The Rule of Nine

FORTY

By the time the cops show up and we get to the airfield, everything is gone, including the plane, Thorn, and his comrades. All that is left is some abandoned equipment-a generator, a compressor, some spray rigs, and a lot of trash.

I try to show them the photo taken on my cell phone but they are not impressed. You have to use your imagination to make out the plane, and the bomb is virtually invisible.

There is a large empty wooden crate marked MACHINE PARTS. I try to convince them that the bomb must have been shipped in it. The crate looks about the right size.

The cops tell me it could have been drugs. They will bring the dogs out in the morning and have them sniff around. If there are drugs or munitions, the dogs will pick up the scent.

They tell us they will make a report and conduct an investigation.

Before they could even get started, a call comes in on their radio that a large multiengine jet has gone down out over the ocean following a near collision with another plane.

I look at Herman. “There goes our only lead to Liquida.”

“Look at it this way,” says Joselyn. “At least Thorn’s dead. And that bomb is gone.”

“There was no bomb,” says one of the cops. “According to the tower, the pilot admitted there were drugs on board.”

“If you say so,” says Joselyn.

A half hour of driving, and an hour of paperwork, filling out and signing reports at the police station in Ponce, and we finally make it back to the Hotel Melia. The steady flow of adrenaline has left us exhausted, strung out, and depressed.

We put everything we saw in the police report, though the cops virtually dismissed any thought of a bomb. They told us that the Coast Guard would search the waters until dark and go back out in the morning, but that hope of finding anything was slim. The plane had gone down over the Puerto Rico Trench, one of the deepest areas of ocean in the world.

Joselyn, Herman, and I sit around in the bar downstairs having drinks, trying to figure out what to do next. It was a stone wall. With no leads, there was nothing left.

“I’m gonna have to call Sarah and tell her,” I say.

“Tell her what?” says Herman.

“I don’t know.”

“You think it’s safe to bring her home?” he says.

“No.”

“Then what are you going to do?” says Joselyn.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I know what I have to do,” says Herman. “I’m not sleeping over at the Belgica after what’s happened today. Is that extra room still open upstairs?”

“Yeah,” I tell him.

“I gotta go over and pick up my stuff,” he says.

“I’m going to head up and take a shower,” says Joselyn.

I give her the room key. “Guess I’ll go with Herman to pick up his bags.”

“Where are you sleeping tonight?” she says.

“I don’t know, any ideas?” I ask.

“See you upstairs,” she says.

“Bless you,” says Herman.

She laughs and heads the other way.

Herman finishes his drink and we head for the car.

From years of experience Thorn had learned that in his line of work, you never did anything without a backup plan. And if you were smart, you had more than one.

After the near midair collision Thorn took the plane up to twenty thousand feet and flew due west until he was about thirty miles out over the ocean. He turned on the radio and called in a mayday. He reported damage from the near collision and acknowledged that there were drugs on board. He told the air-traffic controllers he was having engine trouble and reported a hydraulic leak.

A couple of minutes later Thorn nosed the plane into a steep dive, but not before lowering his flaps and dropping his wheels to slow his speed. At a thousand feet he turned off the transponder and leveled off. With his speed still reduced and watching his fuel, Thorn lowered the ramp at the back.

The bomb was bolted in place. The rollers that released it from its cradle wouldn’t move unless the safety bolts were pulled and the two metal straps holding the bomb in place were removed.

The drag on the plane from the shifting weight and the air resistance from the lowered ramp were considerable. Thorn put the plane into a mild turn, dipping the port wing and adjusting the throttles to give the plane enough power to keep it in the air. Thorn checked the altimeter.

He turned the flight controls over to Ahmed and told him to maintain altitude at five hundred feet and to hold the turn.

Over the horizon and under the radar, the controllers in the tower at Mercedita would assume that the plane went into the water.

“Okay?” He looked at Ahmed, who glanced at him nervously and nodded as he gripped the controls.

Thorn watched him for a few seconds until he was satisfied, then he and the other pilot went to the back of the plane. They gathered all of the brown paper masking panels from the paint job and tossed them out through the open airstairs in the back. The empty paint drums followed. Thorn was careful not to allow any of them to strike the area near the tail of the bomb where the snap-out fins deployed.

Finally he grabbed the two fuel cans and poured enough diesel fuel out the back end of the plane to leave a sheen on the surface of the water below. Then he tossed the two empty fuel drums out. He took one last look to make sure everything was floating nicely on the surface of the sea down below. “Good!”

Then he went back up to the flight deck and closed the airstairs, bringing up the ramp. Thorn lifted the wheels, brought up the flaps, and took over the controls again. Checking his fuel, he goosed the throttles and brought the plane onto a heading due south.

He hopped the waves, hugging the water for more than eighty miles, and didn’t turn on the transponder. He did turn on the radio and listened while the tower at Mercedita called in the Coast Guard and launched a search and rescue for the downed plane.

Thorn stayed under the radar and didn’t pop up again, not even when he reached his destination. It was the small island of Vieques, off the southern tip of Puerto Rico. There was a fair-size general aviation airport on the eastern side of the island. From there Thorn could take one of the twin-engine commuter flights to San Juan and catch a direct flight to D.C. in the morning. But at the moment that wasn’t where he was headed.

On the western side, near a beautiful cove, the azure waters and white sand beaches concealed a deadly secret. The island was badly polluted. For fifty years the western side of Vieques had been a bombing range for the U.S. Navy. Tons of high-explosive ordnance had been dropped all over the island, and heavy metals, including mercury and lead, now contaminated large parts of it.

The people who lived there were territorial subjects. They lacked the wealth and political influence to launch the kind of “not in my backyard” movements that had shut down most of the military bombing ranges on the U.S. mainland. It wasn’t until the base closure commissions began shutting down military facilities across the country that a coalition of environmentalists and islanders finally waged a successful battle to oust the navy. The old bombing range was turned over to the Department of the Interior, while bureaucrats argued over who was going to clean up the mess.

Meanwhile, the buildings at what had been the navy’s old Camp Garcia lay abandoned. All that remained was a five-thousand-foot runway and a small unmanned weather station. It was the perfect location for stashing the plane.

All Thorn needed to buy two nights, two days, and a load of Jet A fuel from the airport on the other side of the island was a plausible story. The empty jet was under a lease arrangement, a replacement craft deadheading from Houston to San Juan to carry freight. The partially completed paint job would enhance the story, and they painted the logos on the side of the plane as they waited. The story would be that they had developed a serious engine problem and that Thorn had to set it down on the abandoned runway when he found it available on his charts. No one would be looking for him there. It would be at least a day or two, maybe longer, before they realized there was no real wreckage in the waters west of Mercedita. By then the plane would be gone, the mission completed.

Ten minutes before landing, just off the southern tip of Puerto Rico, Thorn checked his cell phone for a signal. When he got one he made one phone call, to the front desk at the Hotel Belgica.