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Castillo didn’t respond, instead going on: “The airplane took on fuel, and filed a flight plan to Murtala Muhammad International, in Lagos, Nigeria. And never got there.”
“Where do you think it is?” Colonel Torine asked.
“Kennedy thinks it’s in South America,” Castillo said, “by way of Yundum International . . .”
“Kennedy, who’s Kennedy?” General McNab interrupted. “And where is Yundum International?”
“In Gambia, a hundred miles south of Dakar,” Colonel Torine answered. “Another place where the more generous you are, the fewer questions are asked about where you really came from, or are really going.”
“Who’s Kennedy?” McNab pursued.
“Pevsner’s guy. American. He’s ex-FBI,” Castillo said.
“First name Howard?” McNab asked.
Castillo nodded.
“He’s renegade FBI, if it’s the same guy I think it is,” McNab went on. “A guy from the FBI was here, asking that if we ran across him anywhere to please let them know right away.”
“That’s a whole other story, sir, but I’ve seen his dossier. He hasn’t been charged with anything.”
“And I’m sure he gets a nice recommendation from Pevsner, right?” McNab said.
Castillo didn’t reply.
“Where in South America?” McNab asked.
“I’m not sure it could make it across the drink to anywhere in South America from Yundum,” Colonel Torine said. “Or from anywhere else on the West Coast of Africa. How is it configured?”
“It came out of passenger service with Continental Airlines, ” Castillo said. “All economy class, 189 seats.”
“That probably means the short-haul configuration,” Colonel Torine said as he took a pocket-sized computer from the pocket on the upper left sleeve of his flight suit. He started tapping keys with a stylus. “Typically, that would mean a max of about 8,000—there it is, 8,150 gallons. Giving it a nominal range of 2,170 nautical miles. That’s without a reserve, of course.”
He rapidly tapped more keys on the computer with the stylus.
“Suriname isn’t in here,” he announced. “But Georgetown, Guyana, is. That’s right up the coast—no more than two hundred miles from Paramaribo, the only airport I know of in Suriname that’ll take a 727. It’s 2,455 nautical miles from Dakar to Georgetown. A standard configuration just couldn’t make it.”
“The fuel bladders,” Castillo said.
“Okay, let’s factor that in,” Colonel Torine said, rapidly tapping the stylus. “A standard U.S. Army fuel bladder— that’s another assumption we’ll have to go with, that the bladders are Army bladders—holds five hundred gallons . . .”
“How did the 727 get to Africa in the first place if it doesn’t have the range to cross the Atlantic?” McNab asked, and then, as the answer quickly came to him, added, “Sorry, dumb question.”
Torine answered it anyway.
“More than likely via Gander, Newfoundland, to Shannon, Ireland. That’s the longest leg—about seventeen hundred nautical miles, well within the range of a short-haul 727. Then down across France to North Africa, and so on.”
Castillo had several unkind thoughts, one after the other. The first was that General McNab’s question was, in fact, dumb. McNab rarely asked dumb questions.
Well, Jesus, he’s just flown back and forth to North Africa and run a Gray Fox operation that went down perfectly. He’s tired. I know how that is.
And while I’m still impressed with Torine’s pocket computer, and with his dexterity in punching the keys with that cute little stylus, this is a little late in the game to start figuring how far the 727 can fly.
As if he had read Castillo’s mind, Colonel Torine looked at him and said, “I guess I should have done this earlier, but, frankly, I’ve been working on the assumption that the 727 was headed for Mecca.”
What did he say? Mecca? What the hell is that all about?
“Excuse me, sir?” Castillo said.
