Hunter's Moon (23 page)

Tomlinson had been sleeping, but he was instantly interested. “Of course. Glove, spikes, and the bat Spaceman gave me.”

Wilson was concerned about weight on the amphib, so I said, “Leave the bat but bring the rest.”

I told him we were leaving for Yucatán, 7:30 sharp, by plane.

The reason we had to leave at exactly 7:30, Wilson told us, was because that's when the downward-looking radar on nearby Cudjoe Key was scheduled to be lowered for maintenance.

“Fat Boy?” Tomlinson said. “The balloon, you mean.”

Yes, the balloon. It was a “Tethered Aerostat Radar Detection System,” a white, bovine-shaped inflatable attached to several thousand feet of cable. Day and night, it hovered above the Keys, tracking ships at sea and low-flying planes. Some, especially Tomlinson's hemp-loving kindred, considered the balloon a malevolent icon, the all-seeing eye of Big Brother. They called it “Fat Boy” because of its shape, and as a sinister reference to another top secret government program.

We were in the plane, taxiing in shallow water, Wilson in the left seat, me in the right. Tomlinson, with his long legs, was in the back, stretched out among our gear. We wore headphones, using the plane's voice-activated intercom system to converse.

The president said, “They do a major systems maintenance once a month and today's the day. We'll have a window of between forty minutes and an hour. By the time they're up and running, we should be about a third of the way to Mexico.

“But if we're early, or late, radar will red-light us, and DEA or Homeland Security will scramble planes to intercept us. We can't miss the window.”

Tomlinson was impressed. “Sam, I'm not even gonna ask how you got Fat Boy's maintenance schedule. It's got to be, like, top secret, right?”

His tone wry, Wilson said, “Yes. Entrusting smugglers with the schedule might be considered counterproductive. But no one expects a former president of the United States to try
anything
illegal. It's another one of the perks. I never have to go through metal detectors or airline security.”

Tomlinson said, “You're shitting me. No one ever checks?”

“Never. It would be a breach of international protocol. And old acquaintances in the military trust me with all kinds of useful information.”

All the potential scenarios—Tomlinson was having fun with them in his mind. “Look, if you ever get tired of traveling around, making speeches? And you're willing to share—down the road, I'm talking about. We could make a lot of money with that kind of access. Not that I'm into the whole materialism thing. I see it more as spreading the gift of mellowism.”

Wilson was in a brighter mood, now that we were under way, and he smiled. “ ‘Mellowism,' huh? My friend, with your gift for language you would be a superb diplomat. It's not as easy as it sounds. To say nothing, especially while speaking—that's diplomacy. Teddy Roosevelt's line. Or was it President Carter?”

Tomlinson sat back, enjoying it. “I wouldn't mind being an ambassador. Colombia, maybe—that would be cool. Jamaica would be okay if it wasn't for all the assholes at the airport. Speaking of which, where're we gonna land?”

I watched Wilson reach to switch off the plane's transponder, the VHF radio, then the GPS. Our electronic signature was now zero. He checked his watch, then turned to look out the port window. Fat Boy should have been visible. It wasn't. Wilson said, “We're not landing at an airport. But we
will
land. That's about all I can promise you.”

His hand on the throttle, we began accelerating—seventy . . . eighty . . . eighty-five knots—the water's surface tension drumming the pontoons, the plane lifting, fishtailing as it broke free. Then we were banking low over Content Keys, the plane's shadow preceding us, skating across shallow water veined with gutters of jade.

I was surprised when the president immediately leveled off. He noticed as I checked the altimeter: a hundred fifty feet.

“For the next hundred miles, we're going to maintain this altitude. Our cruising speed will be a hundred fifteen knots—about a hundred thirty miles an hour. A little faster over ground with the wind shift. If we'd shed a hundred pounds of gear, we could probably do one-forty.”

It looked as if we would barely clear the treetops of mangrove keys ahead. Tomlinson whistled softly, getting into it. “This is more like surfing than flying. Man”—he whistled again—“give me a rope, I could ski behind this thing. Hope we don't run into any tall ships.”

