Tonight, according to the nine pages, I start in on the grow fields. It takes me a couple experiments to get the hang of this particular destruction, then it is smoother than I thought, and I cover more acreage than planned. Plants gone, profits gone, seeds gone. I know it is still only a temporary fix, but I've still got a huge smile on my face when I get home just before sun up.
Uniform on, I'm off to be Officer Packer, riding bikes with an officer I've never met before through the parking lots for my day's duty. Despite not working together, Perez and I still honor our tradition and meet at her
tia's
restaurant for dinner, but the news is not good. The FBI went to collect its prisoners in Moscow, only to discover the arm's dealer dead in his cell, and the two Americans gone. They went back to find the middle man, and found him dead as well. We try to put on a happy face for Ariela, but it's not easy.
Perez goes home alone, and I head for Upland, and then out to do more damage in South America. Kona in the morning, Columbia in the evening, back to LA Saturday, but walk down the terminal to deadhead to San Francisco, watch my sister graduate Sunday morning with a degree in Biology and a choice for medical school at UC Irvine, then party with Kiana's folks before taking a leisurely return flight back home Monday. Clearly my mom and her mom have already picked bridesmaids dresses and tuxedo colors, and are dividing the holidays so the grandkids will spend equal time with both sets of grandparents.
I'm amazingly happy for Carolyn, but also constantly reminded that I am about to dash lots of other hopes and dreams.
I do as little as possible until sundown, then back to work in Columbia. They try to stop me this time, knowing that only a few fields remain. Planted a big bomb made from fertilizer and diesel fuel under the ground at one of them, not knowing that my secret scientist, Perez, had taught me to pepper the ground with rocks before I land. The bomb backfired, made my night easier by clearing that field for me and destroying most of the crop.
Less then a week to go in Columbia, Peru goes next, followed by Ecuador, as I move north country by country to LA. Let the Guerrero worry as they see me coming, payback for what they did.
Tuesday fly to Kona in a plane, back to Columbia without, then dig, dig, dig, dig the whole night through, not mining for gold, but something worth about as much. Then back to Kona and fly home.
Wednesday home, skip a trip to sleep with my lady love, and find out that there's so much useful drug intelligence in the laptop and notebooks the DEA and FBI expect to make a couple hundred arrests across the US and with neighbors to the south. We'll see.
Into LAX on Thursday to work, great taco dinner, then back to Columbia, finishing the last field on the list well before dawn. Friday Perez stays home, and the two of us go to Disneyland. None of the rides is any fun any more for me, though Perez has a good time, and that makes it all worth it. We don't stay for the fireworks, but go home and make our own. And, yes, we're not moving in together on purpose. The whole being followed and me sneaking around and etc., and etc., makes it better to have two possible bases of operation.
Saturday I spend the day in Peru and the night in Perez, with a repeat on Sunday.
Monday to Kona, Monday night in Peru rather uneventfully, Tuesday home and a not so peaceful night's sleep with Kiana Perez and a mad cat fighting for space on my chest. Perez does the smart thing in the end and let's Halloween win.
Wednesday golfing again with the flying buddies, then get shot at by about 100 dudes who I really piss off by simply ignoring while I rip through their brand new poppy fields. I guess the supply chain to Afghanistan has been disrupted, and they are trying to grow their own. No longer. And I have the Afghan fields scheduled for a visit somewhere in the nine pages.
Thursday I do as little as possible during the day, have wild monkey sex with Perez in the evening, then off to Peru over night. There is a pause in the plan at this point, scheduled brilliantly by me (no applause necessary) just in case I was behind or something was off. Neither is the case, but I still pause, just wanting to spend more time with Kiana.
I talk her into taking another Friday off, which really isn't off because she is on leave from one job and not getting paid by the other, and coming to Hawai'i with me. She needs the break as much as I do, and deadheading with Captain Amos on the flight deck is just what the doctor ordered.
She and Flaherty have been markedly unsuccessful in locating the missing two Americans, or figuring out who killed the arms dealer and money man, or figuring out who the other two friends of Ali even are. They are cautiously optimistic that neither of the bad guys is back in the USA, though that optimism is based on the names on fake passports we know about from the last operation, none of which has been used.
We go snorkeling with the flight attendants, none of whom I have seen naked, so no big secrets to share with my girlfriend. Dinner in the moonlight looking out over the ocean about as romantic as it gets, then running together through town in the morning. I could do this forever, but....
Then it's just normal living for the week, a Tuesday/Wednesday trip to paradise without her, Thursday at the airport in uniform, Thursday dinner at the
tia's,
Friday catching up on stuff around both our houses.
I fly out when she goes to sleep, about midnight, and stay out for a day and a half, intent on finishing up all the fields in Peru. The first town I visited was a re-run, or rather a finish, since I had to leave the other night before I could get all the plants. Flying in, I know someone is there, but get right to work anyhow.
It's a tank, borrowed, stolen, or bribed from the Peruvian army. It shoots a couple nice sized shells at me, which wouldn't have hurt me they'd hit, and travel way to slow to get me anyhow. You have thought that they would have checked out the video from Syria before trying such nonsense. I remove the turret, thank them in Spanish for the workout, and finish the field.
As I lift into the sky, two Russian MiG 29s from the Peruvian Air Force get on my six. Nice aircraft, supersonic, kinda the poor man's F-16, but also ridiculous against a Superdumbass with no radar return or heat signature. I let them think they are good for a couple minutes, turning and rolling for them, wondering whether or not farting would create something for their missiles to lock on to, then I do a truly high speed turn to get above them, then beside them, then on top of them, punching a hole in the fuel tanks of both so they have to turn for home.
