Stealing Gulfstreams Page 6

  Instead, I hear León begin to chuckle. It’s soft and menacing.

  “You are a funny man, Señor Flynn. It is good that I like you as much as I do.”

  The feeling is definitely not mutual.

  “Just spit it out,” I say, resigned. “What do you want with me?”

  There is another long pause. I start to get the feeling that León isn’t used to other people dictating the pace of his conversations.

  He finally speaks.

  “The CJ3 at oh-six-niner in thirty-six hours.”

  Huh?

  “The CJ what at oh-six who?” I ask. I’m still a little groggy and very confused. “What are you talking about? León?” But of course the bastard has already hung up.

  I hear nothing but static—and the thumping of my heart.

  I grab a pen on my nightstand and scribble down what León just said directly onto the palm of my hand so I won’t forget it—even though I have no idea what it means.

  But I do know I’d better figure it out. Fast.

  Chapter 19

  “Slow down, brother,” says Cole, punching me in the shoulder like he used to do when we were kids. “If I can’t see it, what’s the point?”

  “I’m going as slow as I can,” I reply. “Any slower, and we’d look suspicious. If they catch us trying to see it, we’re toast.”

  We’re cruising along a narrow service road that runs beside Petaluma Municipal Airport, a single, dual-direction runway tucked near the foothills of Sonoma Mountain, about forty miles north of San Francisco.

  Cole is in the passenger seat beside me, peering through a pair of binoculars. I’m behind the wheel of an ancient Ford Taurus with a salvage title and false plates. I bought it earlier this morning at a chop shop outside Reno for a few hundred bucks, cash. It barely survived the four-hour drive here. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that it’ll last just a little bit longer until we ditch it for good.

  I’m also hoping we can actually pull off this crazy plan.

  After León called me two nights ago, I was way too wired to fall back asleep. So I put on a pot of coffee and racked my brain, trying to make sense of what he said.

  The thirty-six-hours part was easy enough. So was the CJ3 part. That’s a type of Cessna Citation, a corporate jet costing in the neighborhood of eight million bucks.

  “Oh-six-niner” took me a little longer. The FAA gives major airports a three-letter identifier, like JFK and LAX. Smaller ones get a mix of letters and numbers. I looked up O69 and saw it was assigned to Petaluma Municipal, a tiny airport used mostly as a depot for private corporate jets owned by wealthy Bay Area tech executives.

  That’s when I realized exactly what León was telling me.

  He was giving us our next “assignment”—our hardest one yet.

  No details. No prearranged flight paths. And no way out. Just an order to steal a plane in broad daylight—or face his wrath.

  So no pressure or anything, right?

  “The way we’re doing this one, it’s mental,” Cole says as we pass a tall chain-link fence surrounding the airport. “I take it back. It’s suicide.”

  “Quit your whining and keep your eyes open,” I say.

  Numerous private jets are parked—or tied down, as the expression goes—up and down the strip of concrete running alongside the tarmac known as the apron. We’re looking for a CJ3 in particular. I hope there’s only one of them.

  “Okay, I see it,” Cole says. “November five-two-seven victor.”

  N527V. Bingo. That’s our target aircraft’s tail number, which should be pretty much all the information we’ll need to get past the front gate. No joke. Security at Petaluma, like most non-towered, non-commercial airports, is usually scarily lax.

  I pull our sputtering Taurus into the staff parking lot and cut the engine. Cole and I peel off the latex gloves we’ve been wearing the whole trip so as not to leave any fingerprints in the vehicle. Next, we get fresh pairs ready to wear inside the plane. Then we don our black and gold pilot jackets, visored caps, and polarized aviator sunglasses. We give each other a final once-over.

  “We look pretty ridiculous,” Cole says, gesturing to our ensembles.

  “Try to imagine how good we’ll look with all that cash in our hands,” I reply. Just like I thought it would, that quiets him up fast.

