Primary Target

31

The early morning was aglow in shades of soft pink and pastel gray when Scott taxied the Maule M-7 floatplane away from the seaplane base. With a high power-to-weight ratio, the Short Takeoff and Landing (STOL) aircraft is virtually unmatched in any other high-wing-strut-braced airplane.

In the right seat, Jackie was organizing the charts, binoculars, cell phone, and camera for quick access. With the seventy-two-hour deadline running out, they were anxious to start searching for the terrorist’s yacht and their base of operations. Uncomfortable with the possibility of encountering a nuclear bomb on the yacht, they had avoided discussing the subject.

Dalton was attired in oversized khaki shorts, deck shoes, and a loud, extra-large, multicolored aloha shirt. Multiple magnetic “pierced” earrings, and a Cubs baseball cap, worn backward—‌completed his eclectic ensemble. His nine-millimeter Sig Sauer was concealed at the back of his baggy shorts.

Jackie’s fashion statement included faded denim short-shorts, a revealing sequined tank top, red-and-white sandals, an assortment of inexpensive rings and flashy earrings. Topping off the eye-popping garb, Jackie sported classic DouglasMacArthur aviator sunglasses, a glitzy straw hat with a dozen yellow flowers on one side, and a large canvas tote bag that contained her nine-millimeter Glock.

After energizing the landing light, anticollision beacon, and navigation lights, Scott advanced the power to do a brief run-up, then allowed the floatplane to weathervane into the light breeze. He set the flaps, made sure Jackie’s seat belt was secure, checked the trim and rudders, then surveyed the area for boats and other floatplanes. Satisfied that the area was clear of obstacles, Scott brought the yoke fully aft and added full power to raise the propeller out of the spray.

“Here we go,” he announced in a confident voice.

As the speed rapidly increased, he shoved the yoke forward to force the amphibious floats up and “on the step” much like a speedboat skims across the surface of water.

“This is great,” Jackie exclaimed as the floats slapped the water. “Mind if I follow through on the controls?”

“You might as well fly it,” Scott said firmly as he removed his hands from the throttle and yoke. “Can you reach the rudder pedals?”

“Yes — no problem,” she answered as she smoothly took control of the airplane. “I’ve got it.”

“Just a touch of back pressure,” he coached as the Maule skipped twice and gently lifted into the smooth morning air. “Carry on. I’ll handle the sectional chart”—referring to their Miami aeronautical chart.

“Okay by me,” Jackie said as she took in the aerial view of cruise ships in the port of Miami. “How high do you want to cruise?”

“Let’s try three hundred feet.”

“Sounds good.” Jackie glanced at the Miami skyline and turned to take in the Atlantic. “I have a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Should we concentrate on yachts in the one-hundred-foot-‌‌or-larger range, or should we check everything over fifty to sixty feet?”

“I’d say eighty feet and over,” he suggested. “It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think anything smaller would have the cruising range to make it across the South Atlantic.”

Jackie scanned the horizon. “Unless they installed extra fuel tanks.”

“That’s a possibility, but I think we should concentrate on the larger yachts on the way down. If we don’t have any luck, we’ll check the smaller boats on the way back.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The sun began inching above the horizon as they flew low over Biscayne Bay, then followed the intracoastal waterway past Soldier Key and Islandia.

“You might want to step up to five hundred feet,” Scott said as he studied a private airstrip east of Card Sound. “We’ll drop down again after we cross Highway One.”

She added power, then glanced back in both directions. “We’re venting fuel over the right wing.”

“I know. This thing has been sitting neglected for a long time and the fuel cap is slightly warped.”

“Well, that’s comforting news. I wonder what else is wrong with it?”

“Hey, if it craters, we’ll plop it on the water and find another ride.”

“Yeah,” Jackie said under her breath. “We haven’t crashed anything for almost a week.”

Ignoring her ribbing, Scott used the binoculars to study the Florida Keys as the coral-and-limestone islands and reefs curved southwesterly into the Gulf of Mexico. At this hour of the morning, traffic was light on the Overseas Highway that runs from the mainland to Key West, the southernmost settlement in the United States.

Flying over the emerald hues of Key Largo’s pristine waters, Scott searched for anything that looked suspicious, including large yachts, and homes on private islands.

“Okay, we can step down to three hundred feet.”

Jackie eased the nose down.

Scott focused his attention on Rock Harbor. “Let’s drift over by the ocean side and take a look.”

“Okay.”

Banking toward the Atlantic, Jackie surveyed the greenish blue seas. As the warm sun rose above the ocean, the sky turned azure and highlighted the clear waters and white sweeps of beach. The day promised unlimited visibility and typical balmy breezes.

