Chapter 8: Flights

The 747 cargo flight carrying survey equipment and stores left that mid-afternoon. Michael put on aircrew flight coveralls, cleared New Zealand customs, and was aboard the huge airfreighter within an hour of his arrival at the airport in Charlie’s company van. Michael was flying as a representative of NZ Mineral Survey. He would assist with clearing the air freight inventory through Chilean customs and the signoff with the customer.

New Zealand departure was at 1300 hours local time. Arrival in Santiago, Chile was scheduled for 1200 hours Chilean time, with an expected flight time of thirteen hours. It would be the same day on the calendar. Their flight would cross the international date line east of New Zealand.

Charlie was right. It was a long and uncomfortable flight. Mike did manage to snatch brief naps before his chin bouncing off his chest and an aching neck woke him up, bleary-eyed and stiff. He made himself useful by brewing fresh coffee in the galley and running refills to the flight crew.

He expected that Charlie’s connection with the air freighter had gotten him cleanly away from Christchurch without leaving an easy trail for the agency to pick up. He knew they’d eventually persuade New Zealand authorities to release passport clearances, and that would put them hot on his trail. He hoped be at least a day or two ahead of them so they’d not intercept him as he made his way back to the states.

His leg ached something fierce, but it had healed well. He needed only to continue the stretching and strengthening exercises his therapist had shown him. He couldn’t do much more than extend his leg and lift it while seated in the 747’s jump seat. He did work it a little to prevent stiffness and cramping.

They landed right on time at noon local Chilean time after an overnight flight. They cleared the freight through customs, and he assisted with the customer’s freight check-off. He barely had time to clear himself through arrivals and see about a flight into the U.S.

He was in luck. A national airline had an early morning departure that would get him to Denver with three layovers. That would give the agency a headache if they were attempting to intercept him. He caught his flight from Santiago at 0745 the next morning, and arrived two hours later at Lima, Peru. After a brief layover, he hopped to San Jose, Costa Rica, arriving in early afternoon. A layover gave him time for a leisurely early supper. He caught his next leg at 1600 and arrived in Houston, Texas four hours later.

He had an hour to clear U.S. customs, and catch a flight to Denver International. He reached Denver at 2230 hours. It was the same crowded, noisy, wearying experience all airport arrivals suffer. He retrieved his duffle from the baggage carousel and stuffed the small carry-on bag with his precious netbook into it. He slung the bag from his shoulder, seaman style, and walked briskly to the nearest taxi stand.

A cab took him to a motel room in Denver. In the morning he would find a used car lot and buy something plain, probably a three or four-year old pickup that nobody would notice.

He would drive secondary highways from Denver to Idaho Falls, Idaho, and follow the county and national forest roads to Salmon where Rhys had his mining office. The thorianite crystals would be packed and waiting. Mike very much needed to rest for a few days. He’d need a few more days to make arrangements to get himself and his precious cargo back into Marie Byrd Land under the agency radar.

Sleep came quickly, dreamlessly. Michael was totally exhausted. He could not know that a single bizarre event—the penguin and the cylinder—had triggered an international manhunt. He was wanted.

Tracking

“Here’s the way it happened, as near as I can tell. Witnesses at the hospital say they saw a scruffy seaman with a sea bag over his shoulder walk out through the main doors. Some said he had a slight limp. Apparently nobody thought much of it, although they couldn’t explain why a visitor would be carrying a sea bag. They assumed he was a discharged patient leaving with his personal gear.

“Our two guys keeping an eye on Hawthorne assumed he wouldn’t be discharged for another two days, or at least until the end of the week. They weren’t paying much attention.

“I’ve got them doing the usual: checking flight departures, showing his mug shot around, checking with cabs who answered calls to the hospital, that sort of thing, but I’m sure we won’t get a hit there. I have to assume he’s got some contacts. He might have gotten lucky. Until we can establish otherwise, we’ll just have to assume he’s still in the country. I’ll have our two careless clowns working their tails off to run him down.”

Agent Barringer closed his cell phone. The deputy director was not a happy man, but there was little to do now but find Hawthorne.

Barringer did have one ace up his sleeve, but he’d prefer to use it quietly. It would be best not to tell the deputy director. Plausible deniability still counted for a great deal, when the smelly stuff hit the rotary spreader. It was time to call in a small favor.

“Yeh, Petey, their passport exit list. From the day before yesterday until current departures. It will have to be under his real name, because that’s the only passport he has. He’s not a spook, so he won’t have any alias documents. Call me the minute you get something.”

