Flying Too Close to the Sun Read online

  Sizing up the place, the locked cyclone fence gate leading to the plain wooden clubhouse and slips wouldn’t present a problem. He could easily enter by jamming the rudimentary fastening mechanism open with a small piece of wood or cardboard. It was also possible to gain access by swinging his body around the right side of the gate, bypassing it completely, but this would entail a messy descent down a slippery mud bank, followed by a vault from shore to the dock, so he would use it as a last resort. There were no security guards or video cameras and there weren’t even any of the huge spotlights common in other marinas, probably due to the smaller size of the boats. While meandering along he used a pen to jot down the slip numbers where the berthed boat hulls were smeared with a large amount of slimy growth, indicating they weren’t used often. Anglers were sitting around drinking beer. To pry some information he told one. “I’m supposed to go fishing with a buddy of mine who keeps his boat here. What happens if the weather’s foggy? Think we’ll still go?”

  The guy was outfitted in bright yellow foul weather gear and rubber boots, looking like he stepped out of one of those fishing catalogs. Holding a can of Bud, he replied in a heavy Boston accent, “Practically no one fishes when the weather’s bad ‘cause the striped bass move around so much it’s almost impossible to locate them, even with one of those new satellite global navigation systems and a fish-finder. You’re better off staying home, having a few beers and wait for better weather.”

  Juni thanked the guy and slipped back into the crowd, not wanting anyone to remember him. Since he now had the needed info, he quickly exited through the same gate, discovering no key was needed as it could be opened from the inside simply by rotating the latch. Strolling farther in a northeasterly direction along Saratoga Street, he passed the Orient Heights beach where the hotel clerk said snorkeling was allowed. There were also four well-attended softball games in progress on the ballfields, with most players and spectators jabbering away in Spanish. Like much of Boston, baseball was the sport and watching a few games would be another way to kill some time. A smiling Juni now knew for certain their plan would work. All he needed was the cover. Hopefully cliffs of needed fog would move in for a weeklong stay. He turned back toward the hotel, sensing if the weather did cooperate, just maybe he could move quickly?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Woody returned the following day and Christina asked, “How’s your father?”

  “He was on a respirator and the prognosis isn’t good,” a somber Woody replied. “They’re putting him in hospice care today.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  . . .

  In Boston Christina telephoned the Holiday Inn, but there was no response from Juni’s room. After the next landing, she asked Erik to call. “If he’s there, tell him to forget it ‘cause the weather’s too good.”

  A few moments later Erik returned and informed her, “No answer.”

  Both pilots were edgy. Could Woody sense it? The angst was particularly draining on Erik, even after work when he joined Carol for a late dinner but only picked at the leftover pot roast, food being the last thing on his mind. He didn’t even become aroused when she kissed him and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “What’s wrong? Did I say or do something?”

  “No. It’s not you. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

  She figured he was concerned with the looming second payment deadline, but said nothing, hoping he’d eventually open up. Erik stayed only a short time and before leaving, apologized for his demeanor.

  . . .

  Lying in bed at home while fear cheated him of sleep, he detected the very faint, almost imperceptible pitter-patter of rain a bit before two in the morning. It wasn’t the heavy pellet-like precipitation occurring when a front moves through, nor could he detect the distinctive ozone odor preceding a thunderstorm. The ashen-like white rain seemed to just hang in the air like a heavy mist, with the calm wind meaning the coming weather wouldn’t be rushed. Had the time arrived? He was finally able to pull himself out of bed, trudged to the window barefoot and opened it: no traffic, not a single leaf stirred on the steaming street below. The heavy mist whispering through the dense foliage imparted a wet, almost black sheen, with the stillness broken only by the summer sounds of crickets, while damp air flooded into the room through the rattling window fan. While taking deep breaths, he stalked the room with restless energy, knowing the clouds would soon roll up the coast like a camouflaged army battalion, with accompanying fog rolling in from the sea shrouding the shape of everything. As terror built deep inside him, the unrelenting anxiety finally gave way to thoughts of Carol and what would happen to her, to them, if he was caught. Did he ever really intend to go through with this insanity?

  Erik silently padded to the living room and grabbed the phone. With churning stomach and pounding head, he cursed Juni for the command not to call him. He had the power in his hand at that very moment to call off this insane scheme. But canceling meant all his life expectancies would come to an abrupt end so the phone went back on its cradle. Erik hobbled back upstairs and again peered through the window, offering a voiceless prayer that by morning brilliant sunshine from ninety-three million miles away would chase away the dreaded fog. But he knew differently in his gut, where the truest feelings lived. He returned to bed and pressed weak fingertips over his eyes, seeing nothing but sparks and finally dozed off while trying to convince himself he was not afraid.

