The Devil on Chardonnay (32 page)

“It seemed so yesterday, Lester, but today we have footage from Al Jazeera of Sheikh Ali Gomaa, the Grand Mufti of Egypt, contradicting the Imam that has been broadcasting encouragement for the faithful to join jihad.  The Muslim Brotherhood, the main political power in Egypt right now, is taking a hard stand against jihad and has instructed the army to arrest anyone caught approaching the new quarantine line.  Lester …”

“Richard, any estimate of the number of dead so far?”

“Lester, the government of Egypt is not talking about fatalities, but the World Health Organization estimates 10,000 dead so far.  That includes citizens from Khartoum, the jihadists initially present, and the early arrivals of jihadists from Cairo.  All roads out of Cairo are jammed, the airports and ferry terminals are packed, and anything that will float is headed into the Mediterranean and across the Red Sea filled with people.  Lester …”

“Thank you, Richard.  This has been Lester Holt with NBC News with breaking news from Egypt.  We now return you to 'The Tonight Show.'”     

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

Corvo, Azores

            “From what I hear about the weather out there, I wouldn’t worry too much that your pirate will get away,” Ferguson said over the scrambled phone line in the command post at Lajes.

            Mimicking the hurricane that had chased Chardonnay to Horta, a giant low-pressure area had stalled in the central Atlantic, sending 30-foot swells east to smash into the rocks of the Azores, and 80-knot winds to close the runway at Lajes for three days.  Now the Atlantic was placid and the morning bright.

            “The storm passed and the runway is open,” Boyd responded, still winded from running up the hill from his quarters after the duty officer called.  “The Portuguese Navy sent their frigate that was watching Corvo back to Horta to wait out the storm.  He could have slipped out last night or early today in one of his tuna boats.”

            “See if you can talk your hosts into sending over their Casa 212 to check out the island.  The cavalry is on the way.  In addition to two destroyers, we have a Special Operations Unit loading at Fort Bragg right now.”

            “Loading into what?”

            “C-130s, three of them.”

            “That’s a 2,400-foot runway, sir,” Boyd said, not calmed in the least.

            “They practice that stuff.  They can do it.”  Ferguson seemed sublimely confident.  “What’s this about a new customer?”

            “Now that word is getting out about what a bad actor Constantine is, every sailor who’s ever had a beef with him is coming forward.  These islands are like a small town. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.  A guy came over on the ferry this morning from Sao Jorge, said he was on Corvo before the storm.  Constantine knows the jig is up and is planning to cash out with one last score.”

            “We’re doing all we can.  He won’t get away.”

            “Yes, sir,” Boyd said, shaking his head, remaining silent while Ferguson closed out their conversation.  He slammed the door shut as he left the command post, the long-suffering officer who’d called him a half a dozen times for secret messages frowned as he passed, no doubt hoping that whatever this was would soon be gone and leave him in peace.

*********

            “A fishing boat capsized near San Miguel,” Angeja said over the whine of the turboprops of the first Casa as he walked across the tarmac to the second, natty in his tight-fitting flight suit and carefully shined boots.  “Our first responsibility is to the search-and-rescue mission.  We must use the Casa to find the fishermen.  Perhaps this afternoon we can send one of them to Corvo.”

            “Damn, Felipe, this is important,” Boyd shouted over the engines.

            “Fishermen are important, to their families, and to our country,” Angeja said, patiently, swinging quickly into the open door of his aircraft.  “Want to come along?”

            “No, thanks,” Boyd said, slowing, then making a salute as Angeja appeared in the cockpit.  He turned and walked dejectedly back toward the Portuguese Operations building as the engines in the second Casa began to crank.

            Ferreira stood in the door, smoking as usual.  He watch dispassionately as Boyd traversed the ramp.  He was dressed in his jungle fatigues, unusual for him.

            “I guess that slippery bastard Constantine gets away, and I’ll have to catch him someplace else,” Boyd said, kicking the side of the building. “No one here seems to give a damn about him.”

            “We could fly over in the Waco,”  Ferreira said, smiling and pointing toward the hangar.  “I have permission from the Brigadiero.”

