“What! You can’t fly!”
“Not as well as you, but well enough to keep us airborne. I’m going to fly; you’re going to call for your proof.” Tanner handed him the sat phone; Gaines hesitated, then took it. “Hold tight, the wind’s pushing us to port. Tanner grabbed the yoke and nodded. Gaines asked, “Who am I calling?”
“The CIA,” Tanner replied, then recited the number. “Give them your name and ask for Sylvia Albrecht.”
“That name sounds familiar.”
“It should. She runs the place.”
Gaines dialed the number, waited, then said, “Uh, yeah, Bud Gaines for Sylvia … Albrecht.” Ten seconds passed, then he said, “Yes, ma’am. Yes, he is, hold on.”
Tanner exchanged the yoke for the phone. “Sylvia, Bud’s got a problem and so do we. If we fix his, he’ll fix ours,” Briggs said, then explained the situation. “Can you make it happen?”
Sylvia snorted. “If he can get you to the Barak, I’ll pay it off myself. Hell, yes, I can make it happen. Put him back on.”
Tanner held the phone up to Gaines’s ear, and he listened for a moment, muttered a string of uh-huhs and yes, ma’ams, then finally said, “Whatever you say. I’ll get him there; you have my word.”
Tanner took the phone back. “Done?”
“Done,” Sylvia said.
“I’ll call you when I’m on the ground. I’ll need steering to the Barak.”
Tanner disconnected and glanced at Gaines. “You’ll be back in Houma before the week is out.”
Gaines shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll be damned. Hold on to something, I’m gonna try to pick up some speed.”
45
Claiming a hydraulic malfunction in his landing gear, Gaines got clearance by Rijeka control to either go around for a second pass or to proceed to Losinj for an emergency landing. Gaines opted for the latter.
As they descended to two thousand feet and crossed the coast into the Kvarner Gulf, rain began peppering the windows. The wind increased, and into the Adriatic Tanner could see storm clouds roiling over the ocean. Here and there, lightning lanced downward, connecting sky and water.
The Adriatic Coast is one of the better kept tourist areas outside of Europe. With a climate rivaling that of the Caribbean and landscape to match, Croatia’s coastline is sprinkled with thousands of islands and reef-rimmed atolls ranging in size from three hundred square miles — Cres-Losinj — to tree-covered sandbars no longer than a football field.
Unije, the island toward which Litzman and the Barak seemed to be heading, is only one of twenty-five in the Cres-Losinj archipelago. Its northern tip begins ten miles from Rijek, extends fifty-five miles southwest into the Kvamer Gulf, and ends at Ilovik Island.
Twenty miles out from Losinj’s airstrip, Gaines changed frequencies, checked in with the tower, and happily reported his malfunction cured. He circled over Ilovik, banked in a tight circle, and began descending toward the airstrip near Mali Losinj, the island’s main city.
Five minutes later they set down on the tarmac and taxied toward a groundsman in a yellow rain slicker waving red wands, who directed them to a tie-down beside the main hangar. Once Gaines had the engine shut down, the man jogged up with a pair of wheel chocks. Tanner opened the door and climbed out. A wind gust tore at his face, filling his eyes with salt mist. He sputtered and squinted his eyes.
“Nice landing, Gaines,” the groundsman yelled over the rush in Croat-accented English.
“Damn straight!” Gaines shouted back.
“You’re lucky. Another ten minutes and they were going to shut us down.”
Tanner and Gaines knelt down to help secure the Cessna. The wings shuddered with the wind and rain sluiced off the leading edges like miniature waterfalls.
“How is it out there?” Tanner asked the man.
“Where?”
Tanner jerked his thumb toward the ocean, and the man said, “Nasty. Seas running about two meters, wind gusts to eighty kilometers.”
Six-foot waves and fifty-mile-per-hour winds, Tanner thought. He said to Gaines, “Where’s the boat?”
“Gimme your phone.”
The taxi dropped them at the Mali Losinj Yacht Club. The harbormaster’s shack and adjoining restaurant and bar were dark, closed early because of the storm. Beyond the gate Tanner could see slip after slip filled with sailboats and motor yachts, all battened down and tied tightly to their moorings. Over the rush of the wind he could hear the squeaking of rubber bumpers grinding against the pilings.
Five minutes after they arrived, Briggs heard the puttering of a small engine. A man on a Piaggio scooter swerved into the parking lot and skidded to a stop beside them. The driver got off, flipped open the kickstand, slid back his hood, and grabbed Gaines in a bear hug.
“Filmore, dobra veccer!”
“How’ve you been, Franjo?”
“Never better! You said you had an emergency?”
Gaines began speaking in rapid-fire Croat, gesturing to Tanner several times. Franjo asked a few questions, squinted at Tanner, then shrugged and said, “We’ll see. He can take a look, at least.”
Franjo opened the gate and the three of them walked along the planking until they reached a slip containing a twelve-foot mastless skipjack painted in battleship gray. The gunwales, gnarled by sea rot, had been covered in multiple layers of marine lacquer, and the hull showed several patched holes. A circa 1950s outboard motor jutted from the stern.
It wasn’t exactly what Tanner had in mind.
As though sensing his reservation, Franjo said, “Don’t be fooled. She’s fast and sturdy.”
“How fast and how sturdy?”
“Fifteen knots.”
“In this weather?”
“Eight. She’s got a keel stabilizer, though. Unless you broadside her, she won’t tip on you.”
Tanner thought about it. In this rain, he’d be bailing before he got out of the harbor. “Do you have a cover?”
“Of course, with a waist skirt. Like kayaks, you know? You’ll be snug and dry. All the equipment you’ll need, too.”
“How much?” Briggs asked.
“No offense intended, but somehow I am thinking I won’t be getting her back. Three thousand — U.S.”
It was outrageous, but Tanner didn’t hesitate. “Done. Bud, it’ll have to be on your tab.”
Gaines hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure. I’m sure our lady friend is good for it.”
Franjo said, “Wonderful! Congratulations. How soon do you need—”
“Now,” Tanner said.
As Franjo and Bud scrambled to prepare the skipjack, Tanner found shelter under the eaves of the harbormaster’s shack and called Langley. “I’m on my way. Where’s the Barak?”
“Passing Unije,” Dutcher said.
Oaken added, “There’s only two other islands before she reaches you: Male Srakane and Veli Srakane, both tiny, mostly uninhabited. The second one’s got a game warden, but not much else.”
Why there? Tanner thought. What was Litzman up to? “I’ll find them. What’s his ETA?”
“If he keeps going, another hour.”
Dutcher broke in. “Briggs, turn on your GPS so we can track you.”
Tanner reached up, depressed the phone’s antenna, and gave it a turn. “Done. Where’s the Aurasina?”
“Just passing Premantura on the Istrian tip. Thirty miles north of you.”
“Speed?”
“Fourteen knots. Her captain’s pushing hard to stay ahead of the storm.”
Fourteen knots … just over two hours. No more time. “If you don’t hear from me or see the Barak disappear off the radar screen within two hours, assume I didn’t get it done. Tell Bear to stop the Aurasina.”