Peterson “Petey” Albright was an agency specialist. He was also one of the best hackers Steve had run across. Oddly enough, the two men had a deep respect and affinity for each other, despite quite different personalities. Steve was a grim, doggedly persistent, and stubborn extrovert. Once he focused on something, he wouldn’t let go. Petey was also stubborn, except he was a studiously introspective, intellectually persistent puzzle solver who refused to let barriers get between himself and answers.

The two men exchanged favors on a regular basis. This time it was Steve: he needed a back door into the New Zealand customs and immigration database. It was unlikely that Hawthorne failed to get a proper departure stamp in his passport; it would make entrance into another country, especially the United States, extremely difficult. If he’d gotten a New Zealand departure clearance, Petey would find it.

“He cleared at the Christchurch freight terminal the day before yesterday. I followed up on the records, and here’s the info: he’s listed as a shipment liaison for...” What followed was the company, the flight, destination, and scheduled arrival time in Santiago, Chile.

“Thanks, Petey. I owe you a big one!” Steve hung up, called off his two gophers, and sent them to catch a flight to Santiago.

“He’ll most likely be heading for the States. Odds are excellent that he’ll fly commercial. Show his mug shot around, interview the ticket agents, and you’ll get a hit. Call me with the details when you get them. I’m going back to D.C. to catch up on reports. Catch a flight to D.C. after you get Hawthorne’s moves pinned down.”

All the way back to Washington on the long, boring flight, Barringer tried to reason what had lit a fire under Hawthorne’s tail. What had him running? Did he overhear something? Did something alert him to the agency’s order to detain him for questioning? There was no question that Hawthorne was running. He’d escaped the hospital and gotten away on a flight, arranged hastily through personal connections.

What really mattered was the unknown: what was pushing Hawthorne? Where was he going? When he got there, what would he do? Hawthorne had to know that the agency wouldn’t stop until they ran him down. They’d hold him and wring every last scrap of information, whatever the hell it was, out of him!

Think, man, think! Where the hell would he go that he could hang out, long term, but not where we’d find him? Barringer eased back against his reclined seat, closed his eyes, and began running Hawthorne’s most likely hideouts through his mind.

Mike found a decent enough pickup truck the next day. He stopped at a branch bank during the test drive and withdrew enough cash to pay for the truck and his travel expenses. He was halfway across Wyoming by early evening. He would be in Idaho Falls the next evening. He would call his foster mother in Twin Falls. Martha Jacobs was his best friend’s mother. She’d assumed custody of him when he’d lost his parents.

He would call Rhys to confirm that the crystals were crated and secured.

He dare not go to Twin Falls where he’d lived for most of his growing-up years. He could too easily be traced there. He didn’t want to make it easy for the agency. He knew they’d be after him. He would stay gone until he finished what he’d started.

The coded message to the old man’s terminal was explicit. The subject had disappeared from the hospital. Many questions had been asked, so others were looking for him. Two known U.S. agency men were involved in the search. They flew to Santiago, Chile. The subject caught a regional carrier connecting to Denver, the final stop. The trail stopped there.

Very well, he thought. You run. They chase. So ... what now? You will not go home. No, you will not let the agency snare you at home where they would first look. So, who are your friends? Where would they be? Where will you come to rest?

He stared toward the dull gray sky through the window-wall in his high-ceiling office, thinking ... thinking. He asked his assistant to call up a mapping program on a huge screen on the opposite wall. “Come, Pietor, let us study this remote Idaho area. Let us see where each of his known friends live and work. Perhaps we will learn something...”

Twin Falls, Idaho is not a large city. It is a fair-sized town serving an agribusiness economy. Situated on the high Snake River plateau, one of its more distinguishing features is the deep Snake River canyon on its north side, cut through thousands of feet of lava strata.

A stranger with a big handshake, a warm smile, and a wad of hundred-dollar bills approached Jimmy Wakely at his favorite tavern one weekday just after work. Jimmy usually stopped there to enjoy a draft beer or two before going home.

“You’ll be doing your country a big favor, and we’ll reward you for your time and trouble. We need to monitor some calls. The liberal judges and their ACLU friends hate to help us run down our enemies. We have reason to think that vital information might come through...”

Jimmy never gave it a second thought. He worked with the switching banks. He could hide a tap and a wireless link with no chance of being caught. It would stay until he was asked to remove it. Again, no problem. There was precious little security at this rural installation and he had free run of the place. The stack of fifty $100 bills was nice! He could trade his tired 4WD rig for that hot new extended cab model he’d been eyeing. By damn, a new rig, for his varmint shooting out in the desert. Life was sweet!