Thin Blood Thick Water (Clueless Resolutions Book 2) Page 4

  Maggie liked Jessica. She was a pretty girl who was level headed but somewhat flirtatious. Maggie was also aware that she had a slight crush on Max but sensed that Jessie probably developed such crushes quite often. After the phone conversation Maggie was satisfied that her business was in good hands. Jessie was a good worker and a great people-person. Their employer-employee association had developed into more like a big-sister, little-sister relationship. Jessie exhibited lots of professional potential and had a bright future, Maggie felt.

  Twenty minutes after Maggie left the apartment she arrived in Lyme. There wasn’t a whole lot to look at in this sleepy little settlement with a history dating back to English Colonial days. The highway exit ramp led to a two-lane paved country road which ran south to the coast on Long Island Sound, or north to Old Lyme village. The road followed the east side of a wide river/ocean inlet. Noting the symbol indicating the seaplane terminal, Maggie turned north and drove to a point where the river narrowed. There, an 18th century grist-mill village had formed around a ferry fording point, which had later been replaced by a toll bridge. The village and toll bridge became irrelevant during the New England industrial revolution and the U.S. Route 1 freeway, ‘Boston Post Road’ was built across the river, two miles south. The upper river section, not affected by ocean tidal changes, was slow-moving and placid. A former steam ship docking pier had been converted to a seaplane docking area.

  Along the river banks nearby, an inn dating back to the 1700’s still stood, and had been converted to a popular, up-scale restaurant which drew customers from ‘Historical Points of Interest’ signs the US I-95 highway. The roadside sign at the inn’s location read: “Toll Bridge Inn” “Fine Dining by Appointment”.

  “Perfect,” Maggie muttered to herself as she drove up to the entrance. She went to the entrance door and found it was locked. “Open 2:00 PM- 10:00 PM Fri- Sat-Sun.” was decaled on the tinted glass.

  “Shit!” she exclaimed, as she looked at her watch which indicated 12:10. At that point she noticed interior lights and someone walking by the host/ hostess station. She took off her right ankle boot and banged on the door. After a few minutes a maître-de type of middle-aged man appeared. He partially pushed open the locked glass door with the emergency bar.

  “I’m sorry Madame, we do not open until 2:00 PM,” he said, pointing to the lettering on the door. Maggie was not easily persuaded, she had been through this before.

  “My boss is flying in on the river in about twenty minutes. He has allotted forty minutes for a stopover and put me in charge of arranging lunch at the best restaurant in the area,” she said, acting like a nervous assistant. “He’s a big-wig ‘security service’ guy, and he’s on a priority assignment,” she said, making finger quotes in the air. “And he’s a stickler for punctuality. If I don’t set it up right, I don’t know….” Maggie’s voice trailed off as she showed a pitiful, pleading look.

  The manager hesitated. Maggie sensed an opening and went for the close;

  “I know he’ll be really grateful if you can accommodate him,” she quickly added.

  After a few seconds, the man relented, probably expecting a sizable tip.

  “He’s with what agency...?” he asked.

  Maggie held a finger to her lips. “I can’t say anymore,” she said softly.

  “Ok miss, go around the side to the riverside deck. I’ll let you in that way in about ten minutes,” he stated, with a bothered look indicated by his knitted brow. He let the door close, turned on his heel and strode back into the darkened foyer.

  So far, so good. Maggie thought to herself, At least we should have some privacy. Maggie dialed Max’s cell phone to find out where he was.

  “I just touched down,” he said. “I’m pulling up to a dock just up the road.”

  “Great. I’ll drive over and pick you up,” Maggie replied.

  An attendant was tying the seaplane to the dock post as Maggie walked over to greet Max.

  After a hello kiss and hug the two walked, on a wide flagstone path, down-stream toward the old inn. They went around to the deck entrance as Maggie had arranged and the manager came out to meet them. He wore a black bow tie and carried two white-linen placemats over one arm.

  “Good day, sir,” he addressed to Max. My name is Sven; I am the manager here at ‘The Toll Bridge Inn.’ I can seat you here on deck, or inside if you like.”

