Hidden Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read online

  “LFSS?”

  “Lynchburg Flight Service Station,” he clarifies. “I reconfirmed our flight into the FRZ. The rules are super strict, boss.”

  “And?”

  “Well,” he thumbs his hat back on his head a bit, “as I explained before, we’re a big plane for that runway.”

  “Okay...”

  “It’s not really something we should be doing,” he says. “We need about twenty-six hundred feet of runway to land this jet. There’s right at three thousand feet at Washington Executive.”

  “Okay...”

  “So,” he adjusts his cap again, “landing a fifty-million dollar jet in less than optimal conditions, especially with a bag full of weapons on board, that’s tricky. Thankfully we have cooler than normal temperatures and some low level clouds. But that’s not the hard part.”

  “I’m really against this,” the copilot speaks up. “I don’t think we should be flying to this airport. We could easily land in Baltimore. That would alleviate all of the problems.”

  “I didn’t ask your opinion,” says Secousse. “You’re fresh of out of a classroom, right?”

  “Checked out with highest marks possible.”

  “So you know, then, that we can land where the customer is asking us to land.” The captain lowers his chin, looking down his nose at the book smart copilot.

  “Yes. But with the possibility of rain we—”

  “I can handle it,” Captain Secousse snaps.

  “And then the takeoff,” the copilot goes on. “That’s the bigger problem.

  “What do you mean?” I ask both of them.

  “The hard part is after you’ve gotten off of the plane,” Secousse explains. “This bird typically needs five thousand feet to take off. I mean, I can get her in the air quicker than that, but on that runway, we don’t meet what we like to call the Balance Field Requirement. If I have an engine failure or some other issue as we’re accelerating toward liftoff, it would be a super long day. Or a short day!” He laughs. “I’m just saying that once your trip is over, I’ve still got work to do. We probably have to liftoff again without refueling, to lighten the load so to speak. And I have to hope we’ve got some headwind.”

  “Again,” the copilot shakes his head, “this isn’t a good idea. I’m not sure the FAA, or our owners for that matter, will be thrilled with this.”

  “Without risk,” smiles the pilot, “there is no reward.” He glances back at me. “Am I right? Or am I right?”

  “How much is it going to cost me?”

  “Boss, I don’t want any cash.” He looks at his copilot. “I just want you to know how accommodating a pilot I must be to land there, and how talented I must be to take off again.”

  “Right,” I smirk. “How much do you want?”

  “What would you tip a good waiter, boss?” He chuckles.

  “Seeing as how you make the decisions, Captain, you tell me.”

  “Ohhh!” he says, punching his copilot’s shoulder. “We got a live one here, Greenie.” The copilot, turning his attention to the instruments in front of him is clearly uncomfortable with the discussion. “Let’s say a twenty percent gratuity on the thirty grand you spent on this here leg of the trip would be fair,” he says, turning back to Angry Birds. “But I’m up for suggestions.”

  “Let’s suggest this,” I tell him, tired of his games. “I’ll figure what’s fair when we get on the ground safely. Sound good?”

  “Okay by me,” Captain Secousse says without looking at me. “We’ve only got maybe fifteen minutes until we land. Might want to take your seat, boss.”

  I suddenly hate Matthew McConaughey.

  “What is it?” Bella asks, obviously sensing my irritation as I walk back from the cockpit.

  “Captain Jerk up there is blackmailing us.” I drop into my seat and pull the buckle across my lap. “He wants a tip commensurate with his ability to land and take off at an airport he says isn’t really suitable for this aircraft.”

  “And you’re surprised?” Mack asks.

  “More irritated than surprised. Everybody’s out for a buck.”

  “How do you think I got to the airport?” Mack says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “From George’s apartment, when we split up. It’s not like I exactly blend in with the crowd,” he says, gesturing to his prosthetic and then the pigment-less spots of skin on his face and hands.

  “What did you do?”

