45
A FLIGHT OF MIGRATING SANDHILL CRANES APPROACHED OFF the glider’s right side, a ballet of slowly beating wings and outstretched necks easily mistaken for geese or swans from a distance. But, seen closer, they were too elegant for the former and too large for the latter. They moved as a black arrow, an undulating wave, like a single organism against a backdrop of a once-royal-blue sky now flaming out in resignation to a setting sun.
Walt pointed out the formation to his passenger, appreciating her hand then tapping him on the shoulder in acknowledgment, secretly enjoying the brief contact. She seemed to understand this was not a moment to raise one’s voice above the roar of the wings. He liked her all the more for it.
The V drew nearer, as if drawn by curiosity or mistaking the glider for one of their own. The cranes flew close enough that Walt could briefly make out not only the delicacy of their individual feathers rustled by the steady wind of their efforts but the beady stares of their unflinching eyes. They passed, and, like a curtain opening, revealed not the expanse of the desert below, simmering in the blush of dusk, but the menacing, insectlike form of a military helicopter, obscured until that moment.
Startled by the sight, Fiona jumped in her seat, bumping her head against the Plexiglas canopy.
It was a jet-assisted chopper-what Walt thought of as a gunner ship-capable of both tremendous speed and aerial agility. Both men in the cockpit looked like insects as well, as the copilot pointed to the bulbous black headphones mounted over his Air Force helmet.
Walt had purposely changed radio frequencies to avoid being contacted by Air Traffic Control and ordered out of the restricted airspace prior to Fiona taking the pictures. He had forced their hand, necessitating the scrambling of an intercept. But he acknowledged the request with a gesture and quickly reset his radio. He checked in with ATC, announced himself, and was told to immediately switch to yet another frequency, where he could communicate directly with the helicopter pilot.
The anticipated warning was issued with authority: Walt had violated federal airspace; he would land the glider at the Arco/Butte County airport, a tiny strip where the towplane now waited. He could expect to be boarded and detained. The standard “boarded” line brought a grin to his face: the glider’s cockpit barely fit its two passengers; no one would be boarding his aircraft. But the mention of detention was more significant. He planned to withhold his trump card-his status as law enforcement-until reaching the ground. But the carefully worded caution implied the government would exercise its right to search.
“They’re going to look at your equipment,” Walt shouted back to Fiona. “If they find we’ve been spying instead of joyriding, we’ll be in some serious trouble. I don’t want that for either of us. You’d better erase anything of the INL site. Keep the landscapes; we need to justify the gear.”
“How long do we have?”
“They’re escorting us. I need to land right away.”
“But how long?”
“Five, ten minutes. I’ll need to come around for the wind. They’re not going to shoot us out of the sky or anything. Why?”
“Can you make it more like ten?”
“How long does it take to erase some photographs? I would have thought-”
She interrupted. “Walt, I got some terrific shots of that construction site. I’d hate to lose them.”
Ten minutes earlier, they’d flown over an area of excavation, busy with large earthmoving machinery, the hole being dug alongside one of the bunkerlike buildings. The area was a beehive of activity, especially given the late hour: past seven P.M. The overtime work suggested an intriguing urgency. He’d circled the excavation, possibly putting him onto radar. Fiona had run off dozens of shots, including some of the Pahsimeroi Valley to the northwest. Walt wanted time to study the shots, but not at the expense of arrest.
“Not worth it.”
“They’re stored on an SD chip. The thing’s the size of a fingernail. You really think they’re going to search us that thoroughly? I could put it in my bra or something. They are not going to strip-search us.” When Walt failed to respond, she added, “Are they?”
“This is the U.S. military. Who knows what they’ll do? But if they find that chip, especially hidden on you, we would be in the deep stuff. These people don’t mess around.”
She was quiet for a moment, as she considered their options. “What if I encrypted them? I can password-protect the camera.”
“Child’s play for them. Besides, the more we look like we’re trying to hide something, the more heat we’re going to draw. We don’t need that. Erase them. I’ll buy you the ten minutes.”
“And if I can save them?”
“I’m telling you, it’s just not worth the risk. They’ll find them.”
“Not if I e-mail them before I erase them. My phone’s a PDA, Walt. It takes the same SD chip as the camera. You buy me enough time and I can switch out chips and e-mail at least a couple of the shots. They’ll be in cyberspace by the time we land. Keep your eye out for a cell tower. If you see one, try to stay close. I can do this.”
For the next ten minutes, Walt juggled stalling the air patrol’s increasingly heated demands he land the glider with Fiona’s run-on narration of her progress. She switched out the chips and had started e-mailing out the photographs, but the transmission speed of the photographs-all large-graphic files-was incredibly slow over her mobile phone.
Walt landed the glider a little hard-a little out of practice-causing Fiona to yelp from behind him. He rode the momentum off the strip’s lone runway and onto the first of three ramps. The helicopter set down just ahead of them, so close that the wind from the blades pushed the glider around like a toy, driving it back several feet and nearly damaging the tail. The chopper pilot killed the engine, and, as the blades slowed, two white SUVs with federal decals on their doors sped out to meet them.
“Where are we?” Walt called back to Fiona.
“I need more time,” she called out anxiously.
“Forget it. Just erase them.”
“The chip’s out of the camera; there’s nothing to erase. But I can’t erase them off the phone until they’re done sending and it’s taking forever.”
A uniformed officer pounded on the Plexiglas.
“Pocket the phone,” Walt instructed her, as he bent down low to make it appear he was busy shutting down the glider.
“OPEN UP!” the officer hollered.
“They’ll focus on the camera, not the phone,” Walt said, softly enough that the officer wouldn’t hear him through the cockpit dome.
“They will when they see there’s no chip in it,” she countered. “Wait! I’ve got a spare… Okay… okay… Buy me thirty seconds.”
She then bent over to where, in the tight space, her back screened her hands and the camera from view.
The officer pounded again.
“Ten seconds,” she pleaded.
Walt slid open the small triangular air vent on the side of the dome and moved his lips closer. “She’s feeling a little airsick. My passenger needs a moment.”
“Open this aircraft or I’m instructed to break it open for you.”
“Just let her get her sea legs, would you?” Walt pleaded.
“I’m okay,” she announced, sitting up and waving at the officer. She leaned forward, her chin on Walt’s shoulder, and whispered hotly, “The phone is still sending.”
“Purse,” he said, covering his lips as if itching his nose.
Walt unlocked the cockpit releases, and the officer instructed them to climb out of the plane. If caught, Walt thought his badge would bail them out. But seeing how serious these guys were, he wondered if he’d dragged Fiona into something he would soon wish he hadn’t.