  “Outside will be fine,” Max said, pleased with all the attention.

  “We are pleased to serve you prior to dining hours. Your extremely efficient assistant here explained the situation,” he said. “I’ll bring the martinis and a quick-lunch menu.”

  Max gave a curious look to Maggie. She squeezed his arm and answered for him before he could respond.

  “I explained how you agreed to accommodate us, thank you so much, Sven,” Maggie said. She then led Max to a table beside the door, shaded from the bright sun and out of sight from the curious kitchen crew looking out at them.

  Max could sense that something had taken place between the manager and Maggie and waited for the manager to get beyond earshot to ask what was going on. Maggie told him about how she had convinced him into serving food before opening hours. With a huge grin Max listened to her describe how she hinted with feigned secrecy about his ‘important stature’, and how the manager took the bait.

  “You are something else!” Max said. “So I have to act like some upper-echelon Secret Service official all impressed with my own importance, hey?”

  “Right, just act yourself!” Maggie quipped with a smirk. Max laughed, probably too loudly, but he couldn’t stifle it.

  After they finished lunch, Max and Maggie stayed in character. Max paid the check with cash, in crisp new bills, and included a twenty dollar tip. They thanked the manager and, as they turned to leave, Max gave a quick salute. The manager just gave the couple a blank stare. While Maggie made arrangements to leave her car there until Monday, Max dealt with the Dock Manager and the Flight Coordinator. His question about Canadian Customs procedures was waved-off with “Arrangements are all set” as an answer by the Flight Manager. He was cradling his cell phone on one shoulder as he poured himself what appeared to be an iced lemonade. Without the patience to pursue the matter, Max helped Maggie stow her luggage and get seated in the co-pilot seat. He started the engine and with a wave to the Dock Manager to untie the securing ropes, proceeded to taxi out onto the river. After referencing his airport layout atlas, Max shouted to Maggie over the din of the engine and water flow;

  “Watch the heading compass and let me know when we are on heading 19,” he asked.

  After a series of horn blasts to warn boaters of a floatplane take-off, the Beaver DHC2 lifted into the air. Max and Maggie were airborne within twelve minutes after finishing lunch, and on their way to Nova Scotia.

  Chapter 8

  The Lyme, CT to Shear Water, Nova Scotia flight was a pleasant experience. Crossing New England they passed over Boston and continued eastward in the clear and docile, early-fall weather pattern. Maggie had a question.

  Earphones were necessary for the ‘Captain’ and ‘Co-pilot’ due to the wind noise of the De Havilland floatplane which was created by the float pontoons and cable rigging below the cabin, as it cruised through the air averaging 140 mph.

  “What did the heading ‘19’ mean as we took off?” she asked over the intercom. Max explained that the 19 was short for 190 degrees on the compass, almost due south.

  “Oh, while I waited at the airport on your first trip home, I asked which direction you would be coming from. They said you’d be coming in on runway 19, and pointed south. Where do the numbers come from?” Maggie asked. Max explained that the runway numbers are abbreviated compass numbers representing which compass heading that an aircraft had to be on, to follow the track of the runway on which he was landing. When the last digit is dropped the runway numbers are from 1 to 36, which is painted on the either end. The system is universal, he explained.

 
“Oh, that’s simple enough, who knew!” she exclaimed, almost wishing she hadn’t asked.

  “Well, every pilot, every boy scout, every sailor….,” he teased. Maggie gave him a look of exasperation. “Okay, smart ass” she said, but Max went on, “Every girl scout..,”

  “I get it, I get it!” Maggie said, getting a bit steamed.

  Max knew that he had over-teased this time. “Sorry Mag,” he said apologetically. Maggie was a good sport and didn’t mind kidding around but she had her limits. Max had become aware of that.

