sea (39 page)

Marathon Key, Florida

Hank flew low over the Florida Keys as Stuart gazed out the window. In less than three hours they had left the winter of the Eastern Seaboard behind and were flying in an unbelievably blue sky laced with small white puffy clouds that reached to the horizon. Below them the chain of islands linked by a causeway stretched into the blue waters of the Straits of Florida like a string of pearls. “It’s beautiful,” Stuart said. “No wonder you love flying.”

“Yeah,” Hank replied, “it kinda gets to you.” He dialed in the frequency to announce their arrival. “Marathon Unicom,” he radioed. “Legend five-one-five-one five miles north for landing. Request traffic advisories.”

A voice answered, “Legend five-one-five-one be advised the FBI has closed all airports in the Florida Keys, and transit aircraft are not allowed to land.”

“Since when has the FBI controlled airports?” Hank groused. He glanced at his fuel gauges. The needles confirmed what his watch told him: They were into their reserve fuel. Hank didn’t hesitate. “Legend five-one-five-one is declaring minimum fuel at this time.” For emphasis he added, “If the FBI doesn’t want us to land at Marathon, they can get clearance for us to land and refuel at Navy Key West.”

“No way that’ll happen,” Stuart said. There was no answer on the radio, and Hank slowed to ninety-five knots and lowered the landing gear. He entered downwind. “Look at that,” Stuart said. The small airport was jammed with aircraft and vehicles. Hank called turning base leg on the radio and slowed to seventy-five knots. The Legend may have been a demon at speed, but it was a docile and forgiving aircraft in the landing pattern. They rolled out on short final.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Hank breathed, “they got aircraft parked everywhere.” It was true. Every available spot was taken, and aircraft were lined up against the narrow runway. Hank touched down on the centerline and ripped the throttle aft.

An all-terrain vehicle met them at the end of the runway and led the way down a narrow, aircraft-lined corridor to the fuel pumps. An FBI agent was waiting for them. “What the hell are you doing here?” he barked.

“I don’t recall reading any NOTAMs that the field was closed,” Hank replied. NOTAMs were “Notices to Airmen” that provided time-critical and recent flight-planning information.

“It was posted two hours ago.”

“Sorry,” Hank said. “We were airborne, and I never saw it. We’ll refuel and get going.”

His reply seemed to pacify the special agent. “Nice airplane,” the agent said. “You build it?” Hank nodded. “I’ve been thinking of building one,” the agent continued. “But my wife gives me fits every time I mention it.”

“I had the same problem,” Hank conceded. “You just gotta do it.”

Stuart climbed out of the cockpit to help Hank refuel. He stood on the wing and looked around. A large group of police and FBI agents were milling around four blue Cessna Skymasters, a twin-engine, pusher-puller type of aircraft, at the far end of the parking ramp. “Isn’t that Brothers to the Rescue?” he asked, pointing at the Cessnas.

“It
was
Brothers to the Rescue,” the agent said. “Now it’s Brothers to the Slammer.”

“You’ve arrested them?” Stuart asked.

“Let’s just say we permanently grounded them,” the agent replied.

“Why?” Hank asked, exploiting their common interest in homebuilt aircraft.

“You’d think they were running a regularly scheduled airline into Cuba,” the agent said. We had to stop it before someone got hurt.” He jumped on his ATV and sped away.

“Lovely,” Stuart moaned. “I guess this was all for nothing.”

“What were you trying to do?” Hank asked.

Stuart doubted he could he explain it in a few words. He unfolded his map of Cuba and circled Cienfuegos. “When I was sailing in the Caribbean and got caught by Hurricane Andrea, we followed a ship into Cienfuegos. Well, it seems we shouldn’t have seen that ship, and somehow it’s tied to my problems. So I called the port captain to get the ship’s name and registry, but the phone lines are down. Then I read a news report that Brothers to the Rescue was flying people and supplies into Cuba, and I was hoping they could get me to Cienfuegos.”

“Cuba is coming apart. It must be pretty important if you were going now.”

“I don’t really have much of a choice.”

Hank studied the map and measured off distances, first to Cienfuegos, and then on to the Cayman Islands. A wicked look captured his face.

“How current is your chart?” Hank asked.

“I have no idea,” Stuart said.

“We’re betting the homestead on it,” Hank replied. He scrutinized the chart, looking for high terrain and obstacles. “The highest point is three hundred ninety feet until we reach Cienfuegos, where there’s a couple of high smokestacks on the west side of town.”

