T hey took the black plastic Pelican case on in Montana. It wasn’t another fueling stop, though Tito imagined they were due for one of those soon. The pilot landed on a deserted stretch of rural highway, at dawn. Tito saw a battered old station wagon pulling up beside them, two men standing on its roof, but then Garreth told him to stay away from the windows. “They don’t want to see anyone they don’t know.”
Garreth opened the cabin door and a black case was handed in. It seemed to be very heavy. Garreth didn’t try to lift it. He strained, dragging it in, while someone Tito couldn’t see, outside, pushed. It looked to Tito like a Pelican case, plastic and waterproof, the kind Alejandro had sometimes used to bury documents and supplies. Then the door was closed, he heard the station wagon’s engine, and the pilot began to taxi. As they took off, Tito imagined he could feel the additional weight.
When they’d leveled out, the old man held a yellow plastic instrument close to the black box, then showed Garreth the readout on its screen.
They landed again within an hour, at a rural strip where another avgas truck was waiting.
They drank paper cups of coffee from a thermos the avgas man had brought, while he and the pilot fueled the plane.
“That’s really the ultimate handload he’s put together, isn’t it?” said Garreth to the old man.
“He told me he used JB Weld to seal the tips,” said the old man.
“Is that all?” Garreth asked.
“When I was a boy, we fixed holes in engine blocks with JB Weld.”
“They probably weren’t quite so radioactive,” said Garreth.