Contraband

50

The package from Dino’s office showed up on time; the airplane didn’t... until late afternoon.

Max hung up the phone. “The coast is clear,” she said. “Tommy is on the way to pick up Hobo. Let’s go.”

There was a plainclothes detective at the turnoff to wave them on, and they arrived to find the airplane where it was supposed to be. Stone opened the engine compartment and rested a hand on a cylinder. “Still warm,” he said.

“There must have been a pickup and delivery today,” Max said.

Tommy rolled up in an unmarked car, then he and another man got out. It wasn’t hard to figure out which one was Hobo.

“Hey, everybody,” Hobo said, waving a dirty hand.

“Let’s get this show on the road while we’ve still got daylight,” Dino said.

“Lemme see what you got,” Hobo said. Dino handed him the unwrapped box. Hobo poked at the contents with a finger. “Okay,” he said, “we got a black box, we got some wires, and we got an antenna. Tommy, will you hand me my toolbox from the car?”

Stone peered into the engine bay. “Where are you going to put it?” he asked.

“How about there on the firewall?” Hobo said. “It’ll look right at home there, next to the voltage regulator.”

“Any problems with a power supply?”

“Well, we don’t want to create a load on the battery. It’ll have to be wired into the avionics master switch, so it comes on when everything else comes on.”

“How about the antenna?”

“I can go to the comm antenna or the nav antenna: your choice.”

“Does it matter?”

“Naw, it’ll broadcast on either one.”

“What about receiving?”

“Okay, I’ll run it to both.”

“Whatever’s convenient and unnoticeable.” Stone looked toward the sun. “I reckon you’ve got less than an hour.”

“Can do,” Hobo said. “Probably.”

Max spoke up. “Hobo,” she said, “get your ass in gear.”

Hobo set his toolbox on the ground next to him and went to work.

As the sun’s rim touched the horizon, Hobo yelled, “Bingo! What’re you going to view the result on?”

“A laptop,” Dino said.

“Is that already equipped to receive?”

Dino consulted the written directions. “It is.”

“Then let’s test it out.”

Dino switched on the computer, chose the proper app, and got a resounding beep for his trouble.

“Up and running,” Hobo said. “That will be five hundred smackers, please.”

Stone produce five hundreds and pressed them into Hobo’s greasy palm. “Okay, put that thing back together and wipe off any fingerprints on anything.”

Hobo did so, then got back into Tommy’s car and was driven away.

“Okay, what do we do now?” Stone asked.

“Drink,” Max said. “And eat. Then we hope Dixie makes another run tomorrow.”

“Dino,” Stone said, “can we monitor this thing from the yacht?”

“Anywhere there’s a Wi-Fi signal,” Dino replied.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

Back aboard the yacht, Dino plugged in the computer, turned it on, clicked on the app, and turned the volume all the way up. “We ought to hear that through the alcohol haze,” he said, and was handed a gimlet.

They raised their glasses and drank, then made themselves comfortable while waiting for dinner.

“Did you coordinate with the Coast Guard?” Stone asked Max.

“I did,” she replied, “they’ll be on station at daybreak.”

“To daybreak,” Dino said, raising his glass again.

They had a pleasant dinner, and Stone and Max decided to remain aboard for the night.

The next day, nothing happened. Max drove to the landing strip and found the airplane still there. The following morning, though, they were having a late breakfast when the laptop beeped loudly, lifting them from their seats.

“We’re on,” Max said.

“How are you communicating with the Coast Guard?” Stone asked.

“They’ve got a satphone, and I’ve got their number.” She pointed at the computer screen. “He’s on the water and taking off!” She picked up her iPhone and made a call, then pressed the speaker button.

“This is the cutter, Lieutenant Harris speaking,” a female voice said.

“Lieutenant, this is Max. Our party is in the air, heading south by southwest.”

“Roger. Let me know when he reaches his pickup point.”

“Wilco.” Max plugged in her phone and set it on the coffee table.

They were having a light lunch when Max called the cutter again.

“This is the cutter.”

“Lieutenant, this is Max. Our target has stopped moving.” She read out the coordinates. “I’ll call when he takes off.”

“Roger.”

“This won’t take long,” Max said.

Ten minutes later she called the cutter again.

“This is the cutter.”

“Lieutenant, our target is off the water and turning on course. Stand by for a heading.”

“Standing by.”

Ten minutes later, Max said, “Cutter, our target is heading 360 degrees at one thousand feet, making 140 knots over the water.”

“Let me plot that.” The lieutenant came back a moment later. “That will put him five miles off Fort Jefferson in about an hour and a half.”

“That’s where he’ll make his turn.”

“We’ll be on the move, as soon as we get a course and speed. We don’t want to scare off his reception committee.”

Right on time, Max sang out, “Making his turn.” She dialed her phone.

“This is the cutter.”

“This is Max. He’s made his turn, now heading 030, still at one thousand feet, making 145 knots over the water. He picked up a little tailwind.”

“We’ll plot a course to a point north of the meeting place. We’ll pick up the reception committee on radar before we get a visual. We don’t want them to see us.”

“I’ll call you back when he starts descending,” Max said.

“I can’t wait,” the lieutenant came back.

“Soon,” Max said.