“Hank, you don’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, I do. What did Sam Peckinpah say?”

“The movie director?”

Hank grunted. “He said something like ‘Life’s about fuckin’ and fightin’. Everything else is a surrogate.’ Well, I haven’t done enough of either.” He gave Stuart a long look. “The most alive I’ve ever been was when I was up there with Maggot trying to bring Chalky and your kid down.” He folded the map when the FBI agent came over.

“When you taking off?” the agent asked.

“We’re about ready,” Hank said. “Sorry about the delay, but I had to get my radar transponder fixed.” There was nothing wrong with the Legend’s IFF, but Hank had used it as an excuse to delay his departure.

“No problem,” the agent said. He cranked his ATV and sped away.

Hank glanced at his watch and mentally ran the numbers again. It was 160 nautical miles to Cienfuegos, and at a speed of three hundred knots, they should make it in 32 minutes. But he wanted to arrive when it was dark, and that was driving his takeoff time. After depositing Stuart at Cienfuegos, he planned to head straight south for the Cayman Islands, another 150 nautical miles. “Okay, let’s do it.” He took a deep breath and climbed into the cockpit. Stuart followed him, and they strapped in without saying a word. Then Hank quickly unstrapped and jumped out. He stood behind the tail, unzipped his pants, and relieved himself on the tarmac.

“That’s the last thing Maggot says he does before he flies a mission,” Stuart said. Hank climbed back in and started the engine. He taxied slowly past the parked aircraft and waved at the FBI agent. The agent waved back. Hank made a radio call announcing he was taking off and then took the runway. He started his takeoff roll and at twenty knots, firewalled the throttle. The Legend sprang forward like a Thoroughbred out of the starting gate. They came unstuck at six hundred feet and were airborne.

Hank snapped the landing gear up and climbed to five hundred feet before he slowed to 120 knots indicated airspeed. They headed to the northeast and Miami—just two more tourists out sightseeing. When he judged they were out of eyesight of the airport, he slammed the Legend down to fifty feet above the water and firewalled the throttle as he turned south to Cuba.

Stuart glanced at the superaccurate GPS mounted on the instrument panel. Cuba was on the nose at eighty-six nautical miles.

When they were well over international waters, Hank climbed to five hundred feet. He engaged the autopilot and wiped the sweat from his face. He had never flown so low, so fast, for so long before, and he needed a breather. He dialed in Guard, the emergency radio channel, on his VHF radio. He had every intention of maintaining radio silence, but one never knew what might happen. The radio crackled with a woman’s voice. “Southbound aircraft at five hundred feet, fifty miles south of Marathon, be advised you will penetrate the Cuban ADIZ in five minutes.” The ADIZ was the Air Defense Identification Zone, the airspace extending approximately twenty miles offshore, where they could be intercepted and shot down in the name of air defense.

“I guess she’s talking about us,” Hank said. “Too bad I can’t hear her, whoever she is.”

“Most likely,” Stuart said, “she’s on board an AWACS patrolling the area.” The AWACS was an Airborne Warning and Command System aircraft equipped with a highly sophisticated radar.

“Southbound aircraft at five hundred feet,” the woman repeated, “identify yourself and reverse course immediately. You’re subject to interception and hostile fire.”

“Well, duh,” Hank said. “At least they don’t know who we are.”

“They’ll figure it out,” Stuart said.

“Yeah, but I’ll come back in through Mexico and deny I was ever here with my dying breath. Let them prove it.”

Stuart shook his head. “You’ve got a screw loose somewhere.”

“Hey! I’m not the guy who wants to run around Cuba playing James Bond.” He thought for a moment and handed Stuart the aircraft’s first-aid kit and a handheld VHF radio. “Take these. I’ll hang around the Caymans for a few days and fly an orbit as close as I can get to Cienfuegos thirty minutes before sunrise and thirty minutes after sunset. Listen up on channel 123.4. If I get high enough, we should be in range and able to talk. I’ll come and get you.”

“Thanks, Hank. I really appreciate it.”

“What are friends for?” Hank glanced at the GPS. Cuba was twenty miles ahead of them, and they were inside the ADIZ. He squeaked it down to fifty feet. “We’ll climb to four hundred feet when we coast in.” He inched the airspeed up to 320 knots indicated.

“I thought the Legend was redlined at three-ten,” Stuart said.

“It is,” Hank replied, sweat streaming down his face.

“Brave soul,” Stuart muttered, seriously questioning why he had ever asked for Hank’s help.

Somewhere over Cuba

They coasted in over coral reefs as Hank lifted the Legend to four hundred feet above the ground and nudged the throttle up. The airspeed needle bounced off 325 knots. A low hill loomed in the moonlight, and for a split second Stuart was certain they were dead. But they cleared the hill by ten feet. “Damn,” Stuart gasped.

But Hank was into it. “No guts, no glory. Check the GPS,” he ordered, not about to look inside at the instrument panel and lose the horizon. “I need an ETA to Cienfuegos.”

Stuart looked over Hank’s shoulder at the GPS. “Seven minutes, forty miles on the nose.”

Hank looked up and scanned the sky above them. “Oh, shit.” They were flying directly below two dark silhouettes. “Fighters.”

Stuart looked and could make out the distinct planform of two old Soviet jet fighters framed in the bright moonlight. His mouth went dry. “Frescos,” he said. “MiG-17s. I’m surprised the Cubans have any flying.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I started life as an intelligence officer in the Air Force and taught aircraft recognition to fighter pilots.” The two men watched as the two fighters slowed and started to descend.

“I’ll be damned,” Hank breathed. “I think they’re landing at Cienfuegos.”

“Then it’s for damn sure we’re not landing there,” Stuart told him. The two fighters started to weave back and forth. “They might be looking for someone. Probably us. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Hank was breathing hard. “They haven’t seen us. Let’s stay right where we are.” They followed the jet fighters as they carved a lazy circle around the city. “Not a single light on down there,” Hank said. The two fighters turned to the north and slowed even more. Ahead of them runway lights blinked on. “There’s the air patch,” Hank announced, “and our boys are on final.” He peeled off to the left and turned out over the city. “Let’s get the hell outa Dodge.” Below them a wide boulevard cut through the city like long runway. It was completely deserted. “I can land there if you still want.”

Something inside Stuart snapped. “Why not? We came this far.”

“Gotcha,” Hank said. He dumped his airspeed and circled to land. “Downtown Charlie Brown,” he said to himself. He lowered the gear.

“What about power lines?” Stuart asked.

“What about them?” Hank replied, breathing hard. He turned on his landing lights. The broad boulevard scanned clean. He touched down just as a MiG roared over them. “Ah, shit! They didn’t land.” He stomped on the brakes and dragged the Legend to a stop. At the same time he raised the canopy.

Stuart grabbed his shoulder bag and jumped out. He slid off the wing and stumbled as the Legend started to move. “Which way is the harbor?” he yelled.

But Hank didn’t hear him. The canopy was down, and the Legend was rapidly accelerating. The second MiG rolled in behind the Legend, its twin twenty-three-millimeter cannons flashing in the night. Shells walked down the pavement reaching for the Legend. Stuart dived for cover in the entrance of a three-story building as the pavement exploded behind him. A coppery taste flooded his mouth. Hank was dead.

Stuart rolled on the ground and raised his head, not believing what he saw. The Legend was airborne and turning out over the rooftops as the MiG’s cannon fire walked into a building. Stuart gasped. He had no idea of the havoc high-explosive shells could create. The old building seemed to fall apart and collapse in on itself, sending a cloud of dust and debris down the street. In the distance he heard the high-pitched whine of the Legend’s turboprop as Hank raced for the ocean. The second MiG flew down the street on a strafing pass, its cannon firing.

Stuart wrapped his arms over his head.

In the aftermath the silence was overpowering. Stuart blinked and started to stand up. A sharp kick in his side drove him back to the ground. A man holding a machete was standing over him. He shouted in Spanish, waving the big knife.

Hank was flying by the seat of his pants as he looked over his right shoulder. He was total concentration as he watched the MiG-17 turn into him. He had done acrobatics before, but never so low to the ground and never at night. “Shit!” he roared, wondering how the MiG could find him so easily. Two big smokestacks loomed in front of him, reaching well over three hundred feet into the sky. He hardened up his turn as the MiG closed, hoping to get the smokestacks between him and his attacker. Then it came to him. He still had his wing-mounted landing lights on, and he was a beacon in the night for anyone to see. His left hand flicked out and hit the toggle switch, shutting the lights off. At the same time he set the Legend on its wing and flew a knife-edge between the towers. A bright flash lit the sky behind him, and he was certain he was dead. He pulled up and looked back. The smokestacks were engulfed in a pillar of fire and the MiG was gone.