I'm done with Peru by the time I head home to get ready for my Saturday night out with my woman. We go dancing, me proving that I do it better with a MiG 29 than an actual woman, Kiana proving she does that better than almost everybody, just as she does everything better than almost everybody.
Sunday run the beach, hang out with mom and dad, do nothing useful. Monday back to Kona, swim with the whales, and back to LA on Tuesday, staying in just because I can.
Columbia and Peru are also full of warehouses and drug processing factories that I had identified in my previous visits, Perez advising that I should clean out the produce first, then go after the storage and processing.
Wednesday I go do a beach clean up as a community service project for the airline, then change, get rid of my sunburn, and head off to South American to mash and mangle. There's something fun about taking down the buildings, a lot more fun than digging up sprouts.
I make the stupid mistake of not checking out one building beforehand, and jet right into a processing plant that has been converted into a very large explosive. Shoots me a mile or so into the sky, but does no damage. Leaves me mad that I didn't get to smash anything, and also that they seem to be running out of ideas to counter me.
Thursday is LAPD day and date night, dinner at Ariela's, followed by nekked time with officer Perez, and a nice night's sleep under cat guard. Friday I fly to Kona, fly back Saturday, break with my plans, head to Anaheim, and do laps around LA looking for something to do. Nothing pops up, so I find the drone over downtown and tease it into following me, finally blasting toward space and losing it before heading home to feed the cat.
I pick Perez up Sunday morning, she presents me with a six inch stack of paper. We have a fun time anyway, mom and dad's for BBQ, then back to my place for salami (I guess I can handle it once every six weeks). Turns out the paper is paperwork, and she has me spending my Monday off going through more than 1,000 copies of passport photos looking for my blond friend. Nice try, but he's not there.
Chapter 24
Nice couples run down the beach Tuesday morning, at least until we get to the lighthouse, and I know that someone is watching us. I start to say something, and the feeling disappears. I decide to keep my mouth shut, but Kiana is way to smart for me.
"What's the problem, Air Force?"
"Someone watching, just for a second. Gone now."
She stops, and together we search for blond, but neither of us gets a hit, so it's run back home, eat, shower, and take off for our respective missions. Kiana dropping me at LAX and then heading north. I get a brief feeling that someone was watching as we drove into the employee lot, but it also was gone as fast as it came. Beginning to think I am just paranoid.
In to the dispatch office, the usual witty repartee with Taylor, who, I forgot to mention, started dating one of the new captains about the point that Kiana and I got together. She gave me the big "it's not working out" speech, saving me the trouble. We get to stay friends easier this way too, so long as I don't bring up the MFM.
Ride out to the gate with Captain Don the Perfectionist and a group of flight attendants I have worked with many times, and who, like me, understand that the trip will be a set of instructions from our by the book captain. They, unlike me, can largely ignore them and do their jobs their way once we lock our cockpit door.
He has a procedure which I think is just for me, which involves turning off my phone, and putting it in my bag which he will take on board while I do the walk around.
With all of the flying and crop destruction that has filled my nights, basic piloting is the most normal part of my life. I check the tires and brakes, pitots, engines, wings, static dischargers, skid pad, APU, and every other part of the aircraft carefully, partly so that I can describe what I did to the captain, but partly because it's a real, professional duty, unlike ripping up poppies.
Climb the stairs two at a time, happy. Walk onto the flight deck, check that my bag is stowed, then squeeze into my seat, buckle up, and prepare to answer. The captain runs through his special checklist, making sure I did everything just the way he wanted. Never occurs to him that I am a professional nodder, or that I just might have done a few things my way. I know, childish.
I double check his work, which is always perfect. I dream of the day I discover an error on his part, but I don't think it likely, given my count down. The flight management computer has our correct flight plan, the fueler has filled us not quite to the brim, and the switches are all where they are supposed to be.
The chief flight attendant says the cabin is ready, we get push back clearance from the ground controller. The little tractor nudges and soon we are tail end toward the terminal. Start number two, turn off the auxiliary power unit, then start engine one.
The captain always taxis, I always work the radio until we get lined up for takeoff. I get us taxi clearance, Bravo to 2-4 right, fourth in line this morning. No chatter from the captain, maintaining the "sterile cockpit" that we're supposed to have. Run the before takeoff checklist on the way.
Finally, it's "position and hold," we get lined up on the runway.
"Mountain 4-6-1, wind two five zero at five, cleared for takeoff 2-4 right."
"Cleared to go, Mountain 4-6-1."
Now we roll, the captain steering until we hit 80 knots, then it's my bird. As with everything else, he expects formality.
Me: "80 knots."
Him: "Your controls, my communications."
Me: "My controls"
Silence falls for a few seconds. I have my left hand on the throttles, right on the yoke, accelerating toward a 170 knot takeoff speed.
"V1," technically necessary to call, but it's not really, no pause before the captain says "Rotate."
I move my hand from the throttles to the yoke, pull back a practiced distance, and we leave the ground just as the captain calls "V2."
Him: "Positive rate."
Me: "Gear up."
Him: "Gear up," while he reaches over, pulls the gear lever out and up.
The computer has our speed, I am steering, and we are working on altitude together for now. I'm about to call for flaps one when the aircraft shakes violently, left wing dropping, I counteract, level us, just in time for all hell to break loose.
"
Fire! Fire! Fire!"
It's a mechanical voice, screaming at us. Red lights in a half a dozen places if we didn't get it the first time.
