Death is Not the Final Chapter

By G. Rehder

Jason Orr had the perfect job to utilize his knowledge and skills as a former Army Special Ops officer and Secret Service agent for past presidents of the United States. His task, keep one of the world’s wealthiest men, Andre Sarnev, safe during his global travels. Sarnev International had investments and offices worldwide, and Jason’s past experience made him a great asset to the company and Andre’s security. When Jason finally had time off to spread his father’s ashes in the Kvichak River in Alaska, his private time was short-lived. He was summoned back to the main Bermuda estate. Through blackmail, his life was going to take another turn. He was about to be coerced into an illicit scheme that would tax his skills and put him in the most dangerous position he had ever encountered. Not only his life, but the lives of people he loved and cared about would be woven into this global scheme. Would they survive? Would he be able to protect them? He would have to draw on all his strengths and abilities to win the battles that lay ahead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781646540044

Book preview

Chapter 1

He guided the canoe downstream and moved it into a hidden cove. He stepped out into the cold green shallows and pulled it ashore. The clear water lapped at its sides as he rested it securely on the sandbar. He then moved into the deep tundra brush that grew along the river. He felt his presence would not be detected as he lay down on his belly and reached for the scope that rested in a sheath on his belt. He pulled it out and sighted in on what he was looking for. He breathed slowly as he watched his quarry, being keenly aware of the sounds around him. His sidearm was holstered at his side in case of a bear encounter, which he knew would end his mission.

He lay quietly for minutes, listening for any motor sounds or voices. He heard none, only the breeze rustling through the bush and the river current to his right. He again looked through the scope and caught the diver getting ready to go backward off the side of his boat. He was suited up in a black wet suit, a mask, and snorkel. He saw the splash but did not hear it as the wind was at his back, blowing in the diver’s direction. He watched the diver’s snorkel moving between the shore and his boat as he placed buoys. He was using them to alert any boat traffic of his presence.

The hunter got up and moved to the canoe, stepped in it, and pushed off into the river. He stealthily headed toward the diver’s boat. At the bottom of his canoe lay a specially designed tool, a boat propeller welded to a three-foot metal pole with rubber grips to prevent it from slipping from his hands. Watching the diver’s snorkel, he guided the canoe skillfully with the paddle and timed his approach to the diver’s arrival on the surface next to his boat. He was eight feet upstream when the diver surfaced. The diver was facing his boat and was unaware of the hunter’s approach.

The diver was ready to lift himself into the boat as the hunter struck. He stood up with the weapon in his right hand, balanced, took a hard swing at the diver’s head. The contact was solid. He felt the crack through the pole handle. He wobbled after the strike and almost fell out of the canoe. He sat down quickly and looked at the diver’s head. Blood leaked out from the tear in the black head cover and streamed out into the water. The diver had gone limp, facedown with his arms floating out to his sides. The hunter paused a moment, looking for signs of life. There were none visible. All movement had stopped.

He moved the canoe next to the diver and pulled the body close to guide it toward the dive boat. He then straddled the canoe and dive boat and secured the two together with a rope. He stepped all the way into his quarry’s boat and steadied himself. He reached down and grabbed the diver under his armpits and lifted him slowly and haphazardly into the boat. He positioned the body so it appeared the diver had crawled in on his own with his legs and fins dangling over the side. He pulled back the dive suit around the neck and felt for a pulse. There was none.

He sat quietly listening, no man-made sounds, just the wind and the current swirling around and between the two boats. He got back into his canoe, but before paddling downstream, he assessed the scene. He wore surgical gloves, no prints, he had his weapon which he would lose down river, no one was in sight, a clean kill. It was a good day.

*****

The death of her husband, Brian, tormented her nights. When sleep finally came, she had different dreams of him. The most common one would be of her looking down at him. His wet suit-clad body was floating facedown in the icy water. Slowly he would be turned by the river current, his arms reaching out with curled blue fingers like frozen claws grabbing for her hand. His eyes were wide open, speaking to her from behind his fogged Aquaegis face mask. It was then she would wake. She sat up quickly, fear gripping her. Heart pounding, her mind would race. She knew a lot of what he knew, but he had kept things from her for her protection. The Smith & Wesson .38 special lay beside her on Brian’s side of the bed. She found no comfort in its cold black steel.