  They flew over the North Atlantic Ocean, comforted by the south coast of Maine, off to the left and below their wing. The flight was uneventful except for three separate radio reports, 20 minutes apart, from the point-to-point radar flight monitor controllers, regarding a Beechcraft Bonanza aircraft flying within one mile west of their position at 500 feet above their altitude. In each case Max acknowledged, but after he and Maggie strained to spot the aircraft, he reported that they did not have the aircraft in sight. The other flight was in a blind spot relative to their position. The neophyte self-flyers could hear the radio notifications to the Beechcraft aircraft as to the position of their DHC2 floatplane and heard the acknowledgement from the proximate flight, “The De Havilland Beaver is in sight.” Because of that, Max explained to Maggie, there was no reason to be concerned. There was one factor, however, that Max found strange. He mentioned it to Maggie after the second warning notice.

  “This is a little odd,” he said through their earphone intercom system. “A half-hour ago that Beechcraft was one mile to our rear and slightly above. Now we hear that she (referencing the obviously female pilot’s radio voice, which they had both heard) is still in the same position, directly behind us.”

  “Is that unusual?” Maggie asked.

  “It could be a coincidence, but the cruising speed of that twin-engine plane is at least thirty five miles-per-hour faster than this one. I know that because I took a check-out flight with Brad in the Beechcraft we have in the USAP fleet. It’s about the same size as this airplane but a lot faster,” Max responded. “She’s going in the same direction and should be way ahead of us by now,” he reasoned.

  After 3 hours and 10 minutes of flight they were 20 miles west of Shear Water Airport. The third and final position report was identical to the first two. Again, the Beechcraft acknowledged them but they could not see the Beechcraft.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Max said to his ‘co-pilot’ with irritation surfacing in his voice. He throttled back and lowered the wing flaps one-third and the airplane slowed. Maggie watched the air speed indicator swing back to 100mph.

  “We’re still going pretty fast,” she commented.

  “Not really,” Max said, “keep an eye up above and in front.” After approximately 3 minutes the twin-engine Beechcraft slowly passed above, slightly to the right of their position. It seemed to accelerate as it banked slightly and turned to the left. “This is De Havilland Charlie 2, I have the Beechcraft Bonanza in sight,” Max belatedly radioed to the flight monitor, as he pushed the throttle forward and raised the flaps. The other airplane was soon out of sight. There were no other airplanes within sight or within identification range after that. At that point the instruction came over the radio to change radio frequency to Halifax Flight Control as they neared their destination.

  “We’re on our own now,” Max indicated to Maggie. Following his flight plan instructions he began to descend to 1500 ft. and turn the plane on a northward course until the Nova Scotia coast line could be seen ahead.

  “According to Chip, we have to check this map and find Halifax Bay,” Max instructed. “At the opening of the bay we have to get down around 1000 ft. altitude using the console-mounted elevation radar /sonar unit. As we see a river branch off to the left, we fly up the river at 400-500 ft. elevation until we see a small island on the right. That’s when we land and taxi into a cove on the island where there’s a green-colored double-wide boathouse straight ahead. We dial this number on the cellphone and the doors will open, and we taxi right in.”

  Maggie spotted the river opening off the west side of the bay and poked Max’s shoulder as she pointed it out. Max activated the radar/sonar screen mounted on the center console, turned off the auto pilot which had maintained the aircraft’s altitude, and lowered their elevation to the 1000 ft. mark on the radar altitude display. As they entered the mouth of the narrow river, flaps were lowered to ‘landing’ position. Max throttled back and lowered the floatplane to 400ft. The island loomed up ahead but a crosswind was pushing the aircraft toward the left river bank. Applying right ruder and holding it there, Max cut the throttle and the DHC2 settled onto the choppy water surface. Moving toward the island, the small cove opening appeared on an angle to the right. While steering the floatplane into the cove, Max pointed to the cell phone number written on the map and Maggie dialed it. The boathouse doors opened as if activated by a garage door opener. Taxing slowly between the side beams, Max cut the engine to let the floatplane coast, with the propeller stopped, into an inflated canvass cushion surrounding the space for the pontoon floats. Max unbuckled, opened the pilot side hatch and exited onto the pontoon steps. He found a mooring line and fastened it. He was surprised to see that the boathouse doors had closed automatically behind them and the interior of the windowless structure became lighted. A twin-outboard motor launch with an enclosed cabin was docked in an adjoining, forward section.

