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I think I should be able to sit this thing down without any trouble. The approach is low and slow, and 34R is 9,501 feet long and 51 feet wide.
But Fernando was right. I really shouldn’t be flying this by myself with only a few hours of on-the-job training.
The approach control operator’s voice in his headset brought him to attention.
“Gulfstream Three-Seven-Nine,” the controller said, “be advised that an Air Force F-15D has just begun his takeoff roll on 34R.”
Before Castillo could open his mouth, Miller responded to the controller: “Thank you. We have him in sight.”
Ahead of them, a dull-silver-painted Air Force fighter was moving with ever-increasing speed down the runway. It lifted off and almost immediately raised its nose so steeply that the entire aircraft seemed to be under them. The fuselage—just wide enough to hold the cockpit—was mounted on the leading edge of the swept-back wing between the intakes for the engines. There were two vertical stabilizers mounted on the rear of the wing.
The pilot kicked in the afterburners and the plane began to climb at an astonishing speed.
“Look at that sonofabitch go!” Miller said, softly, in awe.
“What’s a D?” Castillo asked.
“The trainer,” Miller replied. “Two seats.”
“I wonder what it’s doing at Midland-Odessa?” Castillo said, then added, “I think this is the time we put the wheels down.”
Ten seconds later, Miller reported, “Gear down and locked.”
As Castillo taxied the Gulfstream up to the parking ramp before the Avion business-aviation building, Miller pointed out the window.
“Why do I think that’s why that F-15D was here?” he asked.
Colonel Jacob Torine, USAF, wearing a yellow polo shirt and khaki slacks, was walking from the building toward them.
“Go let him in, Dick,” Castillo said. “I’ll shut it down.”
Ninety seconds later, Colonel Torine stuck his head in the cockpit.
“I don’t recall giving you permission, Colonel, to play by yourself in our airplane.”
“And I didn’t know the Air Force let old men like you even ride in airplanes like that F-15D,” Castillo said, offering Torine his hand.
“Only if they’re full-bull colonels,” Torine said. “You think that hard landing you just made did any serious damage?”
“That was a greaser, Jake, and you know it.”
“Beginner’s luck,” Torine said. “Agnes called me and said you were headed out here and probably to Gaucholand. She didn’t tell me why.”
“We found out who sent the money to the AALs in Pennsylvania to buy their bomb shelter,” Castillo said. “It turns out he went to Texas A&M with Fernando.”
“Interesting,” Torine said. “I guess that explains why Fernando—and the three Secret Service guys in the Avion building—are here. What happens next?”
“I spent most of the trip out here thinking about that,” Castillo said. “I have an idea. It’s probably not a very good idea, but it’s all I could come up with.”
“And are you going to share this not very good idea with me?”
Castillo finished unstrapping himself and stood up. He met Torine’s eyes. “Yeah. And after—to use fighter jock terminology—I’m shot down in flames, you can tell me where I went wrong.”
“I don’t know,” Torine replied. “Your flying skills leave something to be desired, but every once in a good while you have a reasonably good idea.”
Castillo motioned that they go into the fuselage.
Miller was sitting on the edge of one of the left forward-facing leather seats near the door. Doherty was sitting across the aisle from him. Delchamps and Yung were sprawled on the couches. They made room for Torine and Castillo.
