“Give me a leg up,” Tommy said, “then go get your car.”
Stone and Dino tossed Tommy over the fence, then ran for the parking lot.
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AN N I K A WA S ST A N D I N G at the watercooler, sipping from a cup, when Stone grabbed her arm and hurried out the door.
“He ran,” Stone explained.
“Do we have to run, too?” she asked.
“We just drive,” Stone said. He, Annika and Dino got into the rental car, then they drove to the main road, turned right and drove along the beach.
“Why do you think he went this way?” Dino asked.
“Look at all the people and cars,” Stone replied, driving slowly.
“It’s camoufl age.”
They made their way along the beach, and when they saw Tommy, Stone and Dino got out.
“Any sign of him?” Stone asked. He heard police whoopers in the distance, approaching.
“Nope, but help is on the way. He’s got to be in this beach crowd somewhere. You stick with me.”
A couple of squad cars screeched to a halt, and Tommy gave them Vernon’s description and dispatched them in different directions. Stone happened to look back toward the airport. “Hang on, 17 6
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Tommy!” he shouted. “You’re not going to need the help.” He pointed at the red Cessna, climbing, then turning north.
“The son of a bitch doubled back!” Tommy cried.
“Call the tower and see if he filed a flight plan,” Stone said. Tommy had to call information for the number, but he got connected and asked his questions. He hung up. “No flight plan. They don’t even know his tail number; he took off without contacting the tower. Also, he didn’t have his transponder on.”
“That means air traffic control can only track him as a primary target, which is harder,” Stone said. “Call Paul DePoo. He’ll have the tail number from when Vernon checked in, and he’ll probably have a credit card number for his fuel.”
Tommy called, spoke to DePoo, then hung up. “I’ve got the tail number, but he paid cash for his fuel.”
“Then call the state police,” Stone said. “They must have aircraft that can start looking for him. But first call the Navy base. They’re ATC for the area. See if they have a course and altitude for him; that will make the search easier.”
After several minutes of trying to get the right number, Tommy finally got a controller on the line. “He’s headed due north, and he leveled off at eight thousand feet,” Tommy said. “Then they lost him.”
“Eight thousand is the best-speed altitude for that airplane, and he probably has a stiff tailwind. He can do 155 knots true airspeed, and with, say, 20 knots of wind he can reach the mainland in half an hour or so. Ask the state police to try and alert as many South Florida airports as they can, especially Fort Lauderdale, where Vernon says he’s from.”
Tommy got the state police on the line and talked for several minutes. Finally, he hung up, looking discouraged. “They’ve got only one aircraft available, and it’s in Orlando, but they’re sending it south.”
“He’ll be on the ground somewhere by then,” Stone said. “Best 17 7
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thing is for your department to start calling airports and see if anybody spots him. Then at least you’ll know what city you’re looking for him in.”
“I expect he took his duffel with him,” Tommy said, “so we don’t have the rifle. All in all, I’d say this is a total disaster.”
JIM VE R N O N DE S C E N DE D to 1,000 feet over the water, then crossed the mainland coast, flying over the Everglades. He tapped a code into the GPS for a location he had defined by longitude and latitude, then he set up an instrument approach he had defined as well, then he set the autopilot for the approach. Soon he was flying along a line that was an extension of the runway centerline, watching the GPS