The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) (48 page)

“They were,” Jack said, heading to the makeshift bar. “But they’d made the reservation just the day before, and reconfirmed it just before Pete and Linda were set to depart. The phone numbers in
Galveston
were nonexistent.”

“Hm. Does anybody know whether or not they were actually picked up?”

“Yeah; Pete called FlxAir base after they departed
Galveston. Sy Szymanski, the Chief Pilot, talked to him.”

“On VHF?”

“No, single side band.”

“Oh, you guys have a single side band setup. I’m impressed.”

Jack smiled. “We had some clientele that insisted on it. Just as well; we’ll need it for Lear Jet operations.”

“Guess we’d better be pretty careful on checking clients’ information, too. I’d hate to see us getting into a situation like this one. You never know when somebody’s gonna come in off the street with a lawyer in tow, claiming to be a long-lost relative. Hey; now that I think of it, there’s another angle to this.”

“What’s that?”

“Now, I don’t want to go bashing your worthy clientele, but if Pete and Linda knew things that were potentially embarrassing about any of them, they could have unknowingly taken aboard two assassins, one or both of whom were also checked out on Albatrosses.” Holding one hand up in a “stop” gesture, Rick said, “I know it’s a stretch, but it’s a logical possibility.”

“Sure it is,” Jack scoffed. Another logical possibility would be that they were hijacked to
Cuba, or just on the spur of the moment decided to whip a 180 for a wild weekend in Vegas. Bottom line, the plane hasn’t turned up in either place, or any one of the other couple of hundred likely spots that the FAA, police and our insurance company have checked. I grant you that there’s an element of mystery in this, and our insurance company may end up holding the bag, but first these shadowy fishermen’ve got to be identified. Or found, in the case of your ‘they knew too much’ scenario.”

“So, ‘bottom line,’ as you say, what’s your best guess about what happened?”

“Good thing you put it that way, because that’s all anybody can do at this point; guess. My guess is that a fuel tank ruptured, and that led to a midair explosion.”

Rick looked at Jack with mild incredulity. “How does a fuel tank just ‘rupture’ all of a sudden? Is an Albatross really that fragile? They’re from the same outfit that Gene Debs used to call ‘The Grumman Iron Works,’ aren’t they?”

“None other. And no, they’re not at all fragile, at least in terms of FAA records. But every landing, particularly on water, stresses the hell out of the entire wing structure, the whole airframe for that matter, and quite a few FlxAir operations have called for water landings. That’s the total basis for my guesswork, but I think it’s a bit more logical than the other things we’ve been talking about.”

“And the Chief Pilot- Sy? Doesn’t have any information other than what we’ve been talking about?”

Jack smiled. “No. Don’t let that title fool you; it’s not that accurate any more. He checked Pete and Linda out in the Albatross, and he has a hell of a history with that bird. But as soon as they’d logged enough hours to be really proficient, Pete asked Sy to play a different role in the company. FlxAir’s immediate business’s been mostly government work, and a lot of that at night, and none of us wanted to put him in a hazardous situation at his age. None of us wanted to take the title away from him, so FlxAir’s chief pilot flies relief and maintenance hops now, and oversees maintenance in general. He’s never had a role in scheduling or customer contact. Now that we’re changing over to the Lear Jet, and if he handles the transition OK, he may start logging more hours.”

“You went past that ‘government’ part kind of quick, so I’m going to assume that the details of that work are none of my business.”

“Yep. So classified that I don’t even know much about it.”

“And you a company officer!”

“Well, when your fellow company officers wave the old ‘need to know’ flag at you, there’s not much you can say about it.”

Rick smashed his fist into his open hand. “Damn! It’s just so hard to believe that Linda’s gone, just like that. Pete, too, but I didn’t know him.”

So that’s what this has all been about, thought Jack; all it took for Linda to add his scalp to her collection was a gangbang with my aunt. That girl is truly something else. Forcing a straight face, he said, “Believe me, you’dve liked him, too. But they’re gone, buddy, and that’s that.”

