“We’re bound for Antarctica and we’re gonna kick ass,” Garrett announced. “If we don’t come back, then we died doing what we loved.”
Leah smiled but inside she wondered whether his words would come back to haunt them.
CHAPTER 25
Jack watched the Boeing 737 holding short on the taxiway as a single-engine Beechcraft Bonanza crossed the runway threshold and touched down at Westchester County Airport. A moment later, the commercial airliner taxied into position on the runway and “poured the coal to it,” as Paulson liked to say.
It was a classic late fall in the Northeast. There were still a few brilliantly colored leaves clinging to the branches of the trees bordering the airport property. The next storm would bring snow, he thought. Not a choking blizzard common at his home in Lake Tahoe, but a soft, almost gentle dusting, as if to give notice to New Englanders it was time to pull out the sleds, but not quite time to use them.
A tap on the shoulder startled Jack. He turned around to find the grinning face of Mac Ridley.
“When I was a kid,” Ridley said, “I could sit near an airport and watch those planes take off and land all day long.”
“It’s still a mystery to me how pilots manage to get airliners down in one piece.”
“That’s nothing,” said Ridley, “compared to slamming a jet fighter onto the deck of a pitching aircraft carrier. Damn if I still don’t get a thrill watching carrier operations, even if it’s just on TV.”
“Al told me he was a Navy fighter pilot and saw combat in the first gulf war, but he didn’t say a lot about it.”
“That’s because it brings back bad memories for both of us.”
“You were in the Navy?”
“That’s how I met Paulson. He’d fly one of my beautiful hornets back toward the ship all shot up and then crash land it on the deck. My guys would have to patch it up, and twelve hours later he’d be back in the air. I was the master chief in charge of maintenance on an air wing.” The old mechanic cracked a smile. “I might tease Paulson about auguring in but he’s still one of the best pilots I’ve ever seen, and fearless. I saw him bring that bird back aboard on a black stormy night that had squadron commanders shaking in their flight suits.”
Ridley leaned against the chain-link fence providing security for the active runways and taxiways. “Two had already attempted to come aboard. Each had boltered — missed the wires that catch the airplane. They were both diverted to Saudi. Damn if Paulson didn’t call the ball cool as a cucumber and ride straight down to the deck. Caught a ‘Three Wire’ on his first pass. You’d think he’d climb out of the cockpit and give that greasy deck a big kiss, but no, he was chatting and laughing like he’d just taken a stroll in the park.”
“When did you go to work for Paulson Global?”
“I finished up my twenty years and went to work for United Airlines doing maintenance in Chicago. I happened to be at an airplane auction at the EEA show in Oshkosh and saw this familiar figure looking over a vintage North American P-51 Mustang.” Ridley’s face creased into a grin. “Clearly this guy doesn’t know shit about what he’s looking at or he’d have seen right away this P-51 had been ground-looped a few too many times. So before he writes a check for damn near a million bucks, I go over and let him know he’s about to be suckered. Paulson is about to tell me to mind my own business when I pull up my cap. Damn if his eyes don’t grow to the size of a Buick’s hubcaps. After I give him and everyone else standing around a rundown on what’s wrong with that warbird, he buys the crate for five hundred thousand. Then he tells me I’m hired to get it into shape, along with the three other junk fighters he’d already paid too much for.”
“That was the beginning of Paulson’s Strategic Air Command?”
“That’s right,” Ridley said, “and since then it’s been all downhill.” He laughed and Jack chuckled along with him.
“I don’t like this bomber salvage idea,” Ridley said in a serious tone. “I want to tell you that right up front. I agreed to take it on because I know how much Paulson wants that aircraft.” The mechanic hesitated. “I need to know what the hell is going on beyond the attempted salvage of that ancient piece of shit.”
Jack shrugged. “If we have time, we’ll climb Thor’s Hammer.”
“I know a bullshit story when I hear one. I’ve seen the personnel manifest. You’re not bringing along your wife for a second honeymoon.” Ridley pointed back toward the hangar. “When I asked Paulson, he about choked himself to death with a coughing spell.”
Jack hesitated and then looked at the grizzled mechanic. “Okay, Mac. Here’s the deal.”
After he finished telling Ridley about the Native American cliff dwelling, the granite stones, and their possible tie-in with Thor’s Hammer, the mechanic leaned back against the chain link fence.
“So your trip down to Antarctica searching for Indian artifacts has turned into one hell of a mess and your wife and her buddies are smack in the middle of it.”
“If our transportation can’t get a new motor in place within the next few days, it’s moot.”
The thump of a helicopter’s rotor blades closing in on the hangars turned both men’s heads. The blue and gold of the Bell Jet helicopter’s fuselage confirmed what they already knew. Paulson was inbound and ready to go over the details of the expedition — what few were in place.
The two men walked toward the helipad and waved as Paulson bounded out of the executive helicopter wearing a gray suit with a soft-sided bag over his shoulder. His tie whipped around his neck in the rotor blast, and he ran in a crouch out from underneath the twirling blades. He greeted them with a wide smile and placed his arms around both their shoulders.
“I hope you guys have good news, because I’m enjoying a real shitty day.”
Ridley pushed through the doors and ushered them into the offices of Paulson’s Strategic Air Command, where he poured cups of coal-black coffee. The office was simple compared to the suites downtown, but well appointed for the flying environment. Pictures of vintage fighters and bombers of all types and nationalities decorated the stark white walls, and on a small conference table, several classic aircraft instruments sat inside a bowl sculpted out of aluminum aircraft skin.
“How’s it going with the outfit flying us?” Paulson sipped the acid-brew coffee out of a Styrofoam cup.
“You mean InterGalactic?” Jack said dryly. “I spoke with them yesterday. They seemed to be making headway with the engine after I wired them two hundred grand.”
“Ouch….” The billionaire feigned surprise. “How much more do we owe these guys?”
“Another two hundred thousand,” Jack replied. “And gas….”
Paulson looked at Ridley. “Maybe you should fly out there and give them a hand. I wouldn’t mind if someone I trusted had a good look-see at that flying relic.”
“That’s probably the only smart idea that’s going to come of this meeting,” Ridley said. “I’ll fly one of our charters out tomorrow. Maybe I ought to pack all the tools we’re gonna need and take them along. The way you guys are talking, seems we’re on a tight schedule.”
“Paulson’s eyes opened wide and he nearly spilled the half-empty cup of coffee. “Damn, that reminds me. I’ve got to have Karen cancel that network morning show appearance for tomorrow morning.
“Morning show?”
Paulson nodded. “I told ‘em I’d spend five minutes regaling them with the story of our Everest climb.” He grinned. “Hell, you can’t buy that kind of good publicity; take a look at Trump.”
Paulson slipped his smart phone out of a breast pocket. “I’ll have to reschedule. Karen can make up some cock and bull story about a business deal closing or something.” After speaking into the phone he slipped it back into his coat. “How are you doing with those satellite photographs?”