The Inside Passage (Ted Higuera Series Book 1) (7 page)

Toronto, Canada

The small airplane
did a barrel roll in the clear blue sky, then dove towards a large maple, scattering
a flock of crows. Moments before it crashed into the tree, the plane swooped
back up to the sky. At the top of its arc, the plane twirled, did a hammer head
stall and spun back earthward. Mere feet above the ground, it came out of the
spin and climbed back to the sky.

This time, at the
top of the loop, the plane rolled out straight and level. After another loop,
the plane turned back toward the ground. A short heavy man with a graying
beard, wearing a Shimage and Egal, the scarf and head band of Islamic Arabs
,
watched with binoculars. A smile spread across his face.
The plane dove towards the man, propeller whining, its two-cycle engine
shrieking, skimming above his head. The bearded man dropped his field glasses
and flattened himself on the ground.

“Ahmad, enough,”
Yasim yelled. “I am convinced.”

The plane banked
into the downwind leg of the landing pattern and began its descent. Turning
final, it lowered its flaps and floated down to the runway.

Yasim threw the
door on the battered delivery van open. “I would not have believed if I had not
seen myself.”

A smile beamed
from Ahmad’s face. “It’s the same technology that the Americans use on their
remotely piloted vehicles.” Ahmad didn’t turn his head from the small black and
white TV monitor on the console in the back of the van.

His right hand
held a joy stick; his left thumb controlled the throttle lever. Yasim turned to
see the remote-controlled airplane roll out on the runway and turn to taxi
towards the van. The TV screen showed a picture of Yasim and the van.

Ahmad pulled the
airplane up to the van triumphantly and killed the engine.

“I copied it from
drawings I obtained of the systems being used by the CIA’s Predator aircraft. The
stupid kaffirs, they gave me access to all of their top-secret drawings. The
Predators aren’t much larger than this, but they’re armed with Hellfire
missiles to rain down death on our people.”

“I am convinced
you can control toy airplane, but can you control vehicle weighing eight
hundred and fifty kilos?”

“The principles are
the same.” Ahmad was confident. He ran through the system in his mind. “The
same cameras and remote controls will do the job. The servos will have to be
bigger, but I expect that it will already come equipped with them.”

“How about speed.
Can you pilot craft traveling at speed of sound?”

“If Allah wills
it. I believe I can control it, but at that speed, my reaction time’ll have to
be much faster. It doesn’t have to go far. In three to five miles, I’ll only
have to fly it for a matter of seconds. The problem is that I won’t have a
chance to practice. We’ll only make one flight.”

Yasim stepped out
of the way as Ahmad climbed from the van and walked over to his favorite toy. 
He lifted his model as though it were a baby and gently removed the wings. With
a wing span of over six feet, it had a tiny TV camera in its nose that showed
Ahmad what the pilot would see from its cockpit. From his console, Ahmad could
control the plane from miles away. 

“Make sure you
have all parts and equipment you need before we leave,” Yasim said. “Once we
get there, no place to find spares.”

“I never thought
I’d be working on a project like this.”

“Allah choose you,
my brother. Blessed be his name.” Yasim settled himself into the driver’s seat
in the van. “You have perfect background of toy airplanes and electrical
engineering. Allah prepared you for moment your whole life. It was Allah’s hand
found you job at EverTech. You had access to tools and technology, but also
access to top-secret plans.”

These last words
stung Ahmad as he recalled losing first his top-secret clearance, then his job.

“He has truly
smiled on us.” Yasim patted Ahmad on the shoulder. “Allah Akbar.”

The Straits of Juan de Fuca

“Goddamn, it feels
like we’re flyin’.” Ted draped his arms back over the life lines, leaning over
the rushing water. Maybe he could get used to this sailing shit.

He looked forward
to see the wave of white foam cream from the
Defiant’s
bow. Pyramids of
bright sails towered over him.

The
Defiant
sliced through the water. With the brisk breeze and large ground swell, the
knot meter hit eight knots as she surfed down the back sides of the waves.

“This is what
sailing’s all about.” Chris shifted his weight and put his foot up on the rail.
“It doesn’t get better than this, warm sun, a stiff breeze.” 

A strong puff
heeled the boat hard to starboard. A crash and a few swear words came up from
below.

“Jeez, you guys,”
Meagan shouted up from the cabin. “Do you have to heel her over so much? A girl
can’t walk around down here.”