Approaching Plantation Key, Scott focused his binoculars on a magnificent Hatteras motor yacht named Princess Fatiya. The passengers relaxing over breakfast on the aft deck were unquestionably of Middle Eastern lineage.

“How about a wide three-sixty to the left?” he asked as he reached for his Pentax. “I’m gonna snap a few pictures.”

“Coming around,” Jackie said as she checked for other aircraft. “See anything interesting?”

“I thought I did, but they have small children on board.”

She stretched to see over Scott’s shoulder. “It might be a ruse.”

“That’s possible, but I have my doubts.” He took a few more pictures as they completed the circle. “Terrorists don’t operate that way.”

Rolling out straight and level, Jackie glanced across a wide expanse of hazy green water. “Florida Bay looks pretty shallow.”

“It’s very shallow. Three to four feet in some places, and it’s full of coral that’ll tear the bottom out of a boat.”

Jackie looked west as far as she could see. “That explains why there aren’t any boats out there.”

“At least not any on the surface,” he declared with a grin.

Concentrating on the dock and ships at Plantation Key, Scott took numerous pictures of the million-dollar yachts. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything here. Terrorists aren’t into world-class sportfishing, or socializing over cocktails.”

Continuing southwest over a private seaplane base, they passed Islamorada, on Upper Matecumbe Key, then flew low over Craig and Long Key State Park. Scott photographed yachts and homes along the way and reloaded his camera as they neared Marathon, the largest town in the middle of the Keys.

“They have a nice airport here,” Scott said as he keyed the radio and gave an advisory call to other aircraft to report the Maule’s position and Jackie’s intentions.

“That looks interesting,” he said, pointing to a small island with a sprawling home on it.

“It sure does.”

“I’ll take it,” Scott advised as he assumed control of the airplane.

“You have it.”

“Complete with a seagoing megayacht,” Scott uttered as he banked the Maule to investigate the remote home. “They even have their own helicopter on the yacht.”

“That’s the only way to travel,” Jackie observed dryly.

Scott was intrigued by the impressive home. “Not a bad shack.”

Protected by a coral breakwater and a moat, the estate was situated in the middle of an acre of plush tropical landscaping. Surrounded by emerald-and-turquoise waters, the isolated home and both guest cottages appeared to be in excellent condition.

Caught off guard by the distant sound of an airplane, Massoud Ramazani barked commands to the men loading supplies on Bon Vivant. One of the team leaders quickly grabbed a tarp and covered two portable antiaircraft missiles lying in the bottom of a utility boat.

“Hurry,” Ramazani exclaimed as he rushed across the crowded dock. “Get out of sight!”

Within seconds, everyone disappeared inside the yacht or ran for cover inside the home. Wearing white slacks and a double-breasted blue blazer, Ramazani casually strolled onto the main deck of the yacht and walked toward the bow. He glanced up and smiled as the yellow-and-white floatplane banked overhead. Where’s the blue-eyed, blond-haired captain when I really need him?

With a show of lazy indifference, Ramazani cast a slow glance at the Maule and waved in a cordial manner.

“Jackie,” Scott said as he studied the man on the yacht. “Do you see anything unusual?”

Her eyes narrowed when she noticed the rows of unweathered wood at one end of the pier. “It looks as if they’ve recently extended the dock to accommodate the yacht.”

“Yeah, like in the last month or so.” He gently rocked the wings in recognition of the friendly wave. “Take a look at the boxes stacked on the ship and the dock.”

Jackie leaned around Scott for a better view. “It looks like they’re preparing to get under way, but—”

“Where’s the crew?” he inserted. “Would you mind taking some shots while I circle the place?”

“I’m already on it,” Jackie said as she snapped photos of the yacht and the helicopter. “Try to keep the wingtip slightly above the horizon.”

“Okay,” Scott said as he eased into a shallow turn. “That’s an odd color for a helicopter.”

She focused her attention on the helo and took more pictures. “It looks like desert camouflage that’s been painted over.”

“Yeah, with brown stripes that don’t match where they join at the tail.”

“That’s odd.”

Scott concentrated on the small flag displayed on the side of the helicopter. That looks familiar.

Jackie scanned the water and sky, but her peripheral vision caught a reflection and movement off to her side.

“We have traffic,” Jackie exclaimed as she instinctively reached for the controls. “Level at one-o’clock—watch it!”

Glancing at the oncoming floatplane, Scott racked the Maule into a tight, knife-edge turn as the red Cessna 206 ripped past only feet away.

“Holy shit,” Dalton gasped as he rolled wings level. “Did you see a landing light?”

“No, nothing,” Jackie said breathlessly as she keyed the radio. “Cessna Two-Oh-Six near Marathon,” she said with cold rage, “do you copy Maule Seven-Three Bravo?”

