Echo of War

44

As the Aurasina was steaming out of the Gulf of Trieste and turning south along the Istrian Peninsula with her cargo of 800 passengers and 290 passenger vehicles, Tanner was pulling into the parking lot of a small municipal airstrip on the southern edge of Graz. Through the hurricane fence he could see a single hangar. The double doors were open, revealing the pale glow of fluorescent lights.

Briggs climbed out of the Mercedes, shoved the keys under the seat, then locked and closed the door. He checked his watch; he had a few minutes. He dialed Cahil. Dutcher had called Cahil with orders to follow Trpkova aboard the Aurasina, but had told him nothing else.

“Hello,” Cahil answered. His voice sounded distant; static hissed in the background.

“How’s your weather?” Tanner asked.

“Lousy, leaning toward crappy. The waves are running about six feet with heavy wind. It hasn’t started raining yet, but it’s coming.”

“Didn’t I warn you about stowing away on strange boats?”

“I’m passive-aggressive.”

“Where’s our friend?”

“Stateroom 3-B-19, safe and snug. Where are you and where’re you headed?”

“Graz, about to catch the flight Oaks cobbled together for me; I’m headed into Croatia. Sylvia’s working on having a helo waiting for me in Rijeka,” Tanner replied. The timing would be dicey, since the helicopter would likely come from the remains of the U.S. Army’s Joint Forge bases at either Zagreb or Rimini, Italy. Whether Sylvia could get the unquestioned cooperation from European Command was yet to be seen.

“And while you’re sightseeing, what am I doing?” Cahil asked.

Tanner explained the rest of the plan. “Best case, I stop Litzman and they grab Trpkova in Zadar. Worst case, I fail, it all goes to hell, and you’ll have to find a way to stop the ferry.”

“No problem,” Bear said. “I’ll start—” His voice was lost in static.

“Say that again,” Tanner called. “I lost you for a second.”

“I said, I’ll start looking for my monkey wrench. How’re you going to find the Barak? It’s a small boat in a big damned ocean.”

“Luck and a Lacrosse. Listen, Bear, we’ve got no idea what Trpkova’s got planned for Kestrel, or how stable he is. If you recognized him, he may recognize you. Stay away from him and don’t take any chances—”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

“Deal.”

“Besides, if he pulls the cork, where am I going to hide? Briggs, I hope you find Susanna.”

Whatever it takes, Tanner thought. And if she’s … Tanner caught himself before he could finish the thought. “I’ll find her. Take care of yourself, Bear. I’ll be seeing you.”

Tanner disconnected, then walked to the hanger. Inside he found a man in blue coveralls kneeling beneath the engine cowling of a single-engine Cessna Skyhawk. Bright yellow letters on its door proclaimed: “Goeben & Goeben Cargo Air.”

“Hi there,” Tanner said.

The man glanced at him, then stood up and turned around. He had white-blond hair and wore a patch over his left eye. “Dan Watts?” he asked in an American southern accent.

“Yes.”

“You’re lucky. I don’t usually take passengers, but your office manager had a deep checkbook.”

“He’s a resourceful fella. I can’t help but notice you’re not Austrian.”

“Born and raised in Houma, Louisiana. Name’s Filmore Gaines; call me Bud. A couple years ago me and the IRS had a little disagreement, so I came over here for a vacation. You got a problem with that?”

“Are you a decent pilot?”

“Damn right.”

“Then, no.”

“Let’s get moving. And before you ask — most people do — the answer’s yes, I can fly just fine with one eye — as long as it’s daytime, that is.” Tanner glanced at the blackness beyond the doors, then back at Gaines and opened his mouth to speak, but Gaines cut him off. “A joke, just a joke. Damn I love that. Never get tired of seeing that look on people’s faces. Okay, get aboard.”

Twenty minutes later they were crossing the border into Slovenian airspace. As though they had passed into another world, Tanner watched the sky go from clear to overcast. North of them a line of black, flat bottom clouds lay like a wall over Bosnia. Every few seconds the clouds pulsed with lightning.

Gaines checked in with Maribor control, which vectored him south toward Celje. As the Cessna banked over, a sudden gust of wind caught them broadside and flipped the wing up; Gaines corrected and leveled off.

“Damned bora,” he muttered.

“What’s that?” Tanner asked.

“One of the names for the hundred kinds of winds they got here. During the summer the bora blows down from the Dinarics in corridors — usually seven of them. We just passed into the Balkony Corridor.”

