But he wouldn’t be coming to help if Ian Williams shot him.
“What can we do?”
“Land,” the old man offered.
“I mean right now. Is there something we can do to help shake things up back there?”
The old man looked at Renee and said, “We could try some maneuvers.”
She said, “What if we stall the aircraft? Maybe we can shake them up enough back there that… ” Renee wasn’t sure if it would work, or help. But she didn’t have any other options. There was only one problem. “I have no idea how to stall this thing, do you?”
The old man said, “I would try to pull those levers right there. The throttle levers. No, not that. Yes, those ones. All the way… well, maybe not all the way… ”
Renee pulled the three levers back to about one quarter of where they could be set. The engines wound down and became much quieter, and thankfully the propellers were still spinning.
“Now pull back on the stick as hard as you can. Don’t let go. After we go through the stall, push forward hard. Then, when we get speed back, pull up hard.”
Renee pulled on the steering wheel with sweaty hands. She reached her forearms around it to help. The nose of the large aircraft went up, and she could see the airspeed sliding back. A high-pitched whine sounded through their headphones.
She turned her head back and yelled as loud as she could. “Max, hold on!”
The airspeed slowed, the sun came into view, and then the bottom dropped out.
Max started running towards Williams but was going to be too late. Then he heard a female voice screaming about something, and Max realized the aircraft had changed configuration. As Ian Williams raised up the submachine gun from the floor, Max grabbed on to the metal base of the seat nearest to him and held on tight.
The next few seconds happened in slow motion. Ian picked up the weapon just as the stall began. As the nose of the aircraft dove down and they passed through zero g’s, Ian Williams floated up into the ceiling. Then the g’s came back on and he slammed to the floor, hitting it hard enough to stun him.
Max was crouched and holding on to the seats. He took two quick steps towards the rear of the aircraft.
Ian was now sprawled out right next to the exit door.
Which was fluttering ever so slightly.
The latch had taken gunfire, Max realized.
The only thing holding the door shut was the airflow over the fuselage. Which was considerable at this speed. But no match for the force of a man being kicked through it.
Before Williams could regain his balance, Max grabbed on to the two metal handles atop the rearmost aisle seats. He swung his legs forward and aimed his heels towards Ian’s sternum, extending himself, kicking and squatting with all his might.
The result was Ian Williams flying backward, slamming through the unlocked exit door, screaming as he disappeared into the wild blue yonder.
Max took Renee’s seat and contacted Oshkosh tower on guard, the emergency frequency for all aircraft.
The tower air traffic controller got one of the other Ford Trimotor pilots on the radio, and while the landing was definitely not Max’s finest, they were able to talk him down to the runway safely.
Max taxied the aircraft up to the central display area of the air show and shut off the engines. Renee embraced him and kissed him on the lips.
Then she did the same to the Tuskegee Airman, who was smiling, despite the chaos.
Firetrucks and ambulances converged on the scene. Police cars and news crews. Crowds of people, stunned and taking pictures and clapping and pointing. Max, Renee, and the Tuskegee Airman were helped out of the aircraft and taken to the hospital under police guard.
Max’s father Charles, Trent Carpenter, and Caleb Wilkes all met him there. After all the official interviews and medical treatment, Max asked Trent what had happened to the senator.
Trent gave him a look and said, “Later.”
Max understood enough to be patient.
Chapter 32
Max and Caleb Wilkes sat across from Senator Becker, a recording device resting on the table between them. They were in the senator’s home. The investigators were done with it, although they were still evaluating evidence at the mansion property across the cove. That was a crime scene, still being investigated several days after the events of last week.
No charges had been filed against Senator Becker yet. The problem was witnesses. For all of Ian Williams’s faults, he had done a good job of covering their tracks. Almost everyone who could point to Becker’s participation in the cabal was dead. Those who were thought to be alive were outside the country, being protected — or eliminated — by the remaining coconspirators.
But the digital and financial trails would eventually be uncovered, the FBI investigators had assured them. It was just a matter of time, now that they knew what they were looking for. And Max and Renee could testify to what they had seen.
Becker’s only hope to avoid a life in jail was to cooperate wholeheartedly. The news media had already begun putting the pieces together, and the cable news channels were featuring wall-to-wall coverage of the senator’s international conspiracy. Each night, the Washington Post and the New York Times tried to outscoop each other on another major revelation.
Wilkes had gotten about all the information he needed from the senator. It confirmed what Max had hypothesized. Becker was an agent of the ISI, and a coconspirator in Williams’s cabal, which had started as a product of the ISI but had morphed into something more. Becker had been feeding Ian Williams and Abdul Syed classified intelligence for years. But now the mole had been caught and the network had self-destructed.
Both were big prizes for Wilkes.
After almost six hours, the senator’s debrief was finally wrapping up. The politician’s chin was still held high, despite everything that had happened. But there was worry there as well. Having reached the point where he had given up all of his secrets — Becker’s only real leverage — his eyes were now searching Wilkes’s face for some sign of what would happen next.
Wilkes gave him nothing. He rose from his chair, telling Max, “I need to make a call.” Trent entered the room and stood by the wall, arms folded.
Becker vociferously denied having anything to do with his own daughter’s death and looked offended at the suggestion. Max didn’t believe it.
The conspiracy had been vast, and well planned. Most of the agents inside the US were unwitting. The politicians who had voted with Becker were influenced by their donors, not by foreign spies. But many of their donors were influenced by the cabal. Becker had simply used his inside knowledge to steer the cabal network money to the right politicians. Big Pharma executives around the world were already paying lobbyists and contributing to policies that would help their bottom line. The overt crossover between the legal opioid businesses and illicit industry was almost nil.
But there was coordination.
As Senator Becker admitted, the combined industry growth had been planned and fertilized by Ian Williams and Abdul Syed.
Becker turned to Max. “You don’t understand why I did it, do you?”
Max didn’t respond.
The senator said, “We won the war on terror thanks to my actions. I was the one of the few people who were willing to do what it took. To get my hands dirty. Come on. You can figure it out. It all comes down to economics. If the poor people in Afghanistan didn’t have money and jobs, they would have been just as susceptible to the siren song of the Taliban and others. By keeping their economy going, we made sure that Afghanistan wouldn’t transform back into a haven for terrorism. The Pakistanis wanted stability in the region. So did we. I simply made a deal to keep the peace.”