  Max was mindful that, to the outside world, he, Maggie, and the Beaver floatplane, had disappeared approximately seven minutes after touchdown.

  While helping Maggie out of the co-pilot’s door, Max commented, “Automation can be a wonderful thing when it works,” referencing the high-tech mechanical features of the boathouse.

  “Amen” was Maggie’s response.

  As instructed, Max connected an electronic cable attached to a flight analysis console on the docking platform to a jack in the airplane cockpit. On the illuminated display he entered an X in the Post Flight Analysis box. The computerized analyzer began checking through the various functions of the floatplane and its engine. Max closed the cover and decided to let it process while he and Maggie made their way to the main office of the marine laboratory, on the opposite side of the river island.

  Chapter 9

  Having landed on an inlet off of Halifax Bay, and competed the predetermined taxi to the boat house on a nameless river island, Max and Maggie were ready to follow the pre-planned inspection of the Bickford Marine Laboratory, on behalf of the USAP Partnership.

  After having docked the De Havilland Beaver floatplane inside the boathouse and connected the automated flight systems analyzer, they scanned their environment. A thermometer in the boat house read 59 degrees Fahrenheit and both of the recent arrivals felt the damp chill. Max, in his thick woolen plaid shirt didn’t feel uncomfortable but Maggie, wearing a short sleeved cotton blouse and slacks, began to shiver. Holding her arms akimbo, she waited as Max retrieved their carry-on bags from the storage compartment of the floatplane. They both donned jackets and proceeded to a doorway having an entrance sign above it.

  When Max slid his USAP ID card through a card reader mounted to the right of the doorway, the door latch unlocked with a click. The door, when opened, led onto steps which ascended to a veranda-style ante room of the 1930’s Craftsman-style bungalow.

  A mechanical sounding voice from a speaker at the doorway instructed them, as they entered, to use the second floor facilities to freshen-up, if necessary, and to dial to the Bickford Laboratory office for transportation. They noticed a security system panel inside, beside the door frame, and they searched for an enable/disable button. A small split-screen monitor showed various interior views. It went blank when Maggie disabled it.

  “I’ve got to use the facilities,” Maggie said, ‘dancing a jig’, as she did in times of extreme urgency.

  “Okay, I’ll call this number and try to find out what the procedure is for a ride,” Max answer
ed rather peevishly. With a questionable glance at Max’s unusually brusque manner, Maggie proceeded to the second floor, quickly scanning the interior of the accommodations as she went.

  After entering the call number on a wall phone in the kitchen, a watchman answered Max’s call after four rings. He recognized the calling number and indicated that the laboratory was closed for business for the weekend. He had been expecting the call and asked if Max would be coming there directly, or waiting until Monday. Before Max answered, he asked about transportation and was told that the shuttle driver was off duty during closures, but the watchman instructed him on how to locate the keys to a Land Rover SUV which was parked, and filled with fuel, in the attached garage off the kitchen. A map of the local area describing restaurants, entertainment and recreational facilities was in the glove compartment.

  Max thanked the gentleman for his hospitality and then indicated that he would make a brief, after-hours stop for a quick scan of the operation this afternoon, and planned to do a full inspection Saturday, and possibly Sunday during non-business hours.

  As he replaced the phone receiver, Max felt the sudden pressure of a hard object against the back of his neck! In a flash, he instinctively tensed and started a self-defense evasive/disabling maneuver. As he crouched and began to spin with his elbow aimed at the assailant behind him, he heard a loud shriek.

  “Eeeeek! Max!..Easy, it’s me!” Maggie shouted, nervously.

  “Mag.., whoa!” he said loudly with a blank stare. “You caught me by surprise. I…ah, are you ok?

  “Shhh, calm down. I’m sorry, but you are wound up tighter than a drum,” Maggie said soothingly. “I was thinking that we could use a laugh,” she continued softly.

  “I know,” Max said solemnly. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right about that.”

  “But I should have come up with something less threatening than a possible gun to your head, I guess,” Maggie said with genuine regret, while waving her cell phone to show what the ‘gun’ was.