  “I ducked into a car wash,” he says, “and I looked for the most expensive, cheap car I could find in the line.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Like a Chrysler or a Honda that’s tricked out. I figure someone who takes a twenty or twenty-five thousand dollar car and puts a five thousand dollar paint job and a three thousand dollar set of wheels on it has got to need some quick cash. I see this ridiculous two tone metallic green Civic,” he says. “It’s got a set of swangas on it worthy of a chariot race.”

  “Wait,” Bella interrupts. “What are swangas?”

  “The rims that stick out beyond the wheels themselves.”

  Bella nods. The plane pitches up quickly before nosing downward.

  “So there’s this Honda getting washed, going through the spinning brushes, and there’s this young kid watching it. He’s walking along slowly as the car moves through the rinse cycle.”

  The flight attendant steps over. “Is there anything else I can get for you? We’re about to land.” We decline her offer and she quickly returns to her jump seat next to the cabin door.

  “I ask the kid if the Honda is his car,” Mack continues. “He says yes. He’s proud of it and tells me he bought it himself. He did the paint job, worked two jobs to pay for the rims. He’s beaming like he’s talking about his child going to an Ivy League school. So I ask him if he wants to earn a little extra cash. I just need a ride. I show him my identification and some cash.

  “The kid was a little suspicious at first,” he says. “But when I explained I needed a ride to the airport, that I didn’t have a car, and I couldn’t wait for a taxi, he was cool with it.”

  “He never asked how you ended up at the car wash without any transportation?” I ask.

  The cabin rattles against the weather outside. Maybe it’s worse than Captain Secousse anticipated from the radar.

  “Nope,” he says. “The cash answered all of his unasked questions. Two hundred bucks. That’s all it took. Name was Chris Donald. Good kid. Easy as pie.”

  The co-pilot’s voice blares over the cabin speakers. “We’re approaching Washington Executive Airport. The landing will be an aggressive one, so please stay in your seats with your belts fastened. We should be on the ground in about five minutes.”

  “What’s first on the agenda?” Mack asks. Another rumble.

  “We rent a car,” Bella says. “We can’t be taking public transportation or cabs. Jackson is a wanted man and who knows if they’ve identified us by now, Mack? I mean, I was stupid enough to use my name when we signed in at the television station.”

  “I’m dead,” I remind her. “Remember? Nobody’s looking for me yet.”

  The plane shudders as we dip into the clouds. Water beads on the windows.

  “Good point,” Bella acknowledges, gripping the armrests of her chair. “Still, probably better to have our own car, right?”

  “Agreed,” Mack concurs.

  “We’re gonna need fake identification,” I say.

  We dip and rise quickly in what is clearly a rainstorm. The lights flicker in the cabin.

  “I still have one set of documents,” Bella says. “I have one for you too, Jackson. They’re in the pack over there, with what’s left of my cash and our last burner phone. Outside zipper.”

  “We’ll need new ones,” I tell them as the plane tilts aggressively to the left
and then levels again. “I’ll take care of that after we deal with Sir Spencer.”

  “I’ll get the burner phones,” Mack says absently. “I know a place.”

  All of us are focused on the impending landing in a plane that’s too big… on a runway that’s too short… in weather that’s not good.

  “So this is where it gets fun,” I joke.

  Nobody laughs as we feel the weight of the jet sink to the tarmac at Washington Executive. Something is wrong.

  ***

  I don’t know if it was intentional, but one of the pilots keyed his microphone a minute before we hit the tarmac. I wish he hadn’t.

  “We’ve got one shot at this Greenie!” shouts Secousse. “I need your focus.”

  “We’re going too fast!” the copilot answers. “The tailwinds are too much. The tarmac will be wet. We’re not going to make it!”

  “I need your focus!” Secousse says, angry now. “I don’t need your doubt. Help me put this bird on the ground! We’ve got twenty-seven hundred feet to land this and park it. That runway is three thousand.”

  “Exactly my point!” says the copilot. “Exactly why I was against this airport. This is totally wrong.”