Meagan had gone
from wearing jeans and a sweat shirt in the morning to shorts and a T-shirt. As
the sun got stronger, Ted was pleased to see her change into a bikini and find
a warm spot on the foredeck to stretch out and tan. To his chagrin, as the wind
picked up and the
Defiant’s
speed increased, the water breaking over the
bow chilled her to the point that she went below to put on more clothes.

 “Anybody gettin’
hungry?” Ted asked. “I’m startin’ to think about lunch.”

“What do you have
in mind?” Meagan yelled up.

“How about
sandwiches. We got some pretty good lookin’ pastrami at the deli.”

“Great,” Meagan’s
voice made its way up from below. “As long as you’re making lunch, I’ll take a
turkey sandwich on whole grain. No mayo, a little Dijon, with lettuce, tomatoes
and one of those dill pickles.”

“I wasn’t offerin’
to make lunch.” Ted shouted down into the darkness of the cabin. “I was just
sayin’ that I’m hungry.”

“Well, if you’re
hungry, you better do something about it. No one else is going to feed you.” 

Ted glared at
Chris. “I thought you brought her along to cook.” 

“One thing I’ve
learned about Meagan,” Chris shrugged. “Nobody tells her what to do. If you’re
getting hungry, I suggest you make yourself a sandwich.”

“Damn.” Ted
hesitated a minute. “Nobody told me this was going to be a self-service
cruise.” He slowly backed down the companionway ladder.

He reached the
cabin sole and turned around. Meagan stood in the main cabin in her jeans, holding
her bra in her hand, tiny breasts pointing at him.

 “
Jesu Cristo
,”
he shouted covering his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you weren’t dressed.”

 “It’s OK, Ted.
We’re going to be living in close quarters for the next two months. Besides,
they’re just boobs. It’s not anything that you haven’t seen before.”

Ted flew up the
companion way ladder like the devil was chasing him. He rubbed his eyes like
he’d been splashed with acid.

Chris almost
doubled up with laughter. “I’ve never seen you so embarrassed, bro.”

“I just wasn’t
prepared to see
chi chis
staring at me down there.” Ted tried to recover
his composure.

“It’s no big
deal.” Meagan, now fully dressed, climbed up to the cockpit. “Besides, they’re
nothing to write home about. I’ve got my mother’s body, small tits, big ass.”

“I think you have
a great ass.” Chris grinned. “Besides, when it comes to boobs, my Dad used to
say ‘any more than a mouthful is a waste.’”

Ted struggled to
keep his balance with the heavy motion of the boat, always grabbing for a hand
hold before moving. He worked his way around Meagan like she was made of high
explosives and down to the cabin. A short while later he climbed back up to the
cockpit juggling plates filled with sandwiches, a bag of Tim’s Cascade jalapeño
potato chips and three bottles of ice cold Henry’s Private Reserve.

“Who’s up for
lunch?”

He handed a plate
to Chris who struggled to keep the boat under control and eat at the same time.
Megan took her plate and settled down on the opposite side of the cockpit from Ted.

“What’s this
shit?” Meagan lifted the top slice of bread to reveal a pastrami sandwich. “I
thought I asked for turkey?”

“Hey,
mensa,
I only make one lunch. You want special orders, you have to make ‘em yourself.”
He pushed back his sailor’s cap with one finger and sat down, extremely pleased
with himself.

“That’s the most
ridiculous hat I’ve ever seen,” Meagan shot him a look of disgust.

 “I bought it
special for this trip.”
What’s wrong with my hat?
Ted removed the light
blue yachting cap from his head, turned it over and examined it closely,
running his fingers over the embroidered life ring on the peak. “I thought it
was appropriately nautical.” He popped the hat back on his head at a jaunty
angle.

“Well I think it
looks silly, besides you’re about as nautical as a cement truck.”

Meagan seemed
immune to the laws of gravity as she danced around on deck like a ballerina. In
a swift, easy motion, she dropped her plate, jumped over to Ted and grabbed his
hat.

“I think it’s
stupid. I’m going to get rid of it.”

“Hey, give that
back.”

Meagan stood at
the lee rail, holding the hat over the side. Ted jumped up and grabbed her
around the waist, reaching for the hat with his other hand.