As Ann descended the well-worn stairway, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee greeted her. Her timer started the pot at 0600 every morning. She had carefully ground the beans the night before to the right consistency. Her goal, to extract the maximum flavor and caffeine from the dark French roast.

The temperature outside was thirty-nine degrees on this June morning. Her cabin had stayed twenty degrees warmer, thanks to her routine of loading her airtight stove with quartered rounds of black spruce before bed. As she got to the bottom of the stairs, her crossbred husky, Max, rose from his favorite rug by the door. He had become her best friend and protector since Brian had passed away. He had been Brian’s dog, and it took her some time to win him over.

Max’s blue eyes and wagging tail gave her purpose on mornings like this. He brushed her thigh with some weight, looking for her attention. She bent down and took his head between her hands.

Let me get some coffee, boy, and we will go out.

He moved to the door and paced. Ann put on her Arc’teryx coat, grabbed a mug from the open cupboard, and poured it two-thirds full.

As she opened the front door, the cold air chilled her face. The smell of the falling rain was refreshing. Max bolted out and down the steps, nose high in the air, getting the scent of something that had roamed around the cabin the night before. She moved to the porch rail, slowly sipping her hot brew. The mug warmed her hands as she looked out toward the Kvichak (pronounced kwee-jack) River. Low clouds and light rain layered a mist over the tundra and the rippling icy water. Her cabin was upslope, about a hundred yards from the river’s grassy banks, and gave her privacy.

The cabin’s builder, Jack Orr, set it back on the far end of the parcel, hoping to give it space from the hundreds of fly fisherman that waded into the river’s shallows during the rainy summer months. Ann appreciated the placement and distance. It gave her a buffer from the outboard motor noise that ran early morning and late afternoons. There were so many tributaries that fed into the river, and the fishing guides had favorite spots that they boated clients to in the mornings and then back to their lodges later in the day.

The Kvichak, one of the favorite fisheries in Alaska, runs seventy river miles from Lake Iliamna to Bristol Bay. The river drainage from the lake has an abundance of sockeye salmon and various varieties of trout. The spawning habitat provided by Lake Iliamna and Lake Clark has drawn the sockeye back for thousands of years.

A lot of fishing lodges had sprung up on the river and its tributaries over the years. Brian’s pressure on them to promote catch and release had increased a healthy population of the sockeye. This had been Brian’s mantra as a biologist and his goal to be able to have accurate monitoring of fish migration. The exception to catch and release, in Brian’s mind, was for the native tribes like the Athabaskans.

The day promised more rain. Her gauge had already recorded over an inch this month, and it was only the tenth. After living here for twelve years, she knew the seasons well and was adept to adjusting to the weather. As a writer, the isolation gave her focus. The only real distractions were during this time of year. The population of Levelock, Alaska, and its surrounding watershed increased dramatically. It brought anglers from around the world.

Today was a good day to get some work done, but the company coming within the next week or so gave her pause. She had not seen Jason Orr for over three years. She received his attorney’s letter months ago. It formally informed her of the death of Jack Orr, the owner of her cabin. It assured her that the lease agreement on the property would stay in effect for the three years left on its term. It also stated that Jason Orr had taken ownership of the property through his father’s estate. Three days ago, she had heard from her good friend, Bo Cavanaugh. He told her that Jason had planned the visit. He only indicated that his purpose for his visit was to inspect the cabin and its surrounding property.

Jack Orr was Brian’s biology teacher at Stanford University. He was also his mentor and friend. He had offered Brian the opportunity to move to his cabin on the Kvichak River to pursue a career as a marine biologist. Jack was also instrumental with his many contacts in Alaska in getting Brian a job with the ADFG. At the time of his death, Brian was heading up its fisheries’ research division in the Bristol Bay region. The two men Ann loved and respected most in her life had both been taken away in the last year. Jack, by natural causes, and Brian, in her mind by greed.

She knew little of Jason and had met him only once while he and Jack were on a fly-fishing trip on the river. They had stayed at the Alaskan Outdoorsman Lodge and joined them one day at the cabin for lunch. Jason seemed like a serious man to her. He was never at ease the whole afternoon, like he was waiting for something to happen. But he was pleasant to her and Brian.

Max came back onto the porch and sat next to her. She reached down and scratched his head as his tongue hung out and his panting slowed. She often found herself talking to him as a confidant and old friend.