  “With the anti-lock brakes, the thrusters, and my experience, we’re good,” snaps the pilot. “I’ve never lost a plane. We’re good. We’re good. Just read out the data.”

  Bella grabs my hand, squeezing it. Her face is pale, her upper teeth dug into her lower lip. Mack’s eyes are closed. He’s mumbling. Or praying. I’m convinced now that discretion is not the better part of valor. We’d have been better off at an airport with a bunch of TMZ paparazzi awaiting our landing than this alternative.

  “We’re heavy and too fast,” repeats the copilot. “You need to decrease speed. Approach a stall and drop to the front of the runway.”

  “I’m attempting that now!” shouts Secousse.

  “Stop attempting!” snaps the copilot, the stress exploding through the cabin speakers. “You need to reverse thrust as soon as we hit the ground.”

  “I’ve got it,” Secousse says with a renewed sense of calm. “I’ve got it!”

  Bella’s fingernails are digging into my palm. Mack is still meditating.

  “Go around!” urges the copilot. “Nose up! Go around! Power up! We’re coming in too fast. We will not make it. There’s too much tailwind.”

  “I’m not going to pull up!” yells Secousse. “I’ve never missed a landing and I’m not about to mi—” The radio crackles and shuts off. The heated conversation is replaced by the sound of the engine whining and the rattling of everything inside the cabin. It’s as though I’m at the end of a wooden rollercoaster. Then the pilot rekeys the mic.

  “Our landing is going to be a little rougher than normal,” Secousse says in his best smooth jazz deejay voice, unaware we’ve just heard the conversation between him and his copilot. “I’d suggest you stay strapped into your seats until we come to a complete stop.”

  Just as it seems we’re about to touch down, there’s a large gust of wind, pushing the plane to the right. My stomach drops. Bella looks green.

  Mack, his eyes pressed shut, is singing the Marine’s hymn, “Our flag’s unfurled to every breeze, From dust to setting sun…” He’s tapping his prosthetic knee with his hand. “We have fought in every clime and place, Where we could take a gun.”

  Without warning, we slap the ground hard. Instantly the engines scream as the pilot reverses thrust and applies the brake. The safety belt digs into my gut. All three of us are thrown forward. It’s like we’re test dummies in a vehicle crash test. Our bags go flying into aisles, tumbling toward the cockpit. The flight attendant is bent over at her waist, her hands wrapped around the back of her head.

  I can hear her huffing from between her knees, “Oh lord, oh lord, oh lord!”

  But as much as we feel the inertia of the pilot’s effort to stop the plane, it’s obvious we’re not slowing enough. Instead, the plane is fishtailing as its rear tires try to grip the tarmac. The anti-lock brakes are struggling to engage.

  The frame of the cabin is shuddering, vibrating with such intensity I’m sure it’ll crack open. It’s then that the front of the plane pitches forward and to the left, pulling my midsection harder against the safety belt. There’s another rumble before we abruptly stop.

  The engines wind down and the lights flicker again before shutting off.

  It’s dark and silent, like a cocoon.

  ***

  “You okay?” I whisper to Bella. She nods and tries to sit back in her seat, but the forward lean of the aircraft makes that difficult. She grips the sides of her chair to slide back and hold herself in her seat more comfortably.

  Mack has stopped singing. His eyes are open and he’s trying to peer out the window next to his seat. It’s fogged and, despite cupping his hand around his face and pressing it to the acrylic window, he can’t see anything.

  “We need to get out of here,” I say.

  “Agreed,” Mack says.

  “We made it,” says Captain Secousse, throwing open the cockpit door. It’s dark, but I can vaguely see him emerge from the cockpit as my eyes adjust. “We’re nose deep in muck,” he chuckles, “and about seventy-five feet off the end of the runway, but we made it.”

  “We need out of here,” I call to him. “We can’t afford to wait around for anyone in a uniform.”

