“I thought our guy was in a…”
Bennett fought the controls as the jet wash from the Challenger buffeted the air around the Cessna. Whoever was flying the corporate jet was a madman or an incompetent, he thought. Surely his tiny plane must have been on their radar scope.
“Two hundred feet,” the copilot of the Challenger said. “We lose an engine now and we’re toast.”
“Watch out the window,” the pilot ordered. “I’ll make one pass and then pull up.”
The Challenger streaked above the ground, barely clearing the hilltops. In the jet’s wake, snow was blowing in vortices from the rear. A taller hill dominated the view out the windshield and the pilot pulled up on the yoke then dropped the altitude again when they’d crossed over. They were flying over the loch now.
“There,” the copilot said, pointing to a van on the eastern shore nearest Inverness, “I see smoke.”
The pilot glanced over, then pulled back on the yoke and began climbing into the sky again.
“Challenger,” Hanley said, “the fighters are still fifteen minutes distant.”
“They’re going to try a drop,” the pilot of the Challenger said.
“Thanks for the report,” Hanley said.
“THEY ARE GOING to try a drop,” Cabrillo said as soon as Hanley answered.
“We know,” he said. “I was just getting ready to call you. The Challenger just made a low-level pass and witnessed a van with smoke markers active along the eastern shore.”
“We just caught a glimpse of the Cessna,” Cabrillo said, “he’s just in front of us. Both of us will be over the loch within minutes.”
“How’s the fuel situation?”
“Fuel?” Cabrillo asked Adams.
“I’ve never seen the gauge this low,” Adams said.
Cabrillo repeated what Adams had said.
“Break it off,” Hanley said quickly, “and land while you still can.”
The Robinson flew through a patch of clearer air and Cabrillo stared down. The wind-whipped water of the loch was visible. “Too late for that, Max,” Cabrillo said, “we just started over the loch.”
THE TWO MEN waiting by the loch had been ordered to maintain radio silence until they recovered the meteorite and were a safe distance away from the drop zone. Because of this they did not report the low-flying jet. There was a good chance the business jet was just an oil company plane having problems—if not, there was little they could do about it anyway. They continued to listen and scan the skies for signs of the Cessna.
THE TORNADO ADV fighter passed over Perth, Scotland, and the British flight officer reported his position. They were less than six minutes from Loch Ness and closing fast.
“Watch for a Challenger corporate jet and a rotary helicopter in the area,” the flight officer radioed his wingman. “They are friendlies.”
“Acknowledged,” the wingman said, “target is a Cessna 206 prop plane.”
“Five minutes, out,” the flight officer radioed to his base.
BENNETT STRAINED TO see the smoke marker he had been told to watch for once he caught sight of the northeast end of the loch. It was hazy and the fog over the water mixed with the smoke. He lowered the flaps and slowed the Cessna to a crawl, then looked again. Flashing lights appeared from across the loch, and he turned to fly closer.
“THERE’S THE LOCH,” Cabrillo said.
The Robinson was closing fast on the Cessna and Adams slowed down. “He’s slowing,” he said through the headset to Cabrillo.
Cabrillo stared at the moving map on the dash. “There’s no field showing, so he must be trying a drop, just like we thought.”
The helicopter was halfway across the water, tracking the Cessna, which was turning to fly along the eastern shore. Adams had just moved the cyclic to head toward land when the engine started to sputter.
ON BOARD THE Cessna 206, Bennett looked ahead. He could now see the smoke, the flashing strobe lights, and the van. Flying lower to the ground, he reached over and unlocked the passenger door and slid the box containing the meteorite to the edge of the seat nearest the door. A minute or so longer and he could open the door, tilt the plane over on her side and then push the box out.
BILLY JOE SHEA drove along the eastern edge of Loch Ness in a black 1947 MG TC. Shea was an oil-field drilling-mud salesman from Midland, Texas, who had purchased the classic car only a few days before from a garage in Leeds. His father had owned a similar vehicle, bought in England when he was stationed there in the air force, and Billy Joe had learned to drive in it. It had been nearly three decades since Shea’s father had sold the car, and Shea had always had a secret desire to buy one himself.
A search on the Internet, a second mortgage on his home, and the three weeks’ vacation he had accumulated finally made the dream a reality. Shea had decided to tour Scotland and England for a couple of weeks, until he would need to drop the car off at the port in Liverpool to be shipped home. Even with the top up the rain was seeping in through the open side doors. Shea picked up his cowboy hat off the passenger side of the bench seat and flicked the rain off. Then he stared at the engine gauges and motored on. He passed a van by the side of the road and then the road was clear again.
It was quiet and peaceful, and the air smelled of wet peat and rain-slick roads.
“I HAVE THE fighters on radar,” the pilot of the Challenger said to Hanley over the satellite telephone.
“How far away are you from the Cessna?” Hanley asked.
“Not far,” the pilot said. “We’re lining up to make a pass over the eastern shore from south to north right now. We’re going to buzz him as close as we can.”
BENNETT WAS CLOSE to the drop point. He reached over, unlatched the door, and started to tilt the Cessna on her axis. Out of the corner of his eye Bennett caught sight of an old car driving along the road. Then he concentrated on making the drop as close to the van as possible.
