The young man stared at the crushed and mangled helicopter. "I guess your mechanics mustve made a mistake."
"Mechanics?" Scott looked confused. "What mechanics?"
The technician was taken aback. "Them two guys who drove in late last night and worked on your chopper."
Scott and Jackie darted a look at each other.
"Fred, the night manager, told me 'bout the guys before he left this mornin. Said they was kinda strange."
"Did Fred know the men?" Jackie asked.
"Naw. He said they was drivin a small Ford pickup. Parked it right next to your chopper."
Scott stopped to address the onlookers. "Folks, we don't want to disturb the accident site until the NTSB people get here." The small crowd disbursed and Scott turned to the technician. "I didn't catch your name."
"Jimmy Parker."
"Jimmy, did Fred ask the men what they were doing?"
"I dunno, maybe you should talk to Fred." The young man grew hesitant, sensing something was wrong. "Fred said they was gone in 'bout fifteen minutes, maybe less."
"Okay, thanks."
Jackie and Scott exchanged another look before the crash crew arrived. They talked with the senior crew member while the other men hosed down the ramp to disperse the jet fuel.
When the crash crew left, Jackie caught sight of Jimmy Parker standing a few feet away. "Let's continue chatting with our new friend."
"You bet, just getting to the good part."
When Parker saw the couple approaching him, he turned and walked in their direction.
Jackie greeted him with a friendly smile. "Jimmy, you said the people who worked on our two-oh-six were strange?"
Parker lowered his voice and cast his eyes down. "Well, Fred said they was foreigners, A-rabs, but they spoke English pretty good."
"Two Middle Eastern men?" Scott asked.
"That's what Fred said."
"Did Fred tell you anything else?"
"Nope, that's 'bout it."
Realizing there was nothing else to be learned from Parker, Scott surveyed the crash site. "Jimmy, do you have anything we can rope off the wreckage with?"
"You mean like that yellow crime scene tape?"
"Sure, whatever you have," Scott said with a smile. "Oh, by the way, have you heard anything about a B-25 bomber being flown around here?"
Parker's eyes opened wide. "Yeah, what's goin' on with that deal?"
"What have you heard?" Scott asked.
"An instructor, Pam Bowers, and her student saw a B-25 Ay real low and fast near Payette 'bout sundown last night." He raised his baseball cap up and firmly clamped it over his mussed hair. "We don't see that kind of thing often, old warbirds flyin around."
"Did they say in which direction it was headed?" Scott asked.
"Southeast toward Twin Falls. That's what everyone was talkin 'bout this mornin when I come in from breakfast."
"Thanks, Jimmy, we appreciate it," Scott said, and shook his hand. "Do you have a business card?"
"Yes, sir," he said with pride, and gave Scott his card. "If you need anything, let me know."
"We'll do it. You've been helpful."
Parker was confused and it showed in his eyes. "Is there somethin goin on, somethin wrong we should know about?"
"No, nothing wrong," Scott assured him. "I heard the same rumor about the B-25. Just curious."
While Parker made arrangements to secure the helicopter, Jackie and Scott removed their personal belongings from the wreckage. They were careful to make sure their weapons were safely zipped in canvas bags and not visible to the bystanders.
After they piled everything a safe distance from the helicopter, she closely inspected the flight control system. It was evident that the actuators on the main rotor had been tampered with, but it would not have been noticeable from the ground. The tail rotor was so badly damaged that it was impossible to tell if it had been sabotaged.
Jackie picked up a piece of the shattered main rotor blade and curiously studied it. "In retrospect, telling Ma and Pa Kettle we were going to Boise was a bonehead move."
"Well, it's too late for hindsight. We've managed to live through another character-building' experience." He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. "Are you okay, really okay?"
"I feel great. I'm still alive… what more could I ask?"
"It wasn't your fault." He glanced at the wreckage. "I'm just glad we weren't three hundred feet in the air."
"Yeah, that wouldn't have been a pretty sight." She dropped the piece of shredded wreckage on the ramp.
Scott noticed Jimmy Parker was in the process of isolating the LongRanger from the onlookers. "Most likely, Farkas flew the B-25 south to another airfield and a couple of his partners did this job."
"What he plans to do with a B-25 is ^ big question," Jackie said. "The obvious thing that comes to mind is what or who is he going to bomb?"
"That's the question," Scott mused. "It is a bomber, and we have six missing nukes."
"That's a cheerful thought. I better go initiate the dog-and-pony show with the Feds."
"If there's any static from the Gestapo, call Hartwell and have him take care of the Feds."
"I can handle it," she said firmly. "I've dealt with the FAA before."
Scott glanced at a Cessna Caravan amphibian floatplane sitting on the edge of the ramp. "As soon as you finish your rug dance with the Feds, we need to hit the road."
She looked exasperated. "Hit the road in what?"
"A new flying machine." He pointed in the direction of the big single-engine turboprop. "The Cessna Caravan sitting over there. It belongs to the FBO."
"How do you know?"
"I asked last night when I was getting our car. They use it for sightseeing and hauling fishing parties."
"And?"
"It's not making any money at the moment," he said, with an air of certitude. "I'll see if they'll rent it to us."
"Right, you can bet on it." Jackie's smile made a short appearance. "I'm sure they'll be jumping with joy after we just crashed on their ramp." She paused, placing her hands on her hips. "Say, Mr. FBO manager, could we try again with one of your flying machines?" She lowered her voice. "Sure thing, folks. Are you two just learning to fly… or are you just naturally uncoordinated?"
"Hey, I have my seaplane rating," Scott said with confidence. "If they wont rent it, well buy it."
"Better get in touch with Hartwell first. I dont need to remind you, this is not a good time to bother him."
"Well." Scott paused and again glanced at the Caravan. "He said were on our own, have to improvise every now and then."
"This should be good."
"You can laugh, but look at my track record."
"Whatever you do, dont dare mention your track record," she deadpanned. "Otherwise, well be walking."
Scott smiled and started toward the FBO.
One of the newest containerships owned by Saeed Shayhidi, the 1,024-foot Alyssa Langford, was 170 miles southeast of her destination, Charleston, South Carolina, one of the chief ports on the Adantic Coast. Carrying a full load of twenty-foot containers, and powered by a single twelve-cylinder 75,000-horsepower diesel engine, the merchant ship was making a steady 21.4 knots.
The crew of fifteen had finished lunch, and many of them were preparing for their visit to the historic city. They were looking forward to a dose of Southern hospitality, lots of cold beer, and plenty of fried chicken with all the trimmings. Charleston, a major center of southern culture, was a favorite port for many seafarers, foreign and domestic.
The master was in his quarters taking a nap when a loud explosion awakened him. The ship shuddered from stem to stern. The captain, fully awake in an instant, ran to the bridge. He ordered ALL STOP on the engine while he stared at the heavily damaged bow.
His mind raced, but nothing made sense. It was difficult to comprehend that someone had deliberately torpedoed them. But there was no denying the fact unless they had hit a mine or something inside the ship exploded. Not a mine, he argued with himself.