Finally, he sensed—through his butt—that the plane had cleared the powerlines. He nosed the aircraft over. Rolled right a bit to increase speed. And tricked the deadly stall. But as he leveled wings, the bird plummeted toward the ground, like a kite in a downdraft.
“Open field. Shit! Crisscross to furrows.”
Down they fell, like sliding on a rope. Sucked into the ground. At the last second, Ridge yanked the nose up, hard. A desperate attempt to plant the wheels, minimize roll out, avert a cartwheel. Or worse. Thank God. It worked. The furrows—less deep than they looked. The dirt, wet. The plane slammed into the ground. Rolled forward. Jolted to a stop. Ridge and Jayne lurched forward in their seats, thrown toward the instrument panel and glass. But the seatbelts locked. Everything went quiet. Dust settled. Ridge, coughing, turned to Jayne. “You OK?”
“Yeah.” She blew out a shaky breath. “We’ll have belt bruises for a while.” She pushed hair out of her eyes and looked at Ridge. “Next time, Batman, try to use a runway.”
He laughed. “You got it.”
Ridge unlatched his door, jumped into the mud, and ran around to the passenger side. When he rounded the tail, Jayne, already on the ground, looked directly in his eyes. He stopped. She lifted a fist to her heart, tapped her breast three times. Ridge, holding her gaze, did the same. Then, she was in his arms, and he was holding onto her as if the last time.
Finally, they stepped away from the plane, and Ridge called Approach Control on his cell. He reported safely down. Minimal damage. Then he called Operations Center at Torrance Airport advising them of the forced landing. A landing Ridge figured was caused by someone screwing with the fuel control system. But he wasn’t going to say that just yet.
“We’ll come get you and bring a truck for the bird,” said Ops.
“OK,” said Ridge. “The only damage looks like a bent prop. Wings, fuselage, and gear are muddy, but seem good.”
“We’ll send Ruben with the truck. He’ll be with you in about forty-five minutes.”
He turned back to see Jayne, standing in the open field, arms wrapped around herself and head tilted back as she watched a flock of birds dip and twirl overhead. He swallowed hard. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fists clenched. His heart pounded against his ribcage, and he worked to steady his breathing,
Everything started with that damn attack. Outta nowhere. Stitches and black eyes. Set the boat on fire. And the maniac screamed at me to drop the case. But we can’t even figure out which case. Not that it matters. No way we’d drop any case for that SOB. Then a break-in at the apartment. Jayne had to put a bullet in some fucking Spiderman wannabe. Pistol shot, almost died. The office broken into. Can’t even figure out what was taken. And Terry ends up on the floor. Unconscious. Then a judge makes an inexplicable ruling that kills one of our cases. The widow and her children are left with nothing. No husband. No father. No justice. And I…I can’t get any sleep, day or night. Now the plane, just quits. 2000 feet up. Goddammit. Goddammit to hell. It’s outta control. I mean, it’s all really out of control.
At that point, Ridge swore to himself. This was the second time in a week that Jayne could’ve been killed. He was damn well going to do everything in his power to make sure there wasn’t a third.
So, he decided to call Terry. Tell him about the forced landing. But while dialing, his cell phone went dead. Battery out. Kaput. Ridge looked at the sky. Isn’t anything going to go right? Then he pulled in a deep breath and caught himself. It was just a coincidence. Shit happens. Batteries run down. But one thing was clear to him, the forced landing was no goddamn accident.
CHAPTER 38
At 6 p.m., Terry headed to Santa Barbara. He’d called Ava to tell her he had to work and would have to skip Saturday night. She wasn’t too happy with that. Since she’d shown up at his door unexpectedly, things had been…weird. Thursday, wearing a short black negligee, she’d insisted on sleeping over. Yeah, the sex was terrific, but then last night, Friday, she’d asked him to make the trek to her house in Hollywood Hills. When he got there, there were enough candles burning to fill Notre Dame Cathedral, and her perfume…wow. It was a wonderful fragrance, but maybe, just maybe, a bit too much of a good thing.