Tanner could feel the Cessna shuddering; wind whistled through gaps in the window’s weather seals. He gripped the armrests tighter. “Is this going to last all the way to Rijeka?”

“Gets a little worse, actually. Relax, I’ve made this run hundreds of times.”

“In how many planes?”

“This’ll be the fourth; the first three are down there somewhere,” Gaines said, then jerked his thumb toward the darkness.

Tanner stared at him. “Another joke?”

“Yeah. As long as we don’t get any shear, we’ll be fine. In fact, with this kind of tail wind, I’ll get you there ahead of schedule.”

Tanner checked his watch and made some mental calculations. The Aurasina would be well down the Istrian by now, perhaps as far as Rovinj — moving closer to Litzman and the Barak with every passing mile.

North of Ljubliana Tanner’s SAT phone trilled. It was Dutcher: “You might be on your own,” he said, his voice chopped with static. “Zagreb’s helos are grounded by high winds.”

“The bora,” Tanner said. “I’m in the middle of it right now.”

“Rimini said they’ll try, but their weather’s worse still. Evidently4this storm is something of an aberration, a once-in-a-decade confluence. The base commander’s got a couple Blackhawks standing by on the tarmac. If they get a break, they’re going to lift off. No guarantees, though.”

“I understand,” Tanner replied. Abruptly, an idea occurred to him. He glanced at Gaines, who was hunched over the wheel, his one good eye screwed into a squint. “Where’s the Barak?”

“The Karvner Gulf, steaming south about twelve miles north of an island called Unije,” Dutcher replied.

“Where’s the nearest airfield from Rijek?”

“Stand by,” Dutcher said. He came back in twenty seconds: “Losinj island, fifty miles to the southwest and eight miles from Unije.”

“I might have a solution. Have Sylvia call the Op Center and tell them to stand by for a call from a man named Bud Gaines.”

Gaines muttered, “Huh? You say something?”

“Who’s Bud Gaines?” Dutcher asked.

“The man who’s going to save the day, I hope.”

Tanner disconnected then turned to Gaines. “What kind of IRS problems do you have?”

“Why?”

“Tell me.”

“I owe a little back taxes. The auditors didn’t agree with my bookkeeping.”

“How much?”

“Forty thousand.”

“What would you say if I told you I could make that go away?”

“I’d say you’re full of crap,” said Gaines, then glanced at him. “Are you?”

“No.”

“What would I have to do?”

“I’ve got a friend on a boat somewhere in the Adriatic. She’s in trouble—”

“Call the Croatian Navy.”

“It’s beyond that now. If you can get me to the airstrip on Losinj, I’ll have a fighting chance to reach her.”

“Lemme get this straight. I fly you an extra fifty miles and you fix my IRS quandary?”

“Fifty miles and a boat,” Briggs corrected. “I need a boat.”

Gaines thought for a moment “Maybe.”

“Maybe’s not good enough.”

“How do I know you’re not shining me on? I need some kind of proof—”

“Give me the wheel.”

“What! You can’t fly!”

“Not as well as you, but well enough to keep us airborne. I’m going to fly; you’re going to call for your proof.” Tanner handed him the sat phone; Gaines hesitated, then took it. “Hold tight, the wind’s pushing us to port. Tanner grabbed the yoke and nodded. Gaines asked, “Who am I calling?”

“The CIA,” Tanner replied, then recited the number. “Give them your name and ask for Sylvia Albrecht.”

“That name sounds familiar.”

“It should. She runs the place.”

Gaines dialed the number, waited, then said, “Uh, yeah, Bud Gaines for Sylvia … Albrecht.” Ten seconds passed, then he said, “Yes, ma’am. Yes, he is, hold on.”

Tanner exchanged the yoke for the phone. “Sylvia, Bud’s got a problem and so do we. If we fix his, he’ll fix ours,” Briggs said, then explained the situation. “Can you make it happen?”

Sylvia snorted. “If he can get you to the Barak, I’ll pay it off myself. Hell, yes, I can make it happen. Put him back on.”

Tanner held the phone up to Gaines’s ear, and he listened for a moment, muttered a string of uh-huhs and yes, ma’ams, then finally said, “Whatever you say. I’ll get him there; you have my word.”

Tanner took the phone back. “Done?”

“Done,” Sylvia said.

“I’ll call you when I’m on the ground. I’ll need steering to the Barak.”

Tanner disconnected and glanced at Gaines. “You’ll be back in Houma before the week is out.”

Gaines shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll be damned. Hold on to something, I’m gonna try to pick up some speed.”