Capital Crimes

59

KERRY SMITH LOOKED UP in the direction of the parting airplane; it seemed to be making a turn.

“We’re fucked,” he said. “A Cessna i82RG will make a hundred and fifty knots. That’s faster than the helicopter.”

“What direction would you say he’s flying?” Kinney asked.

“I’d say he’s headed southwest, along the coast.”

Kinney thought about his options and realized there was only one. He got out his cell phone and dialed a Washington number.

“White House,” an operator said.

“This is Deputy Director Robert Kinney of the FBI. Please let me speak to the president at once.”

“He’s asleep, Mr. Kinney. Do you know the hour?”

“He asked me to call. This is an emergency. Please wake him immediately.”

“Hold, please.”

Kinney waited, tapping his foot, while Smith and the others stared at him.

“This is Will Lee,” the voice said, sounding remarkably awake.

“This is Bob Kinney, Mr. President. Please listen carefully. Rawls was right about Fay having a Maine hideaway. My men and I are there now, and Fay has escaped the island in a light airplane, a Cessna 182RG.”

“I used to fly one of those,” the president said.

“We now have only one means of catching him, and if we don’t get him tonight, I don’t think we ever will.”

“What means do we have, Bob?”

“You need to call the Pentagon and scramble a couple of jets out of the Brunswick, Maine, Naval Air Station. Maybe they can force him down, but more likely, they’ll have to shoot him down.”

The president was silent for a moment. “Hold on for a minute.”

Smith looked at Kinney. “Are you on hold?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much.”

“Is he going to do it?”

“How do I know? I’m on hold.”

After perhaps two minutes, the president came back on the line. “Bob, I’m going to conference you with the duty officer in the office of the chief of naval operations.”

“All right, sir.”

“Just a minute.” There was a click, then the president said, “Captain, are you there?”

“Yes, Mr. President”

“I have Deputy Director Robert Kinney of the FBI on the line.”

“Good evening, Mr. Kinney.”

“Kinney is going to give you instructions on what and where this airplane is. I want you to scramble as many jets as you think it will take from the Brunswick, Maine, Naval Air Station with orders to force down this airplane, and if that is not possible, to shoot it down. Is that order clear?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Tell him what he needs to know, Mr. Kinney.”

“Captain, a Cessna 182 retractable took off from Islesboro Airport, in Penobscot Bay, Maine, about ten minutes ago. I’m told the airplane can do a hundred and fifty knots.”

The president interrupted. “A hundred and sixty, if it’s lightly loaded.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kinney said. “We believe the aircraft is headed southwest, down the Maine coast. If so, it will pass nearly directly over Brunswick. It’s not wearing any lights, and I doubt if it has its transponder turned on, but Brunswick ground radar may be able to pick it up as a primary target.”

“How many aboard?”

“I believe there to be one man aboard.”

“Fuel?”

“As far as I know, the airplane was last refueled at Manchester, New Hampshire, yesterday, before flying to Islesboro.”

The president broke in again. “It will carry eighty or ninety gallons of usable fuel, depending on what year it was built, and it uses about thirteen gallons an hour in cruise.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” the captain said. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Not I,” the president said. “Mr. Kinney?”

Kinney thought for a moment. “The pilot is desperate, I believe. He’ll do anything not to get caught. You might inform your pilots of that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kinney,” the captain said. “Mr. President, I should inform you that this is going to be a very difficult job for these pilots, because of the difference in airspeed between their jets and a light piston airplane, and I’m not sure offhand whether his engine generates enough heat for a heat-seeking missile to home in on. If they fire, I’ll have them fire toward the sea, since we don’t want any stray rounds impacting the coast.”

“I know they’ll do the best they can, Captain. Good night. Please report back to me directly when you have news.”

“Good night, Mr. President.” The captain hung up.

“Bob, you still there?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Am I doing the right thing, here?”

“I believe so, sir. There isn’t anything else left to do. He can land that airplane in any farmer’s field and be on his way.”

“You heard the speaker died?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want Fay to still be at large when his funeral is held.”

“Neither do I, sir.”

“Can I reach you on your cell phone, if I need to?”

“Yes, sir. The White House operator has the number.”

“Whoever hears first should call the other, then. Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. President.” Kinney closed his cell phone and put it into his pocket.

“He’s going to do it?” Smith asked, incredulous.

“He’s already done it,” Kinney replied. “All we can do now is wait. You go back and secure the house until we can get a crime scene team up here. I guess that’ll be sometime tomorrow.”

“Right.”

The men melted away from Kinney, leaving him standing in the road. He looked to the southwest and was glad he wasn’t Teddy Fay.

TED HAD BEEN in the air an hour now, and he was approaching the Kennebunk VOR. He checked his fuel: He had been flying the day before at low altitudes and, thus, at a full rich-mixture setting, burning a lot of fuel. He was down to nineteen gallons now, and using thirteen an hour. He couldn’t land at any airport, because the airplane would be discovered when the sun came up, and the FBI would know where to start looking. He needed to ditch the Cessna where it wouldn’t be found. Where would that be?

He looked down at the Maine coast in the moonlight, and as he did, something roared past him on either side, rocking the little airplane in the resulting turbulence. What the hell was that?

He switched on a radio and tuned it to the emergency frequency.

“Cessna 182 retractable,” a young man’s voice said. “Do you read me?”

Ted thought for a moment, then he answered. “I read you loud and clear.”

“You are instructed to turn on your transponder, your navigation lights, and your strobes, if any, then to make a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and fly a heading of zero-six-zero degrees until you have the beacon at the Brunswick Naval Air Station in sight, then to land there on runway two. Do you read?”

“Negative, can’t do it. I don’t have the fuel.”

“Then you can land at Portland International on the same heading. You’ll be met there.”

“Negative, Navy. Can’t do it.”

“Listen, pal,” the young voice said. “I don’t give a fuck if you dump that thing in the Atlantic. My instructions are to force you to land or shoot you out of the sky, and those are my intentions. What’s it going to be?”

An excellent question, Ted thought.