She’d also made dinner. Terry’s favorite, vegetable lasagna. She served it with a Monteraponi Chianti Classico Reserva DOCG, one of his favorite wineries in the heart of Chianti. After dinner, the outside jacuzzi, the lights of L.A. twinkling to the horizon, champagne cocktails, strawberries with whipped cream, and still more candles. Then talk turned to marriage and babies. Well, at least Ava’s talk turned to marriage and babies. Terry choked on a strawberry and said nothing. It wasn’t that he was against marriage or kids, and any guy would be proud to have Ava as a wife. But this was too much, too soon. Especially after not hearing from her for six months. It was strange and Terry needed space and time to think. And, well, he was feeling a bit smothered.
So, he’d told Ava he had to work Saturday night, and now he had to make good on that. Ridge and Jayne had headed north earlier to see a buddy from Southeast Asia. So, he figured it was time to follow-up on Todd Valentine’s lead and check out 100 Royal Hill, Santa Barbara. A road trip with the Vette would clear his mind. Hopefully, he’d decide what to do about the beautiful woman he’d loved half his life. Passionate, focused, and, frankly, scary.
Terry took the back way, Vista del Mar along the ocean, to Pacific Coast Highway through Malibu. In the ‘Bu’ he stopped for a bite at the Fishnet Café along PCH. Rustic outside-tables, the salty smell of ocean air, fresh fish fried, grilled, broiled or anyway you liked. The bonus? A dead-on view of sunset surfers at ocean’s edge. Perfect. In fact, Terry hated to leave. But duty called: 100 Royal Hill. After following the Bu coastline, north of Ventura, he caught the 101 Freeway. It took him straight into Santa Barbara. The Vette’s nav system got him the rest of the way, through town and into green hills. About 8:30 p.m. he got to the big iron gates.
A voice from a black panel near the fence said, “Can we help you?”
Terry, using his enormous investigative talents, feigned a response: “I’m looking for 80 Royal Hill. A little lost. Can you point me in the right direction?”
“Back down the driveway,” said the voice, “turn right and it should be south of us, on the hill, about a mile or so.”
Terry thanked the voice and pulled a K-turn to head back the way he came. He scanned the 8-foot ivy-covered cement walls surrounding 100 Royal Hill. Saw the rotating black panels, each with a red video-camera eye. They popped out every fifty feet or so along the top. The only question left: Did the cameras surround the whole property? Only one way to find out.
Later that night, Terry returned. He parked the Vette off road. In a flat-forested area about a quarter mile from the gates. He had on black coveralls, a black baseball cap reversed on his head, and a black backpack with a flashlight, infrared camera, and mini night-vision goggles. He also carried his .38 Special, a Smith and Wesson Model 66. And extra ammunition—three speed loaders in a black shoulder strap for snapping one at a time into his pistol, allowing six extra shots each. Staying in the thick forest, he walked the walls either side of the gates, realizing the video panels were indeed positioned all around. Best bet: Get to the wall, across the clearing, by crawling between cameras, and hope the field-of-view overlap obscured his presence.
When he reached the wall, it was simple to hoist up and over. He dropped silently to the ground on the other side. Through the nearby trees, a large circular structure came into view. About a football field away. Making his way, tree to tree, Terry approached. Low and slow. Reaching the structure, he peered in at the bottom of a window with black blinds. Shit. Something straight out of Disneyland. At the center of the room, a guard with his Doberman Pinscher sat at a circular console in a high-back swivel chair. Surrounded by three-hundred and sixty degrees of video screen, above the blinded windows. From that vantage point, the guard could monitor the entire perimeter outside the walls of 100 Royal Hill. Only lady luck could explain why Terry wasn’t detected as he crawled through that clearing up to the wall. Of course, always better lucky than good. But then never press when you get a gift. It was time for a graceful exit.
Just then, a huge oaf with muscular arms grabbed Terry from behind. He jackknifed an armlock around Terry’s throat. The oaf jerked Terry’s head back, yanking under his chin. Terry glimpsed his attacker by rolling his eyeballs back into his head. Fortunately, Terry’s backpack created separation at chest level. So, he kicked back, connected with a shin, and stomped down on the man’s instep. Hitting pay dirt loosened the grip on Terry’s neck. But just an instant. Terry pulled away, spun, jumped, and side-kicked the big shit in his temple. The attacker staggered slightly. But a split second later lunged forward, metal pipe in hand. Smashed Terry in the ribs. Solid hit. But Terry had already been back-pedaling. As soon as he regained breath, he kicked the pipe from the oaf’s hand. Then Terry spun 360 degrees and landed his heel in the attacker’s face. The big oaf stumbled back. Terry kicked him in the crotch. When he bent over, Terry smashed the edge of his hand into the oaf’s neck. Heard the collarbone break. The man collapsed just as Terry heard a barking dog.