  We stroll confidently toward the security booth beside the airport’s main gate. It’s the only barrier between us and our prize. A bored, heavyset private security guard shuffles out to greet us. With sweat stains seeping out from under his armpits and a dusting of potato-chip crumbs on his shirt, he doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence.

  Which right now is a beautiful thing.

  “Good afternoon,” I say with a friendly smile. “I’m Captain Carl Sundlof.” I gesture to Cole. “This is First Officer Andrew Boudreau. We’re flying number N527V.”

  The guard runs his stubby finger down his clipboard. Finding the plane, he nods.

  But then he says, “Just need to see your credentials and nav logs.”

  I try my best not to react—even though an alarm bell is going off in my head. The guard is perfectly within his rights to ask to inspect our documents. It’s just very unusual. And it tells me this guy might be more suspicious than he’s letting on.

  Good thing I prepared an expertly forged set.

  “Not a problem,” I say, making my smile even friendlier. From my briefcase I pull a thick binder filled with documents and hand it to the guard.

  He thumbs through it a bit—transferring some potato-chip grease from his fingers onto the pages, I notice—then gives it back to me.

  “Safe flight,” he says with a grunt. Then he putters back into his booth and opens the gate.

  Trading quick, relieved looks, Cole and I walk through it.

  We soon make our way to the little Cessna tied down on the far apron. She’s gleaming white, with swooping blue trim and seven oval windows on each side. Gorgeous.

  Believe it or not, most planes don’t have much physical security on them, either. Most ignitions are push-button, and most cabin doors can be opened with a simple metal key—or in this case, a skeleton key and a tiny metal lock-picking tool.

  While I walk around the aircraft to do a visual safety check, I also keep scanning up and down the tarmac, just in case anyone’s looking at us funny. I’m thankful to see no one is. To them we’re just another pair of private pilots getting ready to fly.

  I hear the familiar metal clunk of the cabin door unlock as Cole manages to pick it open. We climb in, settle into the cockpit, and fire up the dual turbines.

  “I believe we’re ready for liftoff, Captain,” Cole says with a little smirk.

  For such a last-minute steal, this whole thing is going pretty smoothly—so far, at least. But I never like to celebrate until we’re airborne. So as soon as I see a break in the line of planes taxiing onto the runway, I fall in and get into position.

  Announcing our takeoff plans for safety, I say over the radio, “Petaluma, all traffic, Cessna two-seven victor, departing runway one. Please advise, over.”

  Hearing no disputes, I move into position in the middle of the tarmac. Slowly the plane starts to pick up speed. And within seconds we’re flying.

  I let out a sigh of relief. We did it!

  Or so I thought.

  Chapter 20

  “Wooooo-eeee!” Cole exclaims as our Cessna soars higher and higher into the wispy clouds. “The Brothers Flynn for the win!”

  “Keep it together,” I say. “I’ll adjust our heading, you knock out the transponder.”

  “Already on it,” Cole replies. Having located the small metal box between our two seats, he’s unscrewing the clamps on either side. Then he rips the whole thing clean out of the console, making our GPS signal untraceable to the outside world.

  Meanwhile, I’m flicking a few knobs and dials, setting our course.

  The rough flight path I’ve planned takes us south over San Pablo Bay, loops arou
nd Oakland, then banks east toward Modesto. We’ll be landing this puppy at Hawthorne Industrial Airport, a dusty little runway just over the Nevada state line that’s less than a hundred miles from our home.

  I also decided that if León was going to change up the way we do business, so was I. Instead of waiting for him to contact me to arrange our next meeting place, I sent him a brief note via the encrypted online message board we use to communicate. It read, simply, “HTH”—Hawthorne’s airport identifier—followed by “$$$$$$$.”

  I doubt he’ll have much trouble figuring out what I’m asking for.

  “Nice job back there at the gate,” I say to Cole. “I’ll admit I was a little worried.”

  “I’ve been worried since you told me about this yesterday,” he answers. “León is getting pushy. He’s bending the rules. I know we need his money, bro, but—”

  “We won’t for much longer,” I say. “The big race is soon. Once it’s over, we—”

  “Holy shit,” Cole says urgently. “Bogey at our six!”

