White Cargo by Stuart Woods Page A

you,” Cat replied. “Why are we landing at Marathon?”
    â€œWe’re not,” Bluey said.
    Silly question, Cat thought. He should be getting used to this by now. Bluey had pretended to take off from Everglades City, and now he would pretend to land at Marathon. His flight plan was on record. Their next stop would be the Guajira Peninsula of Colombia.
    An hour later Bluey set up a landing at Marathon, called Flight Services and canceled his flight plan, then roared down the runway, ten feet above the ground. He switched off the rotating beacon, the navigation lights, the landing light, and the wingtip strobes, climbed to two hundred feet, and turned steeply to the southeast, flashing over the narrow island. Immediately, clear of the land, hepushed the yoke forward and dived at the water, causing Cat to close his eyes and grit his teeth in anticipation of the impact.
    â€™When nothing happened, he opened his eyes. “What’s our altitude?” he asked shakily.
    â€œAbout fifteen feet, I reckon,” Bluey drawled.
    Suddenly they blew past a sailing yacht, no more than a hundred feet from the wingtip on Cat’s side.
    â€œWatch out for boats,” Bluey said, tardily.
    â€œSure thing,” Cat said. “How long are we going to maintain this altitude?”
    â€œAll the way past Cuba to Hispaniola,” Bluey said. “Take the airplane.”
    Cat lunged for the yoke as Bluey turned his attention to the loran, punching in another set of coordinates.
    â€œDon’t let her climb!” Bluey commanded.
    Cat realized he had been unconsciously pulling the yoke back. He tried to settle down.
    â€œWatch the water, not the altimeter,” Bluey said. A moment later he took the controls back from a relieved Cat.
    Bluey had told Cat they would be flying around Cuba, down the Windward Passage between that island and Haiti, but he had not told him they would be doing it at fifteen feet. Cat found it impossible to relax.
    â€œThere’s a balloon back in the Keys on a fourteen-thousand-foot cable,” Bluey said. “They run it up and use it to look down with radar. It’s not up tonight, but we’ve got to stay under both the American and Cuban radar until we’re in the clear. I don’t want a couple of Fidel’s MIGs using us for target practice.”
    For nearly two hours the airplane skimmed the sea, while Cat’s eyes roamed the dim horizon looking for ships and small craft. At one point he saw some lights offto the right. He assumed they were Cuba, but he didn’t want to distract Bluey by asking. Later, lights appeared dead ahead.
    â€œThere’s Haiti,” Bluey said. “We’ll be climbing shortly.”
    The lights drew closer, and Bluey climbed a couple of hundred feet, Then a beach flashed beneath them, and the airplane began to climb in earnest.
    â€œThere’s a nine-thousand-foot mountain out there,” Bluey explained.
    â€œIs nobody going to notice a strange airplane over Haiti?” Cat asked.
    â€œOh, sure,” Bluey said. “We’re on American defense radar now. They’ll think we’re a Haitian airplane taking off. We’re on Haitian radar, too, if they’re awake, which I doubt, but Haiti doesn’t have an air force, so what the hell?”
    Clear of the island, Bluey set the autopilot’s altitude hold at nine thousand feet, leaned out the engine, and tapped in a new longitude and latitude. “That’s Idlewild,” he said. “We’ll be there in about six hours. Our window is between seven-thirty and eight o’clock. I built us an extra half hour into the flight plan for safety.”
    â€œSafety?”
    â€œIf you arrive early or late at Idlewild, they shoot you down when you try to land,” Bluey explained cheerfully. “Touchy lot.”
    â€œI see,” Cat said. “Have you flown in there often?”
    â€œI guess I’ve made a couple