            *****

            The thrill of lifting off the island and seeing the white foam at the edge of the rocks give way to blue Atlantic, and then the other islands appearing to the west, only masked the uneasiness.  This was a mission that bordered on the foolhardy.  Enjoying the cold wind in his face, Boyd laughed to himself as he saw Ferreira in the front cockpit looking down and about through the old aviator’s goggles they both wore. 

            The Brigadiero, a Portuguese Air Force two-star general and a pilot himself, had come down to the operations area to be sure they knew exactly how to plan this mission.  He had checked the calculations of fuel and distance and given advice and reassurance that the air traffic net had been alerted to the Waco’s journey.  While he talked, he paced and chain-smoked.

            The Waco was only a trainer and was 60 years old at least.  It carried no navigation instruments.  Corvo is an island 5 miles across and nearly 200 miles from Lajes.  It could be reached without losing sight of land if one hopped across Sao Jorge, Pico and Faial headed out 310 degrees, and turned around if Flores didn’t show up before Faial was no longer visible behind.  Corvo is 12 miles from Flores. 

            Slowly, the antique fabric-and-wood biplane climbed to 5,000 feet, and Boyd throttled back to save fuel.  Stuffed into the seat beside Ferreira was a satchel with pistols, ammunition, a radio capable of getting back to Lajes, lunch and some mail for the local schoolmaster, made to look like a Federal Express shipment.  It might fool somebody, the Brigadiero had said, helpful to the point of betraying his own desire to be along on such an odd adventure.

            Fishing boats fanned out from Terceira, the island that Lajes is on.  After three days of stormy weather, the indomitable Azorean fishermen were eager to get back at the fish.  As the old Waco rattled and roared toward Sao Jorge, Boyd could see boats setting out there, too.  The dories were visible only by their modest wakes.

            Boyd’s mind slipped back to the height of the storm, when Pamela, Donn and Angela had stayed indoors for three days straight, eating, drinking and playing Monopoly.  Angela had stayed close.  She was acting like part of a couple. 

            “It won’t work,” he’d said.  Best to have this out now, so she wouldn’t start feeling something for him that would have to come undone.

            “Oh?”  She’d said.

            “I told you before.  I’m different.”

            “Yes, you are.”

            “It’s like there are a few of us who don’t mix with the flock.  We stay out here and watch.”

            He’d made a circle with one hand, while the other hand remained motionless, poised above.

            Angela had dropped it there, and it remained an unsettled issue.

            Back in the present, Sao Jorge approached.  Less populated than Terceira, with fewer roads and more level land, Velas is the only community of size.  As they flew over it, Ferreira stretched at his shoulder harness trying to lean out and look down.  He made some hand signals Boyd didn’t understand, but they might have indicated Ferreira knew a woman who lived at Velas.

            Ahead across the Sao Jorge Channel and 20 degrees left of their course toward Horta on Faial, loomed the volcano Pico.  Chardonnay lay in her watery grave beneath 2,000 feet of Atlantic Ocean on the other side of that island, with Wolf and Neville.  Boyd thought of them and then saw Constantine’s face, eyes ablaze with rage and hatred, the huge pistol in his hand.

 Boyd snapped out of his reverie when he noticed a white executive jet parked at the end of the runway at the Pico Island Airport, just around the northern coast of Pico from Madalena.  It was tucked into the side of the volcanic cliff and barely visible.  He checked the map again.  This small municipal airport has a 4,000-foot runway, long enough for small airliners.  He strained to see well enough to identify the aircraft.  Similar to a Gulfstream, Boyd finally decided it was a Daussault Mystere Falcon, a hot new executive jet, easily capable of intercontinental travel. 

Boyd wagged the wings to get Ferreira’s attention and then pointed down.  Ferreira had the binoculars and used them.  He looked back and shrugged.  In a couple minutes they were over the narrow straight between Pico and Faial, and the runway at Pico disappeared behind the volcano’s shoulder. 

Fuel was adequate, and over the tower at Horta, Boyd changed course to compass heading 310.  He checked in with the tower at Horta and began to climb.  He wanted to be sure he could see Flores.

The day was clear and bright, with no clouds except a ring around the volcano Pico.  Boyd saw Flores 10 minutes out from Faial, with Faial and Pico still very much in evidence behind them.  He relaxed, and soon Corvo popped up, too.  They landed at Flores for fuel; no sense getting to Corvo and into some conflict and being out of gas. 