I admit, Max, I am not looking forward to this upcoming visit. It’s only going to distract me from my work, like I am not distracted by Brian’s death already.

As her publisher’s deadline loomed closer, it had been difficult to stay focused on her writing. Her mind would wander to happier times and how life used to be when Brian was here with her. She was also obsessed with her perception that Brian’s death was not an accident.

Well, Max, let’s go inside. I need more coffee. She could only hope that today would be a productive one.

Chapter 2

I awoke to silence, no vibrating cell. It was turned off. No wake-up call from Peter on the room phone. I unplugged it. My smart watch was in the guest bath, and the door was shut. The advanced satellite phone that I brought with me was in my go bag without the battery installed. I never unpacked my laptop.

I lay there a few moments, enjoying the peace. The past fourteen months had been nonstop work. I had been on five continents, numerous countries, and more hotel rooms than I could count.

Six hours of sleep, and I was still tired. I rolled out of the king-size bed and crossed through the French doors into the living area. The carpet was thick under my bare feet, and I felt its warm fiber between my toes. I hit the button to open the curtains. The shades parted, revealing the first light of morning and the waters of the bay.

I could see the Golden Gate and the line of headlights twinkling from the traffic crossing over into the city. It was a 180-degree view that stretched out before me from my corner room. The Sarnev Corporation held this Ritz-Carlton suite year-round. A 1,980-square feet of luxury, a stocked pantry, and a wet bar. Two marble-layered bathrooms with hydro-jet tubs and separate showers and a guest bedroom. It also had one of the best views of San Francisco.

I needed some time even if it was brief. The grief over my father’s passing had been set aside. I had not allowed myself time to mourn or, for that matter, feel anything. I was wrapped in my work and, for a while, thought it was a blessing. Since Andre Sarnev had unexpectedly canceled two weeks of scheduled meetings, I now was allowed some downtime.

It was unusual for the boss to cancel anything. He always laid things out far in advance, which gave my security details a great advantage. Every move was well planned, and every detail was checked and double-checked. The security for one of the richest men in the world rested on me whenever he traveled.

I arrived in the city early the day before for a meeting with my father’s attorney. Most of his estate details had been worked out prior to this meeting through e-mail and phone conversations. Yesterday, I signed lots of paperwork at his office in Burlingame, finalizing my father’s estate.

Now, my mother and father were both gone. My younger sister and I were the only remaining family. My main focus on this trip was to pick up my father’s ashes and fulfill his final request.

The view and a fresh-brewed cup of coffee gave me peace for the next ten minutes. Then, my own drive and schedule kicked in, and I began to gather and turn all my communication devices back on. As expected, Peter had left two texts on my cell. He was concerned that he couldn’t reach me.

He was two doors down the hall, and he respected my privacy. He did not come knocking. He was a great assistant. I relied on him in most of my planning strategies. I could count on him to carry out the scheduling details.

I had briefly considered flying commercial from SFO to ANC. The desire to distance myself from work and avoid any corporate assistance was soon overshadowed by reality. Peter had investigated commercial flights, and right away, we both saw drawbacks.

First, there were no nonstops. All had layovers at SeaTac. Second, my cargo would never make it through TSA screening. Third, the potential loss of my bags in a flight transfer was never going to happen. The fact that my father’s ashes could be out of my sight and my control for even a second was, in my mind, inconceivable.

There were many benefits to my job, and access to corporate properties and assets was on the list. Like the hotel suite I just woke up in. We had several corporate jets hangared at SFO in case Andre or other company executives came to the city. They were also available for use by upper corporate employees, and I fell under that category. The smallest jet was one of many Sarnev aircrafts. A Cessna Citation Sovereign, its home base was at SFO. It was also available on my needed dates.

Taking a vacation from Sarnev International was never called a vacation. It was referred to as off time or off the books. It had been over two years since I had off time.

Answering Peter’s text, I gave him a go time of 0630. I hit the shower and slowly moved the temp from hot to tepid to cold. I needed another jolt to my body besides the caffeine I had already consumed.

The day called for casual dress considering my destination. I put on 5.11 khaki cargo pants, one of their long-sleeve black tees, and my newly acquired KEEN Targhee II hiking boots. I checked the pantry and found fresh raisin bagels and newly ground almond butter. I toasted both halves, poured some tomato juice, and took my breakfast to a window table.