“No, you don’t.
Give it back!” They struggled for the hat, paying no attention to the boiling
white water rushing inches below their feet. Ted pulled in her arm, little by
little.

“Hey, you guys,
cut it out!” Chris shouted. “Stop it before someone goes overboard.”

“What do you
think, Teddy?” Meagan ignored Chris as she wiggled the hat over the boiling
water. “Do I give it a toss?”

“Give me the
fuckin’ hat.”  Ted grabbed for her hand.

“Over it goes.”
Meagan flipped the hat with her wrist. Ted watched for what seemed like an
eternity, as the hat hung in the air, then sailed like a Frisbee and skimmed
the water’s surface before making its final dive.

****

Horseshoe Bay, British Columbia,
Canada

“You boys know
anything about fishing?” the big, old Swede asked in a sing-song accent, a
bone-colored ceramic mug cradled in his large, calloused hands. They sat at the
mess table of an ancient purse seiner. Hani, the cell’s boat expert, sat next
to Ahmad.

“We told you that
we’re not fishermen, Mr. Bjornsen.” Ahmad eyed the thick black liquid in his
mug with distaste. “We work for a company called Pacific Oceanic Surveys. We’re
not going to use the boat for fishing.” Ahmad spoke loudly, to compensate for
the old fisherman’s lack of hearing.

“Well, she a good
old boat.” Bjornsen patted the mess table. “None of my sons wants to become
fisherman like their old man. Fishing not good enough for them. They want to be
stockbrokers and computer guys. Bah,” he spat his chaw into a coffee can at his
elbow. “Not a one of them does a honest day’s work.”

“Don’t worry, Mr.
Bjornsen, we’ll take good care of the
Valkyrie.
” Ahmad surveyed the
galley. A huge diesel stove stood along the bulkhead, next to a worn
Formica-topped counter with a deep stainless steel sink and a hand pump. The
once white paint peeled from the surfaces and a liberal coat of grease covered
everything. Ahmad felt unclean, just sitting at the table.

“What you going to
use my boat for?”

“Survey work.”
Stick
to the cover story.
“We need a big, clear deck and lots of room below
decks. There’s lots of construction going on along the coast. Every time some
developer wants to build a new resort or a marina, the government requires them
to fill out an environmental impact statement. We do surveys of the surrounding
waters, to help them figure out how their project will affect the marine
environment.”

“It sound like a
lot of bureaucratic bullshit to me.” Bjornsen got up, refilled his coffee cup
and returned the blackened pot to the stove. “What ever happened to good honest
work? In my day, we find fish, we catch fish. We need a cannery, we build a
cannery.” He settled himself back into his spot at the mess table.

“I know it must be
hard, sir, to let go, but we must complete the deal. Here.” Ahmad handed
Bjornsen a manila envelope.
We need to get this deal done and get this old
buffoon out of here.
“Maybe this will help you walk away.”

“Holy God.”
Bjornsen dumped the contents of the envelope on the mess table. “I never seen
that much money in my life.”

That certainly
got his attention.

“We like to deal
in cash.” Ahmad slid a document across the table and handed Mr. Bjornsen a pen.
“We won’t report how much we paid. You don’t have to report how much you sold
it for.”

“Yah, sure, you
betcha. I not going to tell the tax man about this.”

Ahmad knew that
Bjornsen wouldn’t report the transaction. As salmon were fished out and the
government declared certain runs endangered species, the value of salmon boats
declined to almost nothing. The old infidel probably feared that he’d never be
able to unload his white elephant.

Bjornsen went on
and on. “In those days, we thought the salmon would last forever. . .”

Ahmad hardly paid
attention.
I have to get rid of this old fool.

“Mr. Bjornsen,”
Ahmad broke in. “I don’t want to rush you, but we really must be going about
our business.”

“Yah, sure. I just
clean out my tings.”

Please don’t
get all sentimental on me.

The old fisherman
began cleaning out lockers in the fo’c’sle.

How can they
live like this? They are men, not swine.
Ahmad began scrubbing the galley
while Hani descended into the engine room.
Did Mohammed not teach us that
Allah demands cleanliness?

Ahmad scrubbed
until he was exhausted. It would never be clean. Were they condemned to live in
this pig-sty?

Finally, the
disgusting kaffir collected all of his belongings and bid his boat farewell.
How
strange, that a man should be so attached to a boat. You would think he had
just sold his daughter.