Randy White - Hunter's moon

We were in the plane, taxiing in shallow water, Wilson in the left seat, me in the right. Tomlinson, with his long legs, was in the back, stretched out among our gear. We wore headphones, using the plane’s voice-activated intercom system to converse.

The president said, “They do a major systems maintenance once a month and today’s the day. We’ll have a window of between forty minutes and an hour. By the time they’re up and running, we should be about a third of the way to Mexico.

“But if we’re early, or late, radar will red-light us, and DEA or Homeland Security will scramble planes to intercept us. We can’t miss the window.”

Tomlinson was impressed. “Sam, I’m not even gonna ask how you got Fat Boy’s maintenance schedule. It’s got to be, like, top secret, right?”

His tone wry, Wilson said, “Yes. Entrusting smugglers with the schedule might be considered counterproductive. But no one expects a former president of the United States to try anything illegal. It’s another one of the perks. I never have to go through metal detectors or airline security.”

Tomlinson said, “You’re shitting me. No one ever checks?”

“Never. It would be a breach of international protocol. And old acquaintances in the military trust me with all kinds of useful information.”

All the potential scenarios-Tomlinson was having fun with them in his mind. “Look, if you ever get tired of traveling around, making speeches? And you’re willing to share-down the road, I’m talking about. We could make a lot of money with that kind of access. Not that I’m into the whole materialism thing. I see it more as spreading the gift of mellowism.”

Wilson was in a brighter mood, now that we were under way, and he smiled. “ ‘Mellowism,’ huh? My friend, with your gift for language you would be a superb diplomat. It’s not as easy as it sounds. To say nothing, especially while speaking-that’s diplomacy. Teddy Roosevelt’s line. Or was it President Carter?”

Tomlinson sat back, enjoying it. “I wouldn’t mind being an ambassador. Colombia, maybe-that would be cool. Jamaica would be okay if it wasn’t for all the assholes at the airport. Speaking of which, where’re we gonna land?”

I watched Wilson reach to switch off the plane’s transponder, the VHF radio, then the GPS. Our electronic signature was now zero. He checked his watch, then turned to look out the port window. Fat Boy should have been visible. It wasn’t. Wilson said, “We’re not landing at an airport. But we will land. That’s about all I can promise you.”

His hand on the throttle, we began accelerating-seventy… eighty… eighty-five knots-the water’s surface tension drumming the pontoons, the plane lifting, fishtailing as it broke free. Then we were banking low over Content Keys, the plane’s shadow preceding us, skating across shallow water veined with gutters of jade.

I was surprised when the president immediately leveled off. He noticed as I checked the altimeter: a hundred fifty feet.

“For the next hundred miles, we’re going to maintain this altitude. Our cruising speed will be a hundred fifteen knots-about a hundred thirty miles an hour. A little faster over ground with the wind shift. If we’d shed a hundred pounds of gear, we could probably do one-forty.”

It looked as if we would barely clear the treetops of mangrove keys ahead. Tomlinson whistled softly, getting into it. “This is more like surfing than flying. Man”-he whistled again-“give me a rope, I could ski behind this thing. Hope we don’t run into any tall ships.”

Wilson said, “Let’s talk about that. We’ve got a range of almost six hundred nautical miles so fuel’s not a problem. But eye fatigue could be. There’s no autopilot-too much weight. So, Ford? I’m going to need your help. We’ve got clouds to the west, which is good. Less chance of losing the horizon. Even so, flying this low will be a hell of a strain on the eyes. So we’ll do it in shifts. Half an hour on, half an hour off. You okay with that?”

“Fine,” I said.

“You want to see how she handles?”

“Okay.” My feet found the rudder pedals as I put my hands on the control yoke. It was embossed with a white MAULE M7 insignia.

“You know the gauges-fuel, air speed, altitude.” Wilson was pointing. “Here’re your trim controls. Keep your eye on the horizon indicator. We want the wings level.”

I tried easy turns to port, then starboard. I climbed briefly without adding throttle, then pushed the yoke forward, my stomach alert to a slight increase in g-force. At only a hundred fifty feet off the deck, I didn’t have room to try anything else.

“You seem comfortable.”

“I’ve steered a lot of planes in a lot of places. Pilots need breaks. But I wouldn’t want to try a water landing unless I have to.”

“Don’t worry about that. The important thing is, keep us level, use your compass. We’re traveling the old-fashioned way: dead reckoning. Just a chart and a pencil. Pretend you’re Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic. Just lower.”

I felt the yoke move as the president resumed control. I slipped my feet off the pedals.

As he said, “At this altitude, we’ll be invisible. Like ghosts,” I was looking out the window, seeing water change from green to silver, then blue, as the bottom fell away.

There was a pod of dolphins hobbyhorsing as we banked again, westward, toward the Gulf of Mexico.

During the flight, with me at the controls, Wilson used a mini earphone to listen to Shana Waters’s digital recorder. After five minutes, he said, “I don’t know what’s stronger, Shana’s ambition or her sex drive.”

He passed the recorder to me and I fitted the earplug beneath my headphones.

Danson wasn’t the only man Waters had taped. She had recorded lovemaking sessions with at least two men whose names I recognized-a U.S. senator, and an anchorman from an opposing network.

I raised my eyebrows as I handed the recorder back to him.

“She has the makings of a great politican,” the president said. “Too bad she went into broadcasting.”

He was serious.

By 11:10 a.m., Florida time (10:10 Yucatan time), we were forty miles off the Mexican coast. Wilson activated the GPS long enough to confirm our position, then turned south, keeping distance between us and the tourist destinations of Cancun and Cozumel.

An hour later, we landed south of Cayo Culebra on an isolated bay. The water was Bombay gin blue. Coconut palms shaded a shack built on stilts at the mouth of a river. There was a rim of white beach where pigs rooted.

As Wilson idled the plane toward shore, he asked, “What’s Cayo Culebra means in Spanish?”

Tomlinson said, “ ‘Island of Cobras’?”

I said, “Close. ‘Island of Snakes.’ ”

Wilson appeared pleased. “Perfect.”

He was in a good mood. We’d crossed the Gulf without close contact with ships or planes, and he was comfortable enough with me at the controls to get more than an hour of sleep. First part of the mission accomplished.

But then he said, “Uh-oh. Something’s wrong,” not happy anymore.

He was still wearing the tinted glasses, but he had removed the fake burn scar-he expected someone he knew to come out of the shack and greet us. Vue. My guess. Wilson didn’t say.

But someone had anticipated our arrival, because there were ten six-gallon gas cans on the dock, all full.

We got out, secured the plane, and went to work.

“I don’t like this.”

Tomlinson was holding the huge funnel, while I poured gas through a leather chamois into the wing tanks. The president was standing behind us on the dock, his head moving as if he suspected that eyes watched from the shoreline. “There should’ve been at least a note.”