Since my check-in the prior evening, my time in the room would be less than ten hours, and I wanted to take in the view before departing. Looking northwest at two landmasses connected by one of the engineering marvels of man, the Golden Gate, I was considering what would lie in store for me on this journey I was about to take.

Finishing breakfast, I checked my two bags. My go bag contained my .50-caliber Desert Eagle and one hundred rounds of ammo. My new sat phone was an Iridium Push-to-Talk that connected me with my men and corporate contacts wherever I traveled. It also had compact solar panels I could carry on my pack to be used for charging the phone when I was in the Alaskan bush. However, the Alaskan weather this time of year could prove challenging for this accessory, so I made sure it was fully charged and turned off until needed.

I had my usual survival gear, passport, and twenty tenth-ounce gold coins that were securely stowed in the numerous pockets lining the interior of the bag. My personal bag held outdoor clothing, a shave kit, and my father’s fly-fishing rod and reel with custom tied flies. But most importantly, a brushed copper urn containing the ashes of Jack Orr with an inscription that read, Jack F. Orr born 2/21/1931, deceased 5/17/2017. Loving husband to Rachel and father to Jason and Sharon. A lover of nature and a true outdoorsman.

A knock at my door alerted me to Peter’s arrival. He had cleared a bellhop with a cart ready to receive my bags.

How was your night boss? Peter asked.

Quiet and peaceful but way too short and yours? I replied.

Comfortable, Peter simply stated, then added, You know I will enjoy staying here while you are gone. Maybe we should arrange more layovers here on our future travels to the West Coast.

I agreed.

We moved to the private elevator that went from the twenty-fifth floor to the lobby or the private garage. As we stepped in, the bellhop pushed in the cart. I handed him a twenty, and he turned and moved down the hallway. We were always security minded, and even though the bellhop was cleared, an elevator is not where you want a confrontation. Peter hit the button to the garage.

I arranged for Seth to be our driver. He’s waiting downstairs with our car, Peter advised.

I like Seth, good man. Good job, Peter, I said.

Seth told me our arrival at our hangar with current traffic will be 0715. The plane is fueled and ready upon your arrival.

The elevator descended quickly, and we were at the garage level in seconds.

As the doors opened, I assessed the area before exiting. I noticed two other vehicles besides our black Lexus LX 570 armored SUV. Both had clear windows, and I saw no other occupants. I glanced at Seth who stood back several feet. He nodded an all-clear. I was confident he had cleared the garage before we arrived. And, of course, as matter of protocol, Peter and Seth were well armed.

As he greeted us, his comments were brief.

Good to see you again, Mr. Orr. We are on schedule, and I anticipate no issues. Always a pro, Seth limited his small talk.

The SUV was fifteen feet from the elevator, and before we reached the car, Seth had opened both back doors, and Peter and I entered quickly. The doors closed behind us, and Seth stowed my bags in the back and slid into the driver’s seat.

Peter would ride with me to the airport and then return to the Ritz until I returned in a few days. He had lots of work on his laptop and already compiled research to keep him busy. I hoped he would take some time to venture out and explore the city. I encouraged him to do so. He told me he would, but I knew his work ethic would prevail, and he would spend most of his time in his spacious room on task.

Right on schedule, we pulled off 101 onto an airport service road that took us to a private gate. Seth punched in a code, and we proceeded toward an unmarked hangar. An airport security vehicle watched our approach, recognized our plates, and let us pass unhindered.

The Cessna Citation Sovereign was outside the hangar with the engines warming. This plane had a range of over 3,000 miles and a speed of 529 mph. I would fly uninterrupted to ANC in a little over four hours. That would put me in Alaska a little before 1200 hours.

We parked by the hangar, and Seth came around and opened my door. He went to the back, retrieved my bags, and waited for me to finish my conversation with Peter.

Try to have a little fun while I am away. Don’t hole up in your room, staring at your laptop and charts all day long. I’ll keep my sat phone powered off till this evening. I will call you if you leave a message. Otherwise, I’ll check in periodically. I added my thanks and told him I would see him in about a week barring any emergencies.

I exited the SUV and crossed the tarmac toward the plane. My pilot, Eric Mackey, better known as the Mack, met me at the boarding steps