John Gilstrap - Damage Control

The mechanic had a stepladder in his hand, and as he crossed under the propeller, Jonathan thought for sure that he’d looked right at him. Then he saw the earbud cords hanging down the sides of the kid’s face, and he got it. Apparently the music or podcast or whatever he was listening to was far more relevant to his world than the armed man who approached from the shadows.

The mechanic placed the ladder on the ground near the nose of the aircraft on the starboard side-the near side-and then climbed four steps to see into the open cowling.

As Jonathan got closer, he swung a wide arc to the kid’s left, approaching him from the side. As he closed to within ten feet, he became worried that the kid would be so startled when he finally saw Jonathan that he’d fall off the ladder and hurt himself.

“Excuse me,” Jonathan said.

Boxers’ voice said in his ear, “Tell me you’re joking. ‘Excuse me’?”

Jonathan chuckled. As tactical approaches went, this was definitely one of a kind. More loudly this time: “Excuse me!”

Still nothing.

“Okay, fine,” Jonathan said. He walked up to the ladder and touched the mechanic’s leg with a gloved hand.

The kid jumped as if he’d been hit with fifty kilovolts, dropping something into the engine-it sounded like a wrench-and overbalancing the ladder. As the ladder and the mechanic tumbled directly toward him, Jonathan reached out and caught the kid under his arms, breaking his fall before he could hit the ground.

“God damn it,” the kid said in English. Then he saw Jonathan’s cammies and the weapons, and he switched to Spanish. “Who are you?” He got his feet under him and adjusted his skewed clothing.

Jonathan stayed with English. “Are you American?”

The kid’s eyes grew wide as they took in everything. The rifle, the sidearm, the holstered MP7, the sheathed KA-BAR knife. “Holy shit.”

“Focus, son,” Jonathan said. “What’s your name?”

“Oscar,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m hoping I’m a friend,” Jonathan said.

“Dude, with that many guns, I’ll be your friggin’ brother.”

Jonathan touched the transmit button on his chest. “Okay, come on in.”

For a second or two, Oscar looked confused. Then he winced. “Aw shit, there’s a bunch of you? Look, man, I just work here. I don’t know anything.”

Jonathan thought that was an odd reaction. “In my experience,” he said, “people who say they don’t know anything in fact know quite a lot. They at least know enough to lead with the fact that they don’t know anything.”

Oscar’s features folded into confusion. “Dude, I bet that actually made sense to you. What are you, FBI? CI-holy shit, you brought Sasquatch.” He pointed over Jonathan’s shoulder to his approaching colleagues.

He leaned in closer to Oscar and affected a conspiratorial tone. “I really wouldn’t make fun of him. He’s cranky on a good day. Today, he’s hungry and tired. I already stopped him from shooting you.”

The kid recoiled a step, and then glanced back at Boxers. “Um. Thanks?”

Jonathan winked. “Don’t mention it. Does your airplane work?”

“Huh?” The world clearly was not yet making sense to Oscar. “Oh, the plane. This plane?”

“Have you got another one?”

“Sure, it works. I don’t know how to fly it, though, so if you’re thinking I can-”

Boxers and Tristan arrived.

“What the hell kind of army are you?” Oscar said. He seemed particularly amused by the skinny soldier in the shorts and flip-flops.

“Do you want me to show you?” Boxers menaced.

Some color drained from Oscar’s face. “Actually, no.” He looked back to Jonathan. “But like I said, I can’t fly you anywhere.”

“I don’t need you to fly me,” Jonathan said. “I just want to buy the plane from you.”

Oscar’s scowl deepened and he looked from face to face. “What, is this some kind of a setup?”

“Will three hundred thousand dollars cover it?” Jonathan asked.

“Bullshit. You don’t have three hundred thousand dollars.”

Jonathan raised his eyebrows and waited.

“You have three hundred thousand dollars.” Oscar laughed and pushed his fingers into his hair. “Where does anybody get three hundred thousand dollars?” He seemed to like saying the number aloud.

“I don’t see how that matters,” Jonathan said. “I have it, and it’s yours for the airplane.”

“But it’s not even my plane.”

“So much the better,” Jonathan said. “That makes it all cash. You don’t even have a bank note to pay off.”

Oscar’s mind started whirling at a thousand miles per hour. You could see it in his face as he tried to decipher the deal that lay before him. “How do I sell you something that I don’t own?” he asked.

Jonathan wondered if the kid was in denial, or if he truly was this dense. “Maybe sale is the wrong word under the circumstances,” he said. “How about three hundred thousand dollars to let me borrow the plane? For an indefinite period.”

“You mean steal it,” Oscar countered.

Jonathan made a face. “If I paid for it, I couldn’t be stealing it, right?”

The comment seemed only to deepen Oscar’s confusion.

“I’m taking your airplane,” Jonathan said, cutting to the chase. “I can pay you for it, in which case I expect a certain level of silence.” He adjusted his hand on the grip of his M27. “Or, I can assume the worst and just take it away.”

Oscar took a few seconds to process it. “I’m hearing that you can kill me and take the plane, or that you can pay me and take the plane.”

“Not exactly as I would have put it, but close enough.”

“How is that even a choice?”

“My point exactly.”

The kid stuck out his hand. “Deal,” he said.

They shook. “Excellent,” Jonathan said.

With the engine reassembled, they buttoned up the cowling and pumped in as much gas as the Cessna’s tanks could take.

“This is five hours of fuel,” Oscar said. “Plus a fifty-minute reserve. I wouldn’t depend on the reserve for more than a half hour though. Just to be on the safe side.”

Jonathan looked to Boxers for an assessment. Would it be enough?

The Big Guy shrugged. “It is what it is,” he said.

“How far do you need to go?” Oscar asked. As soon as the words were launched, he held up his hands, as if in surrender. “Sorry. None of my business.”

“Ultimately, it’s Buenos Aires,” Boxers lied.

Jonathan shot him a glare, hoping to sell the deception.

“There’s no way,” Oscar said.

Boxers replied, “We have a refueling stop along the way.”

“How about you shut up?” Jonathan said.

For his part, Tristan remained conspicuously silent, for which Jonathan sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Oscar said. “I swear.” He opened his backpack one more time just to make sure that his windfall was still there. The pouch that used to hold his lunch was now stuffed with sixty bundles of banded hundred-dollar bills.

Jonathan thought of it as ransom money well spent.

“Now comes the hard part,” Oscar said.

Jonathan cocked his head, waited for it.

Oscar took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. “Thing is, I like Mexico. Okay, actually, I hate Mexico, but my girlfriend is like the Mexican Chamber of Commerce. She loves it here. I could never convince her to leave.”

Jonathan sensed where this was going, but he had to be sure. “So, how is this a problem?” he asked.

“With that kind of money you could buy any girlfriend you wanted,” Boxers offered. Ever the romantic.

“My boss-the one who owns this plane-is not a nice man. In fact, he’s the opposite of a nice man. He’s also my girlfriend’s father. When he finds out that his plane is missing, he’s going to be pissed. I mean seriously pissed.”