Chapter Thirty Five

 

Timothy sat in the office of the FBO with the briefcase in his lap as he watched the black and white squad car take Johnny away. He was in a mild state of shock. He had assumed that he would be Johnny’s first officer for the foreseeable future, and now that life appeared to be over. He looked down at the briefcase. After a moment, he opened it. There was a note inside from Johnny.

Dear Timothy,

Before I left for Southeast Asia, my dad gave me a poem by Rudyard Kipling entitled IF. It begins, “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting too . . .” I’ve found these words to be of invaluable comfort at times in my life.

 

A later verse in the poem sates, “If you can dream and not make dreams your master; If you can think and not make thoughts your aim; if you can meet with Triumph and Disaster and treat those two imposters just the same . . .”

 

As you read this note, I must tell you that you and I may never see each other or fly together again. I hope as you make your plans for the future, these words will perhaps help you focus your thoughts.

 

Without going into too much detail, I can only say that it was time for me to get out of this business. Unfortunately, my particular niche in aviation is rather difficult to walk away from. It seems there are those who are not comfortable with someone like me being on the outside.

 

The events that transpired today were designed in part to ensure that you still have the opportunity to stay in the business, or go elsewhere if you choose. To that end, an envelope inside the briefcase contains your severance package for the services you have rendered the past ten years. I realize as I write this that you have been the only family that I have had for some quite some time. For that I am truly grateful.

Regards,

Johnny

Timothy finished reading the letter through tearful eyes. He set it aside and opened the envelope. He reached inside and pulled a neatly bundled stack of one-thousand dollar bills. He counted fifty in the stack. He continued to reach inside the envelope, and produced nine more identical bundles.

Timothy had just finished counting the bundles of cash when the former passengers of Johnny’s jet staggered drunkenly into the lobby of the FBO. He quickly stashed the money and letter back into the briefcase. He walked around the corner of the room into a hallway that led to several offices, the restrooms, and according to a sign on the door at the end of the hall, “Hangar Entrance.”

“What the bloody hell are we supposed to do now?” Trevor’s speech was even more impaired by the effects of the scotch. Timothy stopped in the hallway out of sight, but within earshot of the two men.

“Bugger me if I know,” the shooter replied. “I’ll call the Dispatcher and see if he can get another jet here.”

Timothy considered the situation for only a moment, and then knew exactly what to do. “That may not be necessary.” He approached the two men.

“And who the bloody hell might you be?” Trevor asked. Neither of the men had actually seen Timothy.

“Your ride out of here.”

“Have you got a plane that can get us to the Caribbean?”

“Just name the island.”

“We’ll let you in on that secret once were underway,” the shooter said.

“What about price?” Trevor inquired.

“Whatever you were going to pay before will be fine.”

“Well, lead us to your jet.” The shooter made a somewhat unstable bowing motion as if Timothy were royalty.

“Follow me.” Timothy walked out the door of the FBO lounge and proceeded toward Johnny’s G-550. As he began to climb the stairs, his two passengers realized they were about to re-board the aircraft they had just been ordered off of.

“Wait just a bloody minute,” Trevor objected. “A Chicago copper just tossed our arses off this jet. What the hell makes you think you can just fly off in it?”

“First, I supervised the fueling and route planning for this aircraft,” Timothy began. “Second, I happen to be highly skilled in flying G-550s. Now we can be underway in about five minutes or we can call this whole deal off. What’s it going to be?”

“But the copper said they were going to impound this plane,” the shooter exclaimed.

“That will take a while,” Timothy countered. “And by the time they get a crew out here to lock this thing up, we can be half way to wherever it is you want to go. I suggest the sooner we leave the better.”

Trevor and the shooter looked at each other for a moment, and then Trevor remarked, “Let us be off to the islands then.”

Timothy continued to ascend the stairs, waited by the door until the two men were inside the aircraft, and then raised the stairs which folded themselves in a robotic manner and metamorphosized into the door of the G-550. For the first time in his career, he settled himself into the left seat of the aircraft. He was starting the second engine when Trevor appeared in the door of the flight deck.

“What the bloody hell’s going on here? Where’s the other pilot?”

“Normally we would have two pilots,” Timothy explained. “Sometimes on longer flights we even have three, but due to the unusual circumstances surrounding our travel plans today, I’ll be flying us there solo. Please take your seat.”

