“It’s the only shot we’ve got.”
Chapter 56
LANCE CABOT LEANED INTO THE WIND and accelerated. The big BMW motorcycle tore along the country road, making a steady eighty miles per hour, taking the curves as if glued to the road. From a hilltop, he spied the airfield, a disused World War II training facility. There was no longer an entrance; the road had been plowed up and now sported a crop of late wheat. Lance stopped the motorcycle, went to the fence along the road, pulled up a post, and laid it flat. He got back onto the bike, drove over the fence, then stopped and returned the post to its hole. Then he started, overland, for the field, driving as fast as he could without capsizing the big machine.
The two old runways were potholed, and there were many weeds growing up through the tracks. The field was empty. Lance looked at his watch: The son of a bitch was late, and it was getting dark. He drove up and down both runways, checking for holes that might wreck an airplane; he took note of the wind, then he drove to the end of one runway, shut down the engine, and got off the motorcycle, searching the skies. He saw it before he heard it, a black dot, steadily getting bigger.
Lance stood at the end of the selected runway, holding his arms straight above his head, the airport lineman’s signal for “park here.” The Cessna circled once, then set down on the correct runway, slowing, then taxiing toward him. It stopped, but the engine kept running.
Lance unstrapped a salesman’s catalogue case from the rear rack of the BMW, opened a door, and placed the case on the rear seat, securing it with the passenger seat belt. He looked over the rear seat at the luggage compartment; his bags were already aboard. He got into the airplane, closed the door behind him, and fastened his seat belt.
“Beautiful bike,” the pilot said. He rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together, the ancient code. Lance took a stack of fifty-pound notes from an inside pocket and handed it to him. The pilot did a quick count, tucked the notes into a pocket, and grinned. “Where to, old sport?”
“That way,” Lance said, pointing south. “I’ll direct you.”
“Any particular altitude?”
“Ten.”
“Ten thousand?”
“Ten feet; fifteen, if ten makes you nervous.”
“We’ll attract attention that low, and besides, there are a lot of trees between here and the Channel. I’d suggest a thousand feet.”
Lance reached forward and switched off the transponder. “Good; when you get to the Channel, descend to minimum altitude, and fly a heading of one eight zero.”
“Below the radar? I could get into trouble.”
Lance held up the keys of the motorcycle. “You like the BMW?”
The pilot pocketed the keys, lined up on the runway, and pushed the throttle to the firewall. Two minutes later, they were at a thousand feet. “How far we going?” he asked. “Will I need to refuel?”
“Less than two hundred miles,” Lance replied. “If you topped off as requested, you’ll have fuel for there and back.”
The pilot nodded. After a few minutes he pointed to a blinking light. “Lighthouse,” he said, and started a descent.
“Careful you don’t bump into any shipping,” Lance said.
“A hundred feet will keep us below the radar and above anything but the QE2,” the pilot said. “What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a salesman,” Lance replied.
“What do you sell?”
“Whatever’s in demand.”
They flew on in silence, at one point steering around a big tanker plowing up the Channel, then the shore lights of Normandy came into view.
“Come right to one niner five degrees,” Lance said. He reached forward and turned a knob on the Global Positioning Unit in the panel, selected “create user waypoint,” and entered some coordinates. “Climb back to a thousand feet,” he said.
The pilot leveled off at a thousand feet, and Lance reached forward, switched on the autopilot, and pushed the NAV button. The airplane swung a few degrees onto a new heading. “Let it fly the airplane for now,” he said. He checked the distance to waypoint; one hundred eight miles.
“What are we landing on?” the pilot asked.
“A farmer’s field,” Lance replied. “You’ve got about three thousand feet of length and all the width you need.”
“Any lights?”
Lance pointed to the rising full moon. “That,” he said, “and some car headlights.” He tuned the number one communications radio to 123.4 MHz and held the microphone in his lap.
Forty-five minutes later, Lance spoke again. “Descend to five hundred feet.” He spoke into the microphone. “It’s me; you there?”
“I’m here,” Ali’s voice said.
“Wind?”
“One eight zero, light. I’m already parked.”
“Switch on your headlights, and put them on bright; turn them on and off, once a second.” Lance scanned the horizon.
“Five hundred feet,” the pilot reported.
“We’re five miles out,” Lance said. “Look for headlights, flashing on and off, and land into them, on a heading of one eight zero.”
The pilot leaned forward and searched the ground ahead of him.
“Four miles,” Lance called out.
“I don’t see anything.”
“They’re there. Three miles.”
“Nothing.”
“Dead ahead, see them?”
“Got them!”
“A mile and a half; get lined up; can you see the tree line?”
“Yes, the moonlight is good.”
“Just miss the trees and aim for the car. You should have a soft touchdown.”
The pilot punched off the autopilot, swung right, then back left, lining up on the headlights. He put in full flaps and reduced power.
“Minimum speed, and for God’s sake, don’t hit the trees,” Lance said.
The pilot switched on both the landing and taxi lights, faintly illuminating the grass beyond the trees. He floated over the treeline, chopped the throttle, and put the airplane firmly down on the field, standing on the brakes. He swung around in front of the car and stopped.
“Keep the engine running,” Lance said, reaching behind him for the catalogue case. He got out, opened the door to the luggage compartment, and started handing bags to Ali. “Tell Sheila to turn off the headlights,” he said.
Ali went to the car, and a moment later, the lights went off.
Lance leaned into the airplane. “Wind’s light,” he said to the pilot; “you should be able to take off due north. Keep it low all the way.”
The pilot nodded. “Good luck,” he said.
“Enjoy the bike,” Lance replied. “The registration’s in the saddlebags.” He closed the door