A long silence answered her question.

Scott took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “I’d like to have a chat with that guy, if he lives long enough.”

“Maybe we’ll run into him later,” Jackie said with clenched teeth. “No pun intended.”

Scott nodded grimly as he turned the plane back toward the secluded home. “We’ll look for him along the way.”

Wide-eyed with anger, Jackie slowly shook her head. “We’re lit up like a Christmas tree, and he didn’t even see us.”

“Asleep at the wheel,” Scott said as he began another circle around the island home.

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

Dalton set up for a low pass along the starboard side of the yacht. “Bon Vivant. I want to check the name and see where the ship is registered.”

“I’ll work on it,” Jackie said as she reached for her new satellite-phone. “I don’t know what it is, but something seems amiss.”

“I have the same feeling,” Scott said as he pulled up to make one more circle around the plush estate. “We’ll press on to Key West, see what we find, then head back this way.”

After a second’s hesitation, she glanced at him. “We’ll have to wait until the photo shops open.”

“Not this morning,” he said with a fleeting smile. “I have a friend who’ll process our film and deliver eight-by-tens in less than an hour.”

“You know,” Jackie said as she studied the yacht and the helicopter. “You amaze me at times.”

“Well”—he laughed aloud—“that’s a start.”

After investigating the area around Bahia Honda State Park, Scott pointed his finger toward the northern shores of the lower Keys. “That entire area is a refuge for the great white heron.”

“It’s beautiful,” Jackie remarked as she folded the sectional chart into a smaller rectangle. “There’s an unmarked balloon cable off to the right.”

“I see it.”

“The cable goes up to fourteen thousand feet,” she warned.

“Castrovision,” Scott said as he flew toward Pine Island. “We’ll check out these smaller Keys, then cross the highway and fly around the south side of Key West.” He banked to the right to pass north of the treacherous aerostat location.

Skirting the balloon cable, they looked for anything that might resemble a remote base for terrorist operations.

Jackie reached for the sat-phone when it rang, then signed off after a brief conversation.

“The yacht is registered in Liberia, of all places,” she announced, and watched him give her a questioning look.

His reaction was tempered with doubt. “I have a strange feeling, but I don’t want to set off any alarms yet.”

“Let’s head for Key West,” she said decisively, and glanced at the fine mist of aviation gasoline venting over the right wing. “We need to get some fuel and head back to that island.”

Scott glanced at the gauges. “Yeah, there aren’t too many places to get fuel out here. If you’ll take it for a minute, I’ll call Cindy. She’ll take our film to her shop while we get some fuel and grab a quick bite of breakfast.”

Jackie gave him a sly smile as she took the controls. ‘That’s what I’d call concierge service.”

“Hey, she’s a special friend.”

“I can only imagine.”

Passing close to the private airport on Sugarloaf Key, Scott took control of the Maule and contacted Naval Air Station Key West for VFR traffic advisories. With no reported traffic, he made contact with the tower at Key West International while he circumnavigated the southwestern end of the Key and returned to land at the international airport.

“You want to make the landing?” Scott asked as he lowered the landing gear out of the floats.

“Sure, talk me through it.”

“Slow to eighty, and ease the power back to 1,700 rpm.”

Jackie made a smooth transition as Dalton calmly coached her.

“Flaps to twenty-four,” Scott said as he looked in vain for the red floatplane they had encountered near Marathon. “I guess the Cessna driver must have gone on to the Dry Tortugas.”

“Just as well,” Jackie said as she concentrated on flying the approach. “We have enough on our plate.”

“Flaps to forty,” Scott said as he scanned the area for other air traffic. “Slow to seventy-five.”

“I’m a little high and fast.”

“You’re doing just fine,” Scott advised as they reached a point approximately ten feet above the runway. “Start an easy flare.”

“I’m not sure about this,” Jackie protested.

“Ease the power back, ease the power, bring it to idle, and hold the attitude you have. Lookin’ good, stay with it.”

“I’m trying.”

The wheels touched down with a surprising softness.

“I have it,” Scott said with a wide smile. “Great job.”

“Thanks.”

Dalton changed the subject when he saw a petite, blond-haired young woman waving at them.

“That’s Cindy Simmons,” Scott said as he returned the greeting. “She’s a real conch.”

“A what?”

“She’s a local — a native,” he explained. “Born and raised here.”

Looking at the attractive, softly feminine woman, Jackie suddenly felt embarrassed about her own appearance. “I hope we’re not going anywhere fancy for breakfast.”

“Fancy?” Scott asked, managing to keep a straight face. “I was thinking about Marriott’s Casa Marina Resort, if you think we’re not too overdressed.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”