53
Peter Tippett and
Mark Stern stood next to a shack at the end of an airstrip cutting
through pines in the Virginia countryside, watching Peter Tippett
& Associates’ Gulfstream III appear from the shimmering heat
like a mirage. It descended quickly, touching down and rolling to a
stop twenty yards away from the two men.
“The company usually
keeps the jet parked at Manassas Jet Center,” explained Peter, “but
we occasionally have it flown here and then switch pilots before
proceeding to our final destination.”
“But you’re just a
security consultant, for crying out loud,” said Mark.
“True, but our
clients don’t really want their competition, some of whom are
foreign governments, to know that they’re using our services. I can
promise you that those who hire us are under a great deal of
scrutiny. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t need us in the first
place. It behooves us to play matters close to the
vest.”
A pilot, a young man
in his early thirties, climbed down the short stairs that unfolded
from the fuselage.
“It’s all yours, Mr.
Tippett.”
“Thanks, Rick.
There’s a pick-up parked next to the radio tower behind the control
shack so you can get back to D.C.”
Mark turned around
and saw a building that looked like a utility shed. “You mean that
someone in there controls all takeoffs and landings?”
Peter smiled. “A
single controller is all I need to help me know what’s in the
airspace within fifty miles of this location.”
“You’re going to fly
us to Panama?”
“You want a
qualified pilot, don’t you?”
Mark laughed.
“You’ve been flying a long time?”
“I was a pilot in
the Royal Air Force, my good fellow. Flew Harrier Jump Jets with
Prince Andrew in the Falklands, as a matter of fact.”
“Enough said. Let’s
go.”
Mark and Peter
climbed aboard. Moments later, they were airborne, the Gulfstream
banking gently as it climbed and headed south through wispy
clouds.
Peter sat at the
controls of the Gulfstream with Mark strapped into the copilot’s
seat. There had been little turbulence thus far, and they now
cruised at twenty-five thousand feet over the Gulf of Mexico. Peter
threw a few switches and banked sharply to the left, causing Mark
to look at his pilot.
“What was that
about?”
“Hopefully,
nothing.”
“We’re climbing
again?”
Peter didn’t answer
as he banked sharply to the right.
“Hey,” said Mark. “I
don’t usually get airsick, but you left my stomach a few miles back
there.”
“Sorry. It appears
we have a shadow.”
“We’re being
followed?”
“That’s the most
logical conclusion. Could be a refection off the clouds below—even
a flock of birds—but my guess is that we’re being tailed by a small
private plane.”
“What are we going
to do?”
“Remember that this
plane is owned by my company. It has a few gadgets the FAA doesn’t
even know about.”
“Such
as?”
“This certainly
isn’t a stealth aircraft, but I can jam the radar of military jets
if necessary.” Grinning, Peter looked at Mark. “I don’t think we’re
being pursued by a military jet, so he doesn’t have fire system
radar. The pilot is almost certainly following our civilian
transponder, which I can turn off at any time I choose and switch
to a military channel. And I most definitely choose.”
Peter turned a dial
in the center of the cockpit and descended into a thick cloudbank
below. Once hidden, he changed course, flying due east for five
miles before turning south again.
“So?”
“No more shadow,”
said Peter.
“Where are we going
to set this baby down?” asked Mark.
“Obviously someone
has an idea where we’re going despite diverting the Gulfstream to
your private strip before takeoff.”
“We don’t know that
for sure. Regardless, there’s a deserted strip in Panama. A Jeep
will meet us, and we’ll drive a hundred miles or so to reach
Pedregal.”
“That’s just
great.”
“I thought reporters
had a spirit of adventure.”
“The New York
subways give me all the adrenaline I need.”
“We’ll also be
wearing what’s in the carry-on back in the cabin.”
Mark got up, made
his way past two rows of light brown leather seats, and saw a black
canvas bag sitting next to a row of very sophisticated electronic
equipment. Unzipping the bag, he saw dark green camouflage outfits,
berets, and aviator sunglasses.
“You gotta be
kidding,” Mark said when he returned to the cockpit. “We’re going
to impersonate Panamanian soldiers?”
“We can’t very well
walk into Transpac and announce ourselves as Mark Stern and Peter
Tippett, now can we?”
“I try to help out
an old girlfriend,” Mark muttered, “and now I’m staring at a firing
squad in Central America if we’re caught.”
“It’s not so bad
down there,” said Peter. “They actually treat condemned prisoners
very well in Panama.”
“I don’t even want
to know how you know that,” said Mark.
The plane emerged
from the clouds, the blue waters of the Gulf far
below.