  “We can get you out on the over-wing exits.” He calls back to the copilot, “Get out here, Greenie, and give me a hand with these bags. Our guests need to scoot pronto.”

  “I don’t think the FAA or NTSB is going to be good with that,” interjects the copilot. “They’re going to ask a lot of questions. The passengers need to stick around.”

  “Understood,” says Secousse, handing me the duffel without looking back at his by-the-book subordinate. “But once we tell them to exit the aircraft, which is procedure, we can’t control them. What they do is what they do.”

  “But you’re telling them to leave,” the copilot whines. “That’s not procedure.”

  Even in the dark, the frustration is obvious on Secousse’s face. “I’ve had about enough of your holier-than-thou act, Greenie.” He turns and pokes the copilot in the chest. “This is my plane, my call. I’ll handle the feds. You help them with their gear. That’s your job right now.”

  The copilot silently moves to grab Bella’s pack from the floor in front of the flight attendant. She’s still bent over at her waist, her hands wrapped around the back of her head.

  “The exit door is to your right,” Secousse points to his left toward the wing. “There’s a quick release latch on the top and a hand grip underneath the window.”

  I meet Mack by the window over the right wing. He slides his left hand into the handle at the bottom and then grabs the latch with his right.

  “That door is heavy,” says Secousse. “It’s almost fifty pounds and it’s awkward.”

  Mack motions me to his side for help. He pulls on the latch and tilts the top of the door toward himself before lifting up. The door clicks against the hooks holding it into place, coming free. I grab the side of the door and help Mack lower it into the cabin. We’re immediately pelted with rain.

  “Bella, I’ll go first. Slide me the bags before you slide down. I’ll be at the bottom to catch you. Mack, you good?”

  “Oo-Rah,” he grunts. “I’ll need your help at the bottom. These legs’ll make it interesting when I drop from the side.”

  “Hey,” calls Captain Secousse. “My tip?”

  “Really?” I ask. “We nearly crashed.”

  “We didn’t though,” he says. “You’re okay, boss.”

  “Bella,” I nod to her. She rolls her eyes and unzips her bag, pulling out a roll of one hundred dollar bills and tosses it to the captain.

  “This buys your silence,”
she says. “You can’t describe us, you don’t have names, your log is vague, and your memory fuzzy.”

  “Without a doubt,” Captain Secousse says.

  I have my doubts about how quiet Secousse can keep his copilot, but that’s beyond what we can control. Hopefully, we’re long gone by the time anybody figures out anything.

  The opening is about three feet by maybe a foot and a half. I grab each side and pull myself onto the wing one leg at a time, slipping a bit on the wet wing. Sitting with my legs extended in front of me, I push myself forward and slide down the wing to the ground below.

  Wiping rain from my face, I look back to the emergency exit. Bella pokes her head out and slides her backpack first, followed by Mack’s, and then my portable arsenal. I grab each of them and drop them on the ground, putting them underneath the plane to minimize how wet they get.

  Bella slides down easily, grabbing my hands at the last second before hitting the ground on her feet. Mack struggles to climb out of the exit, but has no trouble with the descent once he situates himself on the wing.

  We grab our bags and start walking away from the mess. In the distance, sirens wail and at the far end of the runway to the left, red and white lights strobe against the falling rain.

  “We need to move quickly.”

  Neither Mack nor Bella say anything, but they’re already ahead of me, moving away from the plane.

  ***

  The trudge through the damp, boggy grass is brief, maybe only a hundred yards or so, until we reach a two lane road running parallel to the runway. A thin line of trees border the road on either side and, despite the darkness, we navigate our way into a thicket of pines on the other side. There’s a short dirt driveway and a trio of older model cars parked on the grass in front of a small mobile home.

  We trek around the house, farther from the road into a clearing surrounding by an expanse of woods. The sound of emergency sirens in the distance lessens the farther we walk. The accompanying flashing lights also dim, making it more difficult to see.

  “Do we keep going this way?” Bella asks, shrugging her pack higher onto her shoulders, grunting a little.