Wilson said, “Let's talk about that. We've got a range of almost six hundred nautical miles so fuel's not a problem. But eye fatigue could be. There's no autopilot—too much weight. So, Ford? I'm going to need your help. We've got clouds to the west, which is good. Less chance of losing the horizon. Even so, flying this low will be a hell of a strain on the eyes. So we'll do it in shifts. Half an hour on, half an hour off. You okay with that?”

“Fine,” I said.

“You want to see how she handles?”

“Okay.” My feet found the rudder pedals as I put my hands on the control yoke. It was embossed with a white MAULE M7 insignia.

“You know the gauges—fuel, air speed, altitude.” Wilson was pointing. “Here're your trim controls. Keep your eye on the horizon indicator. We want the wings level.”

I tried easy turns to port, then starboard. I climbed briefly without adding throttle, then pushed the yoke forward, my stomach alert to a slight increase in g-force. At only a hundred fifty feet off the deck, I didn't have room to try anything else.

“You seem comfortable.”

“I've steered a lot of planes in a lot of places. Pilots need breaks. But I wouldn't want to try a water landing unless I have to.”

“Don't worry about that. The important thing is, keep us level, use your compass. We're traveling the old-fashioned way: dead reckoning. Just a chart and a pencil. Pretend you're Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic. Just lower.”

I felt the yoke move as the president resumed control. I slipped my feet off the pedals.

As he said, “At this altitude, we'll be invisible. Like ghosts,” I was looking out the window, seeing water change from green to silver, then blue, as the bottom fell away.

There was a pod of dolphins hobbyhorsing as we banked again, westward, toward the Gulf of Mexico.

 

 

 

DURING THE FLIGHT, WITH ME AT THE CONTROLS, WILSON used a mini earphone to listen to Shana Waters's digital recorder. After five minutes, he said, “I don't know what's stronger, Shana's ambition or her sex drive.”

He passed the recorder to me and I fitted the earplug beneath my headphones.

Danson wasn't the only man Waters had taped. She had recorded lovemaking sessions with at least two men whose names I recognized—a U.S. senator, and an anchorman from an opposing network.

I raised my eyebrows as I handed the recorder back to him.

“She has the makings of a great politican,” the president said. “Too bad she went into broadcasting.”

He was serious.

By 11:10 a.m., Florida time (10:10 Yucatán time), we were forty miles off the Mexican coast. Wilson activated the GPS long enough to confirm our position, then turned south, keeping distance between us and the tourist destinations of Cancun and Cozumel.

An hour later, we landed south of Cayo Culebra on an isolated bay. The water was Bombay gin blue. Coconut palms shaded a shack built on stilts at the mouth of a river. There was a rim of white beach where pigs rooted.

As Wilson idled the plane toward shore, he asked, “What's
Cayo Culebra
means in Spanish?”

Tomlinson said, “ ‘Island of Cobras'?”

I said, “Close. ‘Island of Snakes.' ”

Wilson appeared pleased. “Perfect.”

He was in a good mood. We'd crossed the Gulf without close contact with ships or planes, and he was comfortable enough with me at the controls to get more than an hour of sleep. First part of the mission accomplished.

But then he said, “Uh-oh. Something's wrong,” not happy anymore.

He was still wearing the tinted glasses, but he had removed the fake burn scar—he expected someone he knew to come out of the shack and greet us. Vue. My guess. Wilson didn't say.

But someone
had
anticipated our arrival, because there were ten six-gallon gas cans on the dock, all full.

We got out, secured the plane, and went to work.

“I don't like this.”

Tomlinson was holding the huge funnel, while I poured gas through a leather chamois into the wing tanks. The president was standing behind us on the dock, his head moving as if he suspected that eyes watched from the shoreline. “There should've been at least a note.”

There wasn't. I had checked the shack.

“From who?” I asked for the second time.

Wilson didn't reply—for the second time.

He was studying the pigs, now coming along the beach toward us—the farmer in him paying attention.