“You’re that sure.”

“Zero doubt in my mind, and more to the point, the insurance company’s. All we can do is to hold them in fond remembrance and keep putting one foot in front of the other.”

Setting his drink on the night table between them, Rick leaned back on the bed, both hands thrust out behind him for support. “I feel fucking awful about the way things went that night in Bisque. Even before this happened, I felt like it changed things between you and me. Were you carrying much of a torch for her, as short a time as y’all knew each other?”

Jack shifted to his left side in order to look Rick in the eye. “No, that turned out to be Pete’s department. Turns out he’d known her before she married, and I guess the feeling was mutual. She left her old man for him, anyway. And as I told you that night in Bisque after we saw Trisha in Paschal’s, the only thing between us was planes, cars, motorcycles and a little sly, sexy fun. Well. I think I could use a little nap before we scout poolside again. This’d probably be a good afternoon to scout elsewhere, as a matter of fact. I’ve yet to introduce you to the Cavalcade of Dunces at the Condado Beach Hotel.”

On Wednesday of the following week, Rick stood in front of the Brownstone Holiday Inn in downtown
Raleigh, looking up and down
Hillsborough Street
for what Hunt had described as a “piss-yellow Fairlane rent-a-heap.” Spinning around at the sound of a horn-tap across the street, he nodded at the driver’s balding, sun-glassed visage and trotted through traffic across the street, hopping in beside Hunt, who put the car in motion before the door was shut. “Hiya, kid,” he said as he eased the car up to the 25-mile-an-hour speed limit. “Productive trip?”

“Only in the recreational sense,” Rick replied.

“In other words, your bosom pal’s convinced that the plane went down with all hands.”

“Absolutely. If he’d had any doubts, he’dve told me. We both knew the girl, and although he’d deny it, he’s still carrying a moderate-sized torch.”

Turning left on
Pullen Road, Hunt glanced at him with a slight smile. “Is she, ah, was she worth it?”

“On short acquaintance, I’d say so, yeah.”

Turning into the
North Carolina
State
University
campus, Hunt bridled a bit. “But he hasn’t gone celibate or anything like that, I presume?”

“No,” Rick said, grinning. “Nothing like that.”

Hunt was not to be further amused. “So in my report, I’m gonna say ‘Based on longtime personal friendship, CUTLASS-’ that’s you- ‘is of the absolutely firm opinion that RECON-’ that’s the fly-boy- ‘has no information or opinion concerning alternative fate of flight PINGPONG that would contradict final report of USCG SAR in any way.’ That about the size of it?”

“That’s about it; except for one thing.”

“What?”

“If I have to be named after a General Motors car, can you change it to NOMAD? I actually have one of them, and I’m partial to it.”

Maintaining an expression appropriate for
Mount Rushmore, Hunt said, “Too late; besides, with a specialty like yours, CUTLASS would seem to be far more appropriate, unless we reach back to Genghis Khan. You may have another one coming up, by the way.”

“WHAT? Before my class starts? You told me- “

“Simmer down. You held MY feet to the fire to recommend you for officer training, instead of being happy as a contractor, which in your case would have been far more rewarding financially. The situation I’m talking about probably won’t come up until sometime next year. Your class’ll be well along its way by then. You’ll be ‘sick’ for couple of days, then back in class just as if nothing ever happened. So just relax, pal. You’re well thought of in high places. Graduate engineer, excellent Spanish, Special Forces and a Bronze Star, on top of the fact that reliable people who are practitioners of your ‘specialty’ are goddamn hard to find.”

“Howard.”

“What?”

“You ever kill anybody?”

Bristling, Hunt replied, “That’s classified. Why do you ask?”

“Because killers, in my limited experience, don’t speak lightly of their ‘specialty,’ whether it’s their work or somebody else’s. When you say it, you could just as easily be saying ‘pimp,’ or ‘faro dealer.’”