The guard inside yelled, “What the hell? Is that you, man? What’s the goddamn racket about?” That was definitely Terry’s exit cue. He ran full speed. Dog in pursuit. Terry leaped to the top of the cement fence, just as a snarling Doberman missed him and body-slammed the wall. He jumped to the ground on the other side and, despite burning pain in his chest, raced across the clearing. Hunched over. Then penetrated thick forest, smashing branches until he reached the Vette. He jumped in. Fired it up. Sped away. Back to what he thought was the safety of L.A.
CHAPTER 39
Ridge checked his watch. 1:00. Jayne slept soundly beside him, but he’d been staring at the ceiling or the inside of his eyelids for hours. The emergency landing, seeing Lake and Miles again, thinking of Lake’s test flight, too much pizza, or perhaps a little of everything, he’d been tossing, turning and tacking all night. He took a deep breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Eventually he settled in. His feet went warm, as if slightly sunburned, and his mind drifted to Southeast Asia.
Three weeks after the Laotian missions began. Ridge and Sergeant Ed Drew were in the briefing room below ground at Ubon Air Base. Normally Hal Thomas gave the morning briefing and overnight intel reports. But today was different. His boss, Jack Miles, stood behind him. Something big was up.
“Last night our crews, flying black C-130 gunships, engaged NVA in Central Laos,” Hal began. “Near the Vietnam border. In the excitement, they lost track of ground position. Chased the enemy across into the Demilitarized Zone. Gunships, using huge search beams, lit up the targets. Hmong chopper pilots, flying close support, reported something very strange. The NVA were disappearing into huge cave openings. Near Hon Son Doong, Vietnam.”
“Later that night,” Jack Miles broke in, “one helicopter returned. Dropped in two Hmong fighters. They followed trails through deep jungles. Found openings that led one-quarter mile below surface. Inside, the caves were enormous. At one point, two football-fields-high. A football-field across. They found huge lakes. Gigantic waterfalls. Some tunnels went even deeper. Seemed to the bowels of earth.”
“More importantly,” said Hal, “the Hmong fighters found a prisoner-of-war encampment. Third level of the cave. Somehow, slipping below the fence, they pulled out one French and two American POWs. Later, outside the cave, they got into a firefight with NVA guards.”
Miles took over again. “Only one Hmong crewman got back. According to him, his buddy and at least two of the POWs were gunned down. He lost visual on the third POW and had no further contact before being airlifted by chopper.”
Jack and Hal paused and looked intently at Ridge and Ed. “We want you two to take a couple of days,” Jack said. “Photo recon the area. Get us as many close-in shots of the trails and cave openings as you can. Work a grid east to west. With photos, we can do some planning. Then if appropriate, ask Washington for a greenlight to assault the caves. Those caves are probably full of NVA troops. Armament. Stockpiles of explosives. You name it. A major attack could put out their lights for months. Maybe years. Are you in?”
Ed and Ridge eyeballed each other. Both said, “We’re in.”
Three days later, the Hmong helicopter from the previous firefight led them to the caved areas. At daybreak Ridge and Ed were on station. They covered the planned grid in four hours. One-hundred and fifty photographs, flying mostly in a right bank, so that Ed’s camera platform could point at the ground. Ed was finishing up, clicking away like mad, when a fifty-millimeter machine-gun nest opened fire. The sky filled with white streaking fireflies. The plane was riddled but held up. Then, as Ridge leveled out, Ed caught one in his right arm.
Telling Ed to hang on, Ridge banked left, lowered the nose and firewalled the throttles to pick up speed. About one-half mile from the gun nest, about to use excess speed to pop up and separate vertically from any other guns, Ridge spotted an orange signal flag on the ground. Looking at Ed, Ridge saw he’d wrapped a tourniquet around his upper arm.
