Contraband

28

Al Dix’s jet-engine iPhone alarm woke him while it was still dark. He got dressed, had some breakfast, poured his coffee into a thermos and an aluminum to-go cup, and grabbed his flight bag, then drove up the Keys. He turned off at the appointed mile-marker and drove to the end of the road, where a little grass landing strip awaited. Parked at one end was a new-looking Cessna Stationair, with floats.

Dix parked his car near some high bushes and walked over to the airplane. He opened the pilot’s door and looked inside. It was equipped with the Garmin 1000 glass cockpit, two large screens onto which much information could be displayed. He turned on the master switch, waited for the computer to boot up, then checked the fuel gauges. Topped off. There was a fifty-gallon soft plastic ferry tank strapped to the rear seat, and he removed the cap and ascertained that it was full. He found the checklist for the airplane and began doing a very careful preflight inspection, starting with the outside and, in particular, checking the fuel tanks for any sign of a leak.

Finally, he unbuttoned his shirt and unwound the elastic bandage that held his arm against his chest, then he removed the sling. Gingerly, he moved his left arm, not overdoing it, and found that he had a reasonable, pain-free range of movement.

That done, he returned to the cockpit, closed the door, buckled his seat belt, and put on a headset. The engine was fuel-injected, so he didn’t need to prime it; he turned on the switches and cranked the engine. It started immediately and ran smoothly.

While it warmed up, he checked the Garmin’s flight plan page and determined that his routing had already been entered. He ran through the cockpit checklist, then, finally, he was ready to go. There was enough runway to take off on the little wheels attached to the floats, but it would be noisy, and he didn’t want the neighbors to notice what time he departed. The sky was brightening as he advanced the throttle just enough to get him moving. Toward the end of the runway he pushed in more power as he rolled into the water. A little more, and he had steerage with the rudder pedals.

He taxied a hundred yards offshore through shallow water, then he shoved the throttle all the way forward, and pulled the yoke back into his lap as the airplane gained speed. When the floats broke from the water he pushed the yoke upright and flew the airplane a couple of feet off the water, staying in ground effect until he had sufficient speed to climb. Once he did, he leveled off at fifty feet, set the heading bug for southwest, then switched on the autopilot and let the equipment fly the airplane while he searched the horizon for tall yacht masts and other obstacles.

He was on course and under the radar, unless the balloon in the mid-Keys was up and the down-facing beam was working, which he doubted. His radio was set to the Key West approach, which was operated by the Navy at their base on Boca Chica. He heard no chatter on the channel indicating that anyone had spotted him. Indeed, hardly anybody was flying at this hour.

He flew southwest, with Key West several miles off his left wing, and out of the Gulf of Mexico and over the Atlantic Ocean. At that altitude he was more likely to attract the attention of a Coast Guard cutter than other aircraft, so he climbed to three thousand feet and leveled off. That way other aircraft on flight plans would be flying several thousand feet above him, and he would be harder to spot from the water. He leaned the fuel mixture to best range; his instrument display showed three hours, twelve minutes to waypoint.

Dix checked the on-screen flight plan for his first waypoint — coordinates to the south — then pressed the direct-to button. A magenta line appeared on the screen, running from his present position to the waypoint. Then he pressed the nav button, and the airplane made a small turn and began to fly down the magenta line toward the waypoint.

The billboard — a display of vital information on-screen — showed him flying at a ground speed of 130 knots, helped along by a stiff tailwind. He performed an instrument scan and found everything in the green and his fuel burning evenly from both tanks. He reached down and switched to the soft ferry tank and reset his available fuel to fifty gallons. He would burn that fuel first, then switch back to the main tanks. His cargo would replace the weight of the ferry fuel.

He took the thermos from his flight bag and poured it into his to-go cup, then found some agreeable jazz on the satellite radio and settled back to enjoy the flight. Dix was never happier than when flying smoothly somewhere in good weather, with everything operating properly. A few minutes later, he began to doze, his coffee gone and his chin on his chest.

Dix jerked awake; a sputtering, coughing noise had reached his ears, and the airplane was slowing as the autopilot held it at altitude. He reached down and turned the fuel switch from ferry to mains, and the engine instantly caught and began to run smoothly again. He reset his fuel quantity to reflect what was in the main tanks, and he picked up speed. His time en route to the waypoint showed twelve minutes, and he began to sweep the horizon with his eyes, while descending to five hundred feet.

The boat appeared as a dot dead ahead, then quickly grew in size as he approached. He slowed the aircraft to eighty knots while he checked the waves for wind direction, then he made a sweeping turn, keeping the boat off his wing tip, slowed some more and touched down smoothly. He taxied to a position a hundred yards from the yacht and fifty yards ahead, and as he passed it a RIB cast off from the boat.

When he was in position, he cut the engine and let the airplane do as it willed. Everything was up to the men in the RIB now; all he had to do was wait. He heard the outboards approach, then throttle back. There was a bump as the RIB nudged a float, then the noise of a man clambering onto the float and opening the rear compartment door. He was joined by a second man, while a third kept the RIB in position. Dix didn’t look back at what they were doing because he didn’t want to see them.

He heard the cargo being loaded, case by case, and at the end of twenty minutes’ work the rear door was closed and secured. Someone slapped the side of the airplane, the signal that they were done. The RIB pulled away.

Dix started the engine again and taxied away from the rendezvous. Then, nose pointed into the wind, he shoved the throttle forward and took off again. While climbing to three thousand feet he highlighted his second waypoint, aimed the airplane at it, and pressed the nav button again. This waypoint was ten miles to the west of Fort Jefferson, or eighty miles west of Key West. It was along that line, nearing the waypoint, when the problems on his last trip had begun.

This time things went smoothly. Two and a half hours later he spotted Fort Jefferson. He was staying well away to avoid being spotted by those on the regular airplanes and ferries bringing tourists to the fort each day. When he reached the waypoint, the airplane turned automatically toward the next waypoint, thirty miles west of his landing strip, out in the Gulf of Mexico.

Reaching that waypoint, an hour later, he circled until he saw the other boat. Then he landed and sat quietly while another RIB came to him and unloaded his cargo. That done, he took off again and climbed to fifty feet, heading for the airstrip. The wind was down the runway at twenty knots, so he chose to land on the strip, instead of the water. The airplane slowed on the grass and he taxied back to where he had collected the airplane.

Having bedded down the aircraft, he went to his car, opened the driver’s door, and felt under the seat. His hand found a thick envelope. He left it there, got into the car, and drove home.