Glancing quickly at his passenger, Hunt’s reply momentarily pitched up an octave, then dropped back down. “As you say, your experience is limited. If you’re planning on a career in the Company, I suggest that you keep speculation of that sort to yourself. Later, say after you’ve had a tour as a Station Chief, we might compare our contributions to the cause of freedom. That said, I had no intention of offending you. Fair enough?”

“OK,” Rick said with a tight smile, their eyes meeting for a moment before Hunt’s swung back to the street. “It’s just that if I have to order a killing, I’ll know firsthand what’s involved. Might make it easier to do, but then again if the person giving the order just has an abstract notion of what seeing the life go out of another person’s like, maybe that’s easier.”

Hunt stopped the car around the corner from the hotel’s main entrance. “One of the primary things you’ll learn in officer training is that ‘terminating with extreme prejudice’ is an absolute last resort to resolve any situation. The decision to undertake the exercise is arrived at through a detailed, multilayered process. The individual conveying the order to the operator is not, repeat NOT, responsible for making the decision. He or she may contribute to the process, but the responsibility rests with the State.”

“So, taking Harry Truman at his word, if the buck stops at the Oval Office, I terminated Underhill on the say-so of President Johnson.”

“If that’s the theory that’ll let you sleep tonight. I wouldn’t suggest sharing it with anyone.” Hunt punctuated the end of the conversation by pulling the Fairlane’s transmission lever down into DRIVE. “I’ll be in touch.” Pausing only to release a sulfurous fart, Rick got out of the car with no further comment, closing the door swiftly behind him. Hunt appeared to be shouting in his direction as he walked through the hotel’s side door.

“Hello.”

“Captain Terrell?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Harriet Wilson; I’m Mr. Helms’ assistant.”

“Oh, yes. How are you?”

“Just fine, thanks. Are your new quarters satisfactory?”

“Oh, sure.”

“I’m glad; Tabb’s a nice little town, isn’t it? Wish I lived that close to work. I’m calling about your appointment with Mr. Helms this coming Thursday.”

“Right. I’ll be there at
noon.”

“We’d like to change that time to
3:00, if you can make it. Mr. McCone’s out of town this week, and he’s asked Mr. Helms to stand in for him in the event that the Civil Rights Bill passes the House and goes to the President for his signature. The information that we have is that it’s likely to reach his desk on Thursday afternoon. If that’s accurate, and we believe it is, Mr. Helms thought that you’d like to go with him to the White House to see, in his words, ‘a significant piece of history being made.’”

“Damn! Oh, excuse me; ah, yes, of course. I’ll be there at
3:00. Please thank Mr. Helms for me. And thank you very much, Mrs. Wilson.”

Washington’s rush hour was already well underway at
3:00, so Rick and the CIA’s Deputy Director, Plans had ample time to get to know each other during their two-plus hour crawl to the White House. Helms, at the wheel of the off-white ’60 Olds 98 that Rick judged to be his own car, was all business. He confirmed Rick’s assumption that not every brand-new CIA officer candidate received a personal audience with the DDP. He’d wanted to meet Rick personally at the outset of his training, he said, just in case he was eliminated at some point in the process.

His use of the circumstances of his recruitment as a contract operator to enter officer training had gone against the grain, and the decision to accept him hadn’t been unanimous. As a matter of fact, it was made over the strenuous objections of some dedicated people who didn’t share Helms’s, or his boss’s, point of view. In the dispassionate tone that Rick would come to recognize as a Helms trademark, the DDP noted that the opposition of one or more of these veterans could well bite him on the ass at some point in his career.

That said, Helms congratulated him on the professional execution of his assignment. It hadn’t been his lot, in either the wartime
OSS
or in its eventual successor, CIA, to receive an assignment of that nature, but if it had been he’d like to think that his actions would have mirrored Rick’s. Given his performance, and his tenacity in pursuit of joining CIA’s officer ranks, Helms thought that he deserved an introduction to the President. Allen Dulles, Mr. McCone’s immediate predecessor as Director, Central Intelligence, had telephoned Mr. Watson, the President’s Appointments Secretary, this afternoon to request the highest possible priority for it.