“Shoot.”
“Should we concentrate on yachts in the one-hundred-foot-or-larger range, or should we check everything over fifty to sixty feet?”
“I’d say eighty feet and over,” he suggested. “It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think anything smaller would have the cruising range to make it across the South Atlantic.”
Jackie scanned the horizon. “Unless they installed extra fuel tanks.”
“That’s a possibility, but I think we should concentrate on the larger yachts on the way down. If we don’t have any luck, we’ll check the smaller boats on the way back.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The sun began inching above the horizon as they flew low over Biscayne Bay, then followed the intracoastal waterway past Soldier Key and Islandia.
“You might want to step up to five hundred feet,” Scott said as he studied a private airstrip east of Card Sound. “We’ll drop down again after we cross Highway One.”
She added power, then glanced back in both directions. “We’re venting fuel over the right wing.”
“I know. This thing has been sitting neglected for a long time and the fuel cap is slightly warped.”
“Well, that’s comforting news. I wonder what else is wrong with it?”
“Hey, if it craters, we’ll plop it on the water and find another ride.”
“Yeah,” Jackie said under her breath. “We haven’t crashed anything for almost a week.”
Ignoring her ribbing, Scott used the binoculars to study the Florida Keys as the coral-and-limestone islands and reefs curved southwesterly into the Gulf of Mexico. At this hour of the morning, traffic was light on the Overseas Highway that runs from the mainland to Key West, the southernmost settlement in the United States.
Flying over the emerald hues of Key Largo’s pristine waters, Scott searched for anything that looked suspicious, including large yachts, and homes on private islands.
“Okay, we can step down to three hundred feet.”
Jackie eased the nose down.
Scott focused his attention on Rock Harbor. “Let’s drift over by the ocean side and take a look.”
“Okay.”
Banking toward the Atlantic, Jackie surveyed the greenish blue seas. As the warm sun rose above the ocean, the sky turned azure and highlighted the clear waters and white sweeps of beach. The day promised unlimited visibility and typical balmy breezes.
Approaching Plantation Key, Scott focused his binoculars on a magnificent Hatteras motor yacht named Princess Fatiya. The passengers relaxing over breakfast on the aft deck were unquestionably of Middle Eastern lineage.
“How about a wide three-sixty to the left?” he asked as he reached for his Pentax. “I’m gonna snap a few pictures.”
“Coming around,” Jackie said as she checked for other aircraft. “See anything interesting?”
“I thought I did, but they have small children on board.”
She stretched to see over Scott’s shoulder. “It might be a ruse.”
“That’s possible, but I have my doubts.” He took a few more pictures as they completed the circle. “Terrorists don’t operate that way.”
Rolling out straight and level, Jackie glanced across a wide expanse of hazy green water. “Florida Bay looks pretty shallow.”
“It’s very shallow. Three to four feet in some places, and it’s full of coral that’ll tear the bottom out of a boat.”
Jackie looked west as far as she could see. “That explains why there aren’t any boats out there.”
“At least not any on the surface,” he declared with a grin.
Concentrating on the dock and ships at Plantation Key, Scott took numerous pictures of the million-dollar yachts. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything here. Terrorists aren’t into world-class sportfishing, or socializing over cocktails.”
Continuing southwest over a private seaplane base, they passed Islamorada, on Upper Matecumbe Key, then flew low over Craig and Long Key State Park. Scott photographed yachts and homes along the way and reloaded his camera as they neared Marathon, the largest town in the middle of the Keys.
“They have a nice airport here,” Scott said as he keyed the radio and gave an advisory call to other aircraft to report the Maule’s position and Jackie’s intentions.
“That looks interesting,” he said, pointing to a small island with a sprawling home on it.
“It sure does.”
“I’ll take it,” Scott advised as he assumed control of the airplane.
“You have it.”
“Complete with a seagoing megayacht,” Scott uttered as he banked the Maule to investigate the remote home. “They even have their own helicopter on the yacht.”
“That’s the only way to travel,” Jackie observed dryly.
Scott was intrigued by the impressive home. “Not a bad shack.”
Protected by a coral breakwater and a moat, the estate was situated in the middle of an acre of plush tropical landscaping. Surrounded by emerald-and-turquoise waters, the isolated home and both guest cottages appeared to be in excellent condition.
Caught off guard by the distant sound of an airplane, Massoud Ramazani barked commands to the men loading supplies on Bon Vivant. One of the team leaders quickly grabbed a tarp and covered two portable antiaircraft missiles lying in the bottom of a utility boat.
“Hurry,” Ramazani exclaimed as he rushed across the crowded dock. “Get out of sight!”
Within seconds, everyone disappeared inside the yacht or ran for cover inside the home. Wearing white slacks and a double-breasted blue blazer, Ramazani casually strolled onto the main deck of the yacht and walked toward the bow. He glanced up and smiled as the yellow-and-white floatplane banked overhead. Where’s the blue-eyed, blond-haired captain when I really need him?
With a show of lazy indifference, Ramazani cast a slow glance at the Maule and waved in a cordial manner.
“Jackie,” Scott said as he studied the man on the yacht. “Do you see anything unusual?”
Her eyes narrowed when she noticed the rows of unweathered wood at one end of the pier. “It looks as if they’ve recently extended the dock to accommodate the yacht.”
“Yeah, like in the last month or so.” He gently rocked the wings in recognition of the friendly wave. “Take a look at the boxes stacked on the ship and the dock.”
Jackie leaned around Scott for a better view. “It looks like they’re preparing to get under way, but—”
“Where’s the crew?” he inserted. “Would you mind taking some shots while I circle the place?”
“I’m already on it,” Jackie said as she snapped photos of the yacht and the helicopter. “Try to keep the wingtip slightly above the horizon.”
“Okay,” Scott said as he eased into a shallow turn. “That’s an odd color for a helicopter.”
She focused her attention on the helo and took more pictures. “It looks like desert camouflage that’s been painted over.”
“Yeah, with brown stripes that don’t match where they join at the tail.”
“That’s odd.”
Scott concentrated on the small flag displayed on the side of the helicopter. That looks familiar.
Jackie scanned the water and sky, but her peripheral vision caught a reflection and movement off to her side.
“We have traffic,” Jackie exclaimed as she instinctively reached for the controls. “Level at one-o’clock—watch it!”
Glancing at the oncoming floatplane, Scott racked the Maule into a tight, knife-edge turn as the red Cessna 206 ripped past only feet away.
“Holy shit,” Dalton gasped as he rolled wings level. “Did you see a landing light?”
“No, nothing,” Jackie said breathlessly as she keyed the radio. “Cessna Two-Oh-Six near Marathon,” she said with cold rage, “do you copy Maule Seven-Three Bravo?”