So confident was the tone in Timothy’s voice that Trevor could think of no response. He turned around, stumbled against both sides of the cabin, grabbed another decanter of scotch as he walked past the galley, and returned to his seat.

Timothy obtained a taxi clearance from the tower, proceeded to the runway, and took off. When he leveled the aircraft at 41,000 feet and ensured the flight management system was programmed correctly for Miami, he picked up the satellite phone mounted at the base of the center console and called Johnny.

He had just checked into a rather modest motel on Cicero Avenue, a few blocks north of Midway Airport. He was mentally working out the details of his transition to a new life as a missionary bush pilot in Central America. The caller ID on his phone identified the call was originating from his aircraft.

“Johnny, it’s Tim. How much do you want for this run down raggedy-ass piece of shit jet of yours?”

“Twenty-three million.” He had hoped all along that Timothy would be interested in taking over his business. It would be much harder for him to get started than it was for Johnny. Although he would have the luxury of an established client base, he would enter into the business with a rather large debt burden. Johnny’s smuggling activities in Southeast Asia had permitted him to set aside enough money to pay cash for his first jet.

“So you’re thinking of going into business for yourself?” Johnny inquired.

“Yep, and that’s why I thought I’d make you an offer on this jet of yours. It’s probably more suited for a scrap heap, but I’ve flown it so much it’s got some sentimental value to me. Hell, at the very least I’ll have to repaint it just so people won’t be afraid to climb on board.”

“I’d strongly advise you do that as well,” Johnny agreed. He knew that it would be in Timothy’s best interest to change the exterior appearance of the aircraft so that it would not be identifiable as having belonged to Johnny. It was hard to tell just how upset certain folks might get if they knew Johnny had deliberately canceled a flight. They would definitely be distraught if they found out the information Johnny was going to reveal about the investors. “I suggest a new tail number too,” Johnny continued. “How about one oh one TJ?”

“Sounds a little too self centered and pompous to me.” Timothy was referring to the 101 JH tail number Johnny painted on all of his aircraft. “I was thinking of something less ostentatious. How does one TJ sound to you?”

“It’s definitely easier to remember. And I can see how that would be important to someone with such marginal mental capabilities as yourself.”

“So what do you think,” Timothy changed the subject. “Two point three million seems more like a fair price to me.”

“It’s twenty-three million,” Johnny chuckled.

“You drive a hard bargain.” Timothy knew full well he had just made a very good deal on an immaculate G-550 jet aircraft.

“Any idea when you plan to start operations?”

“I already did.”

“You’re taking those guys to Miami, aren’t you?”

“You always said it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission,” Timothy replied.

“That’s exactly what I would have done,” Johnny confessed. “You’re flying it solo, aren’t you?” Johnny remembered how he had illegally flown his first G-2 away from the dealer without the required first officer. Johnny had spent several years in Nam flying much more complicated aircraft than the G-2 without the aid of another pilot. He would often fly at night with no lights on, several components of the aircraft malfunctioning, with the only other soul on board a Mountaignyard tribesman who pushed the cargo out the back of the aircraft as Johnny made a low pass over a jungle drop zone.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You’re gonna do just fine in this business,” Johnny complimented him. “I hope you are able to find half as good a first officer as I did.”

“I know there’s a few good men looking for work at the all night soup kitchens for the homeless in most cities. I thought I’d start looking there.”

“Good luck.” Johnny felt a small lump form in his throat. “I gotta go.” The words were becoming much more difficult for him as he realized he was probably talking to Timothy for the last time. All the teasing that had gone back and forth between them was an attempt on both their parts to avoid acknowledging this fact. Rather than let Timothy hear even a hint of the strong emotional feelings he was experiencing, he simply hung up.

Timothy heard the dial tone on the phone, and did the same. He returned the phone to its receptacle at the base of the center console. He then reached for a tissue from the box by his left knee, and wiped a single tear from his eye.

Johnny saw that the call was disconnected. His sadness was replaced by a strong sense of satisfaction like that of a father who had just passed on a business he had built from scratch to his son. He knew they were both in good hands.

He manipulated the directory on his cell phone and dialed the number of Jordan Scott.