  I turn my head to look out the side window—

  Just in time to see a gunmetal-colored jet roar past us at light speed!

  I realize right away it’s not just any old plane.

  It’s military.

  Cole and I are both too stunned to speak as the craft zooms ahead of us, then cuts a sharp semicircle directly in our path.

  Next, a stern voice comes over our radio: “This is a United States Air Force armed F-16. You are in violation of a TFR. You have been intercepted. Please acknowledge or rock your wings.”

  “TFR? A temporary flight restriction?” Cole asks incredulously. “That’s impossible.”

  I agree. When I plotted our flight path last night, I specifically double-checked it against all previously announced FAA no-fly zones. Twice. The vice president was scheduled to give a speech at UC Berkeley this morning, but the TFR was set to be lifted five hours ago…unless his schedule changed and the FAA extended it?

  Oh, Jesus.

  Whatever the reason, we’ve apparently just crossed into federally restricted airspace.

  And now we have one of the most advanced fighters on the planet on our ass.

  “Let’s just play it cool,” Cole says, reaching for the radio frequency knob. “Tell ’em we wandered in by mistake, we’re changing course—”

  “Are you insane?” I snap, literally knocking his hand away. “The feds just scrambled a goddamn fighter! You think they’ll let us off with an apology? They’ll escort us until we land. They already know our transponder’s off. As soon as they run our tail number, they’ll realize this bird was stolen. There’s gonna be an army of cops waiting for us on the tarmac. This is it, Cole. Either we run…or we’re done.”

  My brother’s expression darkens as the full weight of our awful situation starts to sink in. I can see he’s still hesitant.…

  Until suddenly, the F-16 reappears on our flank and performs a stunning “head butt,” soaring straight up into the sky less than five hundred feet in front of our nose.

  Again the radio crackles: “I repeat, this is a United States Air Force armed F-16. This is your final warning. If you do not comply—”

  If the pilot was trying to intimidate us into submission, that just backfired.

  Cole switches off the radio entirely.

  “Let’s smoke this bastard,” he says. “Any idea how?”

  Chapter 21

  I increase the throttle, bank hard to the right, and turn our Cessna to the west.

  We’ve been flying south over San Pablo Bay, but soon we’re over land again, specifically the coastal beach communities and redwood-covered hills of Marin County.

  Then I bank to the left and start heading south.

  Toward San Francisco.

  “Jackie, you’re not about to do what I think you’re about to do, are you?” Cole asks, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.

  “I’m in a corporate jet trying to outrun a fighter jet—with a top speed three times faster. I’m gonna do whatever it takes.”

  “You’re putting innocent lives at stake!”

  “No,” I say, jerking my thumb behind us, indicating the Air Force pilot. “He is, the longer he keeps pursuing us. Now, strap in.”

  I feel my palms start to get clammy as, below us, through the midday fog, one of the most iconic landmarks in all of North America comes into view.

  The Golden Gate Bridge.

  I hesitate for just a moment. My plan is nuts, even for us.

  But seeing the F-16 fast approaching us from behind, I realize I have no choice.

  I push forward on the control stick. The Cessna tilts downward.…

  And plummets toward the big red bridge at three hundred miles per hour!

  I know there’s zero chance the F-16 will pull a crazy move like that. Sure enough, I hear it roar overhead and straight past us.

  I stay focused and quickly level off—just a few hundred feet above the bridge—and follow it over the bay. I’m hoping to use the swirling fog for cover and all the metal and vehicles below as a kind of radar-confusing chaff.

  I pitch up, gaining a bit of altitude, but I’m still speeding dangerously low toward the city. I whip past the stunning mansions of Sea Cliff. They’re so close they look like fancy dollhouses. Unreal. Then I loop around and start to fly east, across the San Francisco peninsula, just barely above the rolling meadows of Golden Gate Park.

  Which is when I see that the F-16 has looped back around. It’s now flying straight at us, on a direct intercept course.

