"We've been stuck here an extra day." Scott stared at their Caravan for a moment and then looked down the regional airport runway. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready to continue the search. Need to find Farkas and the nukes."
She pondered the situation for a few seconds. "This low is a big system, part of three low-pressure areas mingled together."
"I know, saw it on the Weather Channel."
"And it's not going away anytime in the near future," she added, in a slightly guarded voice.
Scott didn't respond.
"You're the chief," she conceded. "You make the call on this one."
"As long as we have reasonable visibility, we can motor along at seventy-five to eighty knots and take our sweet time."
Without hesitation, she popped the car door open. "Then let's load our gear and get on with the program."
He reached for the door handle, sensing Jackie's uneasiness. "If it gets too bad, we'll pick up a clearance and go to Salt Lake City."
"Sounds good to me."
Once their luggage, coffee, and doughnuts were aboard the airplane, Jackie turned in their rental car. Scott oversaw the refueling of the Caravan and completed a thorough walk-around while Jackie climbed into the airplane.
Scott slipped into the left seat, ran the checklist, and started the turboprop. "We barely have minimums for VFR."
Her finely drawn brow arched. "I'd say that's an honest assessment. We haven't filed a flight plan either."
"Thats because we dont know where were going to land or how many times we re going to stop," he said, before calling Ground Control for permission to taxi. Once they were airborne, Scott raised the landing gear and leveled the Caravan below the dark clouds.
With pen in hand, Jackie closely studied the sectional chart. "It looks like we could check Logan and then start our grid search, providing we have the visibility"
"Okay." He glanced at the GPS, lowered the flaps, and began slowing the Caravan. At 80 knots indicated airspeed, a computer-generated voice announced a warning. "Gear down for runway landing."
"Ah, yes indeed, you have a backup," Jackie said, noticing the flashing annunciator light on the panel. "Marine proof."
When they were a few miles west of Preston, Idaho, the sky to the south and west began to get darker, much darker. Scott turned eastbound while Jackie called the Boise Flight Service Station for a weather update.
"Logan has gone below minimums," she announced. "Pocatello is going down too. Our options are shrinking."
Scott added power and raised the flaps. "Well, this isn't going to work VFR, not in the direction we need to go." He studied the chart for a moment. "We're only a few miles from Bear Lake." He checked to make sure the landing gear was up. "We'll put down there, throw out the anchor, and have our breakfast."
Jackie was dubious about landing on a lake in this kind of weather, but she kept her feelings to herself. They flew low over the Cache National Forest and began their approach to the lake.
Scott keyed the marine radio. "Bear Lake traffic, Caravan amphibian on a right base for a landing to the west."
There was no response.
"Probably no one out on a day like this," he said, needing to hear the reassurance of his own voice.
Jackie remained quiet. Let's go to Salt Lake.
The drizzle had turned to steady rain and the visibility was rapidly deteriorating. Scott selected full flaps and began reducing power. Because he was barely able to see the surface of the lake, he began slowing his rate of descent when the radar altimeter hit 200 feet. A few seconds later the aural warning sounded, prompting him to quickly recheck the landing gear.
"Scott, I think we should climb out of here and pick up a clearance to Salt Lake — anywhere." She was straining to see through the rain-soaked windshield.
"Hang on, were almost there."
He was totally concentrating on setting up for the landing flare when the satellite phone rang. At the same instant, a pair of stunned fishermen in a small fishing boat appeared in the Caravans wide windshield. While the panicked, wide-eyed anglers dove to the floor of their boat, Scott simultaneously pulled on the yoke and shoved the thrust lever forward. Violently rocking the small craft with prop wash, the amphibian skimmed over the top of the boat and began climbing.
Scott milked the flaps up. "I think that's a great idea."
"What?"
"A clearance to somewhere — anywhere."
"No kidding," Jackie said, as she answered the satellite phone. She asked Frank Wakefield to hold for a moment.
Scott banked into a spiraling ascent. "We'll take direct to Salt Lake."
She nodded and checked in with the controller. With an instrument clearance in hand, and the plane climbing to altitude under radar contact, Jackie spoke with Wakefield and wrote a few notes on the aeronautical chart. She signed off and placed the satellite phone down.
Scott's adrenaline was returning to normal. "What's up?"
"Well, things are beginning to get hot. There's been a flurry of activity here in the Northwest."
"What kind of activity?"
"The National Security Agency has been intercepting phone calls and messages from Europe and the Middle East to a number of individuals in the northwestern states."
"Anything on Farkas?"
"He didn't mention anything. The intercepts indicate that the cells are being activated. They are beginning to assemble in groups. Wakefield's people are investigating a number of reports. He wants us to check out a situation that popped up early this morning."
"Where?"
"Just a second." She paused to answer a radio call from Salt Lake Center and then turned to Scott. "The FBI received a tip from some guy who overheard a drunk in a bar late last night, actually at one o'clock this morning."
Scott shook his head. "A tip from a guy in a bar after midnight?"
"That's right. The guy was apparently bragging about getting a thousand dollars in cash for renting a houseboat, in his name, for two men."
"The significance?"
"According to the informant, who has been thoroughly checked out, the drunk claimed the men were Middle Easterners."
"Where, what lake?"
"Lake Mead."
"Has there been anything strange, anything out of the ordinary, going on in the Lake Mead area?"
"There have been reports of Middle Eastern types around the lake. The men, assumed to be the two who paid the guy to rent the houseboat, have been seen before at different areas on the lake."
Scott carefully adjusted the power and trimmed the airplane. "Wakefield wants us to see if we can locate them?"
"He doesn't want us to spook them." Jackie's expression reflected her concern. "Wakefield says they want us to isolate them."
"Do we know their last location?" Scott glanced at the ominous clouds.
"They're somewhere in the southwest section of the lake. Wakefield's people don't want to move in until they've gleaned all the information they can get."
"Do you have a description?"
"There's a number, thirty-one, painted in bold black on the roof. The boat is one of the largest houseboats on the lake, so we don't have to dink with the small fries."
"Okay, we're on our way." He looked at the en-route chart. "Let's stay over in Salt Lake. We'll buy some fishing equipment, check the weather in the Boulder area, and get an early start in the morning."
"So, what's our plan?"
"Sit on the floats and fish, look natural and relaxed like we know what we're doing. We'll observe the houseboaters and stay in touch with Wakefield."
She folded the VFR chart. "Well-heeled anglers without a care in the world."
"Right. Need a couple of those Australian bush hats and some khaki vests adorned with fishing lures."
"Do you even know how to fish?" she asked skeptically Scott chuckled. "You underestimate me."