“Those aren't domestic hogs. See the tusks on the boars?”

The animals were black, hump-necked, with elongated snouts.

“What were they rooting for?”

“Crabs,” I said. “Sea worms.”

The president frowned. “That's why they're moving the way they are—more like a pack. They're hungry. Trip and fall, those hogs would gut you, then eat you. Mr. Tomlinson? You are supposed to have a gift for knowing things. What's your read on this place?”

Tomlinson appeared nervous—unusual. “Well . . . it seemed kinda fun until you started talking about a bunch of damn pigs eating us. I mean . . . the water's nice and clear. Lots of coconuts that would go real good with rum. But you're right. Sam? Those bastards are coming after us
.
”

Tomlinson looked from the pigs to me, his expression a mixture of awareness, dread, and disgust. “Doc? Is he right? I've never even thought about it before. Getting eaten by a fucking pig?”

I asked, “Don't you usually smoke a joint about this time of morning?”

“I get a late start every now and again. But what do you expect me to do when I'm in a airplane?” He couldn't take his eyes off of the pigs.

I smiled. “Relax. I wouldn't take any naps on the beach. Otherwise, we're okay.”

“Geezus . . . I'd like to believe that. They've got cloven hoofs, man. Like the devil. Who knows what happens after that. Eat you, then they could shit out your soul. That really could be the
end
.” In a louder voice, he said, “And I'm a
vegetarian,
” as if he wanted the pigs to hear.

Wilson said, “Sharks don't care about your ideology and neither do those hogs. Vegetarians are edible and no amount of broccoli's going to change that.” He was looking at his watch, his mind on other matters. Was he considering waiting for someone . . . or something?

After a few seconds, he muttered, “ ‘Island of Snakes.'
Perfect,
” but not pleased, the way he'd said it before.

I had emptied the ninth gas container into the wing. Tanks were full. Because I said I wanted to go for a swim after we'd refueled, Wilson caught my eye. “I'd planned on overnighting. But I think we need to get our butts out of here.”

Meaning we'd have to improvise.

I said, “Let's go.”

 

 

 

AT 1:20 LOCAL TIME, WE LANDED IN A BAY OF HONDURAS backwater, where we saw men fishing from handmade boats with outboards. We pulled up on a beach near a couple of pickup trucks—one of them a new Dodge. We bought fuel, then ate achiote chicken with tomatillos and chilies made by a woman cooking outside her hut.

Wilson remained alone, directing the operation from a distance. He'd brought a can of aviation fuel to augment the local gas and he had us add it.

“Mountains ahead,” he explained. He didn't have to remind us to filter the gas through a chamois.

Because Tomlinson and I carried food to him, one of the locals said to me, “He must be a very important man in your country. A
jefe.
”

A chief.

Five minutes later, we were under way, pointed south.

The largest country in Central America is half the size of Florida. Borders moved below us as topography, rain forests, low volcanic craters striated with green, and rivers that appeared as switchbacks, water black as blood. With window vents open, we flew low enough to smell earth, leaf, water. Once, as we approached a village, Tomlinson said he got a whiff of simmering beans.

We went cross-country, avoiding cities and the few major highways. Wilson had a bush pilot's instincts and we used valleys as cover. It wasn't until somewhere near the border of Honduras and Nicaragua, while following the contour of low mountains, we ascended to forty-five hundred feet. Even then, we stayed low enough to enrage howler monkeys, who shook their fists at us from the tops of trees.

I was familiar with this country. Took pleasure in the remembrances of my years here. As Tomlinson used ruler and dividers to track our position on the chart, each landmark he mentioned brought back people, events, missions—not all pleasant. But unpleasant memories are useful gauges and mine verified all the fun I'd had. For me, returning in this unorthodox way was a little like coming home.

As a military pilot, the president had flown in and out of the Panama Canal Zone many times, he said, but never over this area. Not at deck level, anyway. It was the end of the rainy season, but we'd drawn a rare cloudless day. He enjoyed himself. It keyed memories of what he said was the best thing about getting elected president: Air Force One.