landing lights came on. There were two sets, almost directly above them, climbing. The runway lights came on next.
“They’re landing,” said Gartner, thinking aloud.
Mrs Sorwick stood beside him. “Do planes usually fly like that? With their lights off?”
“No,” Gartner replied, uneasy about it, same as she was. He hid it with shrug. “But I’m sure there’s a good reason – emergency training procedures …” Of course, that was complete fabrication.
Mrs Sorwick changed the subject. “So, I checked the weather in Florida and looks like it’s going to be hot, steamy and overcast. I hope that doesn’t affect the flight home.”
“No, but it’s going to provide plenty of excuses for ice cream,” Gartner ventured.
“Trust me, our kids don’t need any excuses when it comes to ice cream.”
Gartner glanced across at the Winjeel and the Lear, the refueling truck having finished with the old RAAF trainer and starting to move. The pilot was in the truck, hitching a ride somewhere. Gartner noticed a lightening in the eastern sky, the black sliding into a thin dark-blue band at the horizon. Time was marching on. He’d happily stand around for hours doing small talk with Gail Sorwick, but duty called. He wondered where Macey had gone. “Well, you’ll have to excuse me, ma’am. Gotta go do my thing.”
“Sure,” she said. “When can we come aboard?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Mrs Sorwick gave him a nod and went back to the Suburban to organize the kids, World War III having broken out between them and their father.
Gartner walked to the Lear. The landing lights of inbound aircraft were now lined up with the runway – the mystery turboprops. One was a mile out, the other two miles behind it. “Bobbie?” he called out. Silence. He went past the back of the Lear to the edge of the ramp. Perhaps Macey had gone for a walk in the desert. He scanned the darkness for signs of her, but there weren’t any.
The first aircraft touched down, its propeller blades snarling when reverse thrust was selected. It slowed quickly, using very little runway, and turned off onto the taxiway. The second aircraft landed moments later, as economical as the first in the amount of runway used. Gartner focused on the plane coming toward him, wondered what type it was and who might be at the controls. The mystery only deepened when the lead aircraft was close enough for him to get a good look at it. A King Air. It was painted a dull, flat black all over. The second aircraft, also a King Air, had caught up to the lead plane and he saw that it, too, was painted up just like the first: black.
This little airport was suddenly getting busy. A large truck had pulled up behind the Suburban, which the Sorwicks were in the process of moving to a spot around the back of the parking lot. The air was now full of turboprop noise, and beams from the two sets of landing lights. The aircraft came off the taxiway and continued on past the Lear and the Winjeel. The lead King Air turned ninety degrees so that it faced the access road and the truck parked on it, extinguished its lights and shut down the engines. The second aircraft pulled up beside the first and its lights and engines died. The deafening roar of the turboprops ceased almost immediately and simultaneously, replaced by a whoosh of the windmilling blades. Despite the imminent arrival of dawn, the two aircraft on the ramp were congealed remnants of midnight.
The sudden silence increased Gartner’s unease. Where the hell was Macey? She was ex-military. Maybe she could explain this. He took the cell phone out of his pocket and was about to speed-dial her when the door behind the cockpit of the lead aircraft opened, the action mirrored by the King Air behind it. Ladders came down. And then men spilled out of the first aircraft. Gartner swallowed. They were all wearing ski masks and carrying guns.
They fanned out across the ramp. Some were shouting. And before Gartner could
“They’re landing,” said Gartner, thinking aloud.
Mrs Sorwick stood beside him. “Do planes usually fly like that? With their lights off?”
“No,” Gartner replied, uneasy about it, same as she was. He hid it with shrug. “But I’m sure there’s a good reason – emergency training procedures …” Of course, that was complete fabrication.
Mrs Sorwick changed the subject. “So, I checked the weather in Florida and looks like it’s going to be hot, steamy and overcast. I hope that doesn’t affect the flight home.”
“No, but it’s going to provide plenty of excuses for ice cream,” Gartner ventured.
“Trust me, our kids don’t need any excuses when it comes to ice cream.”
Gartner glanced across at the Winjeel and the Lear, the refueling truck having finished with the old RAAF trainer and starting to move. The pilot was in the truck, hitching a ride somewhere. Gartner noticed a lightening in the eastern sky, the black sliding into a thin dark-blue band at the horizon. Time was marching on. He’d happily stand around for hours doing small talk with Gail Sorwick, but duty called. He wondered where Macey had gone. “Well, you’ll have to excuse me, ma’am. Gotta go do my thing.”
“Sure,” she said. “When can we come aboard?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Mrs Sorwick gave him a nod and went back to the Suburban to organize the kids, World War III having broken out between them and their father.
Gartner walked to the Lear. The landing lights of inbound aircraft were now lined up with the runway – the mystery turboprops. One was a mile out, the other two miles behind it. “Bobbie?” he called out. Silence. He went past the back of the Lear to the edge of the ramp. Perhaps Macey had gone for a walk in the desert. He scanned the darkness for signs of her, but there weren’t any.
The first aircraft touched down, its propeller blades snarling when reverse thrust was selected. It slowed quickly, using very little runway, and turned off onto the taxiway. The second aircraft landed moments later, as economical as the first in the amount of runway used. Gartner focused on the plane coming toward him, wondered what type it was and who might be at the controls. The mystery only deepened when the lead aircraft was close enough for him to get a good look at it. A King Air. It was painted a dull, flat black all over. The second aircraft, also a King Air, had caught up to the lead plane and he saw that it, too, was painted up just like the first: black.
This little airport was suddenly getting busy. A large truck had pulled up behind the Suburban, which the Sorwicks were in the process of moving to a spot around the back of the parking lot. The air was now full of turboprop noise, and beams from the two sets of landing lights. The aircraft came off the taxiway and continued on past the Lear and the Winjeel. The lead King Air turned ninety degrees so that it faced the access road and the truck parked on it, extinguished its lights and shut down the engines. The second aircraft pulled up beside the first and its lights and engines died. The deafening roar of the turboprops ceased almost immediately and simultaneously, replaced by a whoosh of the windmilling blades. Despite the imminent arrival of dawn, the two aircraft on the ramp were congealed remnants of midnight.
The sudden silence increased Gartner’s unease. Where the hell was Macey? She was ex-military. Maybe she could explain this. He took the cell phone out of his pocket and was about to speed-dial her when the door behind the cockpit of the lead aircraft opened, the action mirrored by the King Air behind it. Ladders came down. And then men spilled out of the first aircraft. Gartner swallowed. They were all wearing ski masks and carrying guns.
They fanned out across the ramp. Some were shouting. And before Gartner could