  If we were over water or a less populated area, I’d be worried it was setting up to try to ram us. But the pilot wouldn’t dare do that over a major city…would he?

  Just to be safe—a very relative term here—I swoop down even lower.

  The Cessna is now practically skimming rooftops, close enough to see that row of colorful Victorian homes known as the Painted Ladies, above the grungy Tenderloin district…

  And then we’re over San Francisco Bay again, the glistening blue water below.

  “Did we lose him?” asks Cole, his head scanning the view.

  Within seconds, we get our answer when we hear the rumble of the F-16 approaching us again, now from straight ahead. And since we are over water, it might very well try to slam us out of the sky.

  The fighter jet’s speed is incredible. I know I have to outmaneuver it, and I only have a few seconds to do so.

  I jam the stick back and to the right so the Cessna executes a “high yo-yo.” This reverses our direction and just barely gets us out of the F-16’s path as it whizzes by.

  With Alcatraz Island behind us, I guide our little plane back toward the city…and nosedive directly toward downtown San Francisco.

  I home in on a major thoroughfare—Van Ness Avenue—and start to follow it, zooming along barely fifty feet above the trees and streetcar wires.

  Spotting a major intersection up ahead, California Street, I bank sharply to the left, rolling the Cessna completely on its side so I can make the narrow turn, then continue following the road. We’re approaching the financial district now, so the buildings are getting taller. It feels like I’m speeding through a canyon of skyscrapers.

  When I spot the famed Transamerica Pyramid tower, I know I’m running out of city, so I start to pull up. Once again I shoot out over the quiet bay.…

  And once again I see the F-16 swooping around, still in pursuit. Damn it!

  “He’s just too fast!” Cole insists. “We’re never gonna shake him!”

  That’s when it hits me: there is one place in San Francisco that jet wouldn’t dare to follow us. It’s just too risky. Too dangerous. Too absolutely crazy.

  So that’s exactly where I’m going.

  I jam the control stick and bank hard to the right. I swing the Cessna around, back over the city, and start following the 101 freeway south along the coast. I whip over the midday traffic, past gritty industrial Bayshore, the rocky hills of Brisbane…
<
br />   Behind us, the F-16 is quickly gaining. But then it abruptly pitches up and hangs back, disappearing high into the clouds.

  It’s giving up the chase! My plan worked!

  “Oh-my-God-watch-out!” Cole cries, grabbing onto my arm as tight as a vise.

  Not a thousand feet ahead of us is a gigantic 737 coming in for a landing!

  That’s right. I’m flying our Cessna toward SFO, the Bay Area’s major airport and one of the busiest in the country. I knew that would get the jet to back off—fast.

  Now we’re in the clear. Once I avoid a major midair collision.

  I yank on the control stick with all my might and simultaneously crank the rudders and ailerons, putting the Cessna into a grueling “hammerhead,” a twisting vertical stall. It’s the only way I can think of to keep from colliding with that passenger jet.

  And by the grace of God, we don’t.

  The enormous plane thunders past us, deafeningly. I frantically pull out of the stall, then bank hard and climb high, trying to get the Cessna out of this incredibly dangerous, crowded airspace.

  Soon I’ve flown back over the bay, and the Cessna is heading southeast again toward Modesto, then on to Nevada, like our original flight plan called for.

  But best of all? That F-16 is nowhere to be found.

  For quite a while, neither Cole nor I say a word. We’re both out of breath, sopping with sweat, adrenaline still coursing through our veins.

  “After all this,” Cole finally whispers, “brother, you better put on a good show in that race.”

  I look ahead out the windshield for a moment at the rising mountains and the vast California countryside stretched before us. So much space. So much possibility.

  “I will,” I reply. “When I win.”

  Chapter 22

  About an hour later, I hear that familiar, satisfying rubber squeal as our wheels touch down at Hawthorne Industrial Airport.

  I’ve never been so happy to land a plane in all my life.

  This place sure is a far cry from SFO. A couple of old crop dusters and biplanes are tied down along the single runway. Otherwise the airport looks deserted.