“Bon dia?”  An attendant approached the plane as Boyd shut down the engine and got down.  He waved but let Ferreira do the talking.  This was just another aero club flight.

Looking around the field, he saw a small hangar, and in it was a Cessna 172, the same one he’d seen at Lajes a few weeks before.

“We’ll circle the island a couple times,: Boyd said as they stood watching the chubby Azorean attendant fill the Waco. “If it looks like we might meet a hostile reception, we can head back and let the Special Ops boys do the job tonight.  At least we can give them some idea of what to expect.”

“The private jet at Pico,” Ferreira mused, looking back in that direction.  “That is very unusual.  International flights are not allowed to land there.  There is no customs or immigration.”

“Whose Cessna is that?”  Boyd asked.

Ferreira stopped the attendant as he was securing his hose and they spoke briefly.  Boyd thought the man’s eyes looked shifty when he replied.

“He says it belongs to one of the fishing fleets.  They use it for spotting tuna,” Ferreira said, climbing back into the front seat.

Soon they were roaring and bouncing along the runway.  Corvo rose dark and misty 12 miles before them as they rose over the open ocean.  Boyd could see a short runway and a cluster of houses on a teardrop of island that pointed out toward Flores and sloped into the sea.  They even had a small beach.  The rest of the island was a dark green rim around a volcanic crater, which, upon drawing closer, was mostly marsh and lake.  A new house, built of the island’s volcanic stone, had been erected on the rim of the volcano, hundreds of feet above the town, thrusting itself into the raw Atlantic wind like a challenge to nature.  It was freshly whitewashed and had a large satellite dish next to it.  There were no tuna boats in the small harbor.  

They crossed the runway and flew across the island at 1,500 feet.  A road snaked up the hill from town to the large house, then down into the crater and around it to the other side of the island.  A large tuna boat was anchored on the northern side of the island, protected from the pounding surf by a cleverly designed cove dynamited out of the rocks at the base of the cliff.  This mooring might not withstand a full bore storm, but looked adequate for a routine storm if the winds came from the south, which they usually did.  It was certainly handy if someone decided they needed to leave in a hurry.  Circling the uninhabited bulk of the island, they came back over the town, Vila Nova Do Corvo.  There was one red pickup truck and a few donkeys in the whole town. 

Boyd wagged the wings, and when Ferreira turned around he pointed down.  Slowly, Ferreira nodded in the affirmative.  They circled into a downwind leg and Boyd announced his intention to land over the radio.  This was for other traffic that might be in the area; there was no tower at Corvo.

On final approach, the Waco floated over Vila Nova Do Corvo, and the townsfolk seemed to be staring dumbly up, standing in the street watching this unexpected event.  There were only a couple of dozen of them, and they all appeared to be female, or old, or both.  The Waco used  up only half the runway in landing and taxied back toward the town. 

Boyd had decided to risk a landing because, he reasoned, those townspeople wouldn’t be standing around watching if they knew an ambush was about to occur, and because of the Falcon he’d seen at Pico.  If this were the new customer for Ebola, come to the nearest runway to pick it up, he couldn’t wait for the navy or special ops troops.  The pattern continued; whoever this customer was would be smarter and more dangerous than the last one and was certainly better financed.  Someone had sent a $10 million plane to pick up the virus, and it could be anywhere in the world in a day.  This wasn’t about alluvial diggers in Africa anymore.

The Waco rattled to a stop at the lone gas pump at the side of the runway.  Nobody came to meet them.  Boyd and Ferreira dismounted and scanned the town.  In addition to the couple dozen houses was one modern school building, identical to the one Boyd had seen at Lajes.  There were schoolchildren playing in the yard.

“How do you want to do this?” Boyd asked, holding open the satchel with the guns and looking at Ferreira.

“I feel like the sheriff in one of your Western movies,” Ferreira said, taking the satchel and pulling out a 9 millimeter pistol with holster. 

“Keep yours handy,” he said, as he pulled the web belt around his waist and cinched it tight, his belly hanging over.  He checked the clip, chambered a round and turned toward the village.