  . . .

  Christina was also finding no sanctuary and was as awake as an owl even after ingesting two powerful sleeping pills. Even though this was twice the normal dosage, sleeplessness remained her only true companion. While listening to the soft rain, she turned toward David who was beside her, snoring loudly and smelling of his favorite aftershave. Lately she found everything about him increasingly repulsive. Still wide awake, her thoughts turned to her childhood. Since her father had deserted the family, the only religion she practiced was the dreaded fear of being alone, a medical condition known as autophobia. She recalled her very first reaction after hearing her shrink’s clinical diagnosis was to tell him she wasn’t afraid of cars. With a slight smile, he explained it had nothing to do with automobiles. A number of subsequent sessions had given her valuable insight. Although she tried not to wear this phobia like a crucifix, it remained the driving force in her personal life choices. Although she sometimes needed solitude, a door one voluntarily closed, it was the second kind that terrified her; when the world rejects you, leaving you totally alone. David had filled a void in her life in keeping out the emotional isolation, but she felt she would soon be ready to move on. Her eyelids finally involuntarily closed under the combined weight of these thoughts and medication into a sporadic slumber, with ruminations still running through her mind as fast as a racehorse at the Kentucky Derby.

  . . .

  Both pilots looked exhausted when they showed up for work. “I can’t continue like this,” Christina hoarsely whispered to Erik after passing through security. “I have a knot in my stomach that feels like a boulder.” She was also concerned all the stress might trigger a seizure.

  Erik couldn’t help but notice the redness around and bags under her eyes that looked more like valises. “I was up all night too. My eyes feel like someone poured a pail of sand into them.” A moment later he asked, “Did you see the forecast for Boston? That stationary weather front is slowly working its way up the coast just a bit offshore,” he said, with fear having its teeth firmly embedded in him.

  A featherlike rain carried on a light breeze had begun prior to their first Boston landing. The visibility was reported as three-quarters of a mile restricted by showers and fog, not as poor as they needed, so maybe this wouldn’t be the night after all?

  After their first Boston landing on runway 15, Christina checked the f
orecast for nine P.M. and it called for lower ceilings of one hundred feet, with the visibility dropping to an eighth of a mile in fog, light rain and mist, along with a south wind at three to five knots. Shuttle Air’s weather people were housed in an air-conditioned, windowless building, so maybe their forecast would be wrong, but if not, this might be it. Would Juni agree? Was he set to go? Christina went to a pay phone and after making certain no one was within earshot, dialed Sciotta. When Juni answered she said, “Tonight might be a go,” in a voice an octave higher than normal. “Runway 22 Right’s in use for takeoff and the visibility is forecast to be near zero. Our tail number is N838SA. Erik or I will call after our next arrival. It’s your decision. Is everything ready on your end?”

  “I haven’t tested the boat yet.”

  “Is that a yes or no?”

  There was only silence on the other end.

  “You gotta let me know, Juni.”

  “All right, it’s a go. But only if the weather’s as shitty as you say.”

  “The visibility was three-quarters of a mile when we landed, so it ain’t gonna to be clear skies and a bright moon by nine.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Although the weather was damp and cool, Christina was anything but. Damp yes, but definitely not cool and the distinct tingling was once again present in her fingertips. She prayed all of this wouldn’t trigger a seizure, not tonight. After she returned to the plane Woody popped his head into the cockpit saying he was going to phone for an updated report on his father’s condition. Once he departed, Christina related her conversation with Juni to Erik, who simply rolled his eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  On this dreary, penetrating day, per the usual routine Chris Norton grabbed a taxi from Logan to the Federal Reserve building located on Atlantic Avenue in downtown Boston. After passing no fewer than three security checkpoints he asked the young woman in charge of the counting process, located in the basement, “How much tonight?”

  “I don’t know for certain yet, but probably close to four million.”

  Norton groaned, knowing any amount over three million would take approximately three hours to verify, count and prepare for shipment. This meant once again delaying the outbound flight. Under the terms of the government’s contract with Shuttle Air he was empowered to do so to ensure he and the money made it on board. “Please hurry. I’d rather not hold up another flight, especially after the airline called my boss and gave him hell when they discovered that amount was under three million.”

  The young clerk started to explain that particular glitch was due to several workers calling in sick, but said nothing because Norton wasn’t her boss. Instead she smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

  Norton sauntered down the hallway to the men’s room and stood unusually close to the urinal while relieving himself, wondering if this room also had hidden cameras. He next went to the agents’ waiting room, picked up a copy of the Boston Globe and began reading it front to back as he probably had several hours to kill. When thumbing through the business section his eyelids grew heavy and he dozed. After what felt like several minutes but was just over an hour he awoke, stretched and glanced at his watch, seeing enough time remained to grab a quick bite. At the in-house deli he ordered turkey on rye and as he was finishing a supervisor entered and signaled they were ready. Norton stood up, Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand and felt for the heavy .40-caliber Smith & Wesson in a shoulder harness under his jacket. The nine o’clock flight would have to be delayed, hopefully only for a few minutes this time. He gulped down the coffee while dialing the Shuttle Air manager and gave him the news.

  “I’ve recommended the airline not renew this contract when it comes up in September,” the guy replied.

  Norton had met him only once and didn’t like him for a number of reasons, mainly his indifferent attitude. “That’s your choice. I’m sure Delta would love it.”

  “You’re a typical government worker who doesn’t know shit about running an on-time business.”

  Norton quickly replied with a feigned yawn, “We’ll be there about nine-oh-five.”

  To his surprise the guy continued. “Tonight you’re in luck. Our flights have been running late anyway due to the lousy weather. So, I’m not going to bitch—too much.”

  . . .

  Juni finished the conversation with Christina and hurried to his car, noting more of the blind fingers of vapor embracing the area with each passing moment. He ran a final check and had everything. Driving to a nearby supermarket dumpster he grabbed a cardboard carton, then drove to the yacht club. He waited the few precious moments he allotted for this purpose, while nervously tapping the steering column with cigarette-yellowed fingers, hoping someone with a key would roll up. Just then a car entered the lot and Juni removed the large empty carton from the trunk, pretending to struggle with it. The other fellow noticed and held open the gate. Juni thanked and followed him inside. Then once alone, he tore off a small piece of the box, jammed open the small dead bolt and tossed the carton into the trash. He hurried to slip #42 where a small wooden boat christened Pride of the Navy was berthed. He jumped aboard and as the boat listed to starboard he peered into the tank to ensure there was enough fuel and then hurried back to the hotel.

  . . .

  Per the usual routine, Christina piloted the first flight to Boston, while Woody flew the middle two segments, meaning she would fly the final leg. Although delayed en route earlier, they had arrived in New York close to schedule and while filling out the paperwork for the Boston leg, the operations agent notified Christina the Boston weather had deteriorated.

  “Is it still above landing minimums?”

  “Barely. The visibility is down to a half, variable three-eighths of a mile.”

  “I’d rather be safe than sorry, so we’ll take an extra three thousand pounds of fuel in case of holding. I’d hate to return because we didn’t have enough.”

  “Roger. I’ll take care of that, captain” the man crisply replied.

  With a nod of her head, she motioned Erik into the hallway.

  “This could be it.”

  “I’m scared shitless.”

  “Me too,” she said wringing her hands. As the embers of anxiety burned, she remained concerned about a crippling seizure. “You remember all the details?”

  “I think so.”

  “Let’s go over it once more while we walk.”

  After passing security, Erik whispered, “What about the flight data recorder?”

  “What about it?”

  “We missed this, but there are different types. I’m not certain which is installed on this plane? I don’t know what flight parameters other than speed, flap settings and the like it registers. Would a cargo door opening show up?”

  Christina stopped dead in her tracks, turned and looked at him with a sense of alarm that darkened the blue of her eyes. She finally spoke. “I, I don’t know.” A moment later she added, “I think we can get around the problem if you pull the recorder’s circuit breaker before any of the others and then reset them in reverse order, with the exception of the generator control circuit breaker. Reset that one last. This way if anyone examines the flight recorder, the difficulty with the generator will be the only problem that shows.”

  “I don’t think that’ll work because if it’s a new one it would show a time gap when the recorder wasn’t functioning.”

  “Shit. You’re right. How the hell did we miss that?” she said, shaking her head. “We’ll just leave the recorder alone and to roll the dice, hoping it has one of the older models that won’t show a door opening on the ground. Had I thought of this I could have found out ahead of time which type is installed.”

&n
bsp; “We weren’t supposed to take any more chances. You wanna call this off?”

  “If we told him, Juni would probably shit-can the whole thing. If it has the new type, we’re screwed,” a solemn Christina added. “But these are old planes and I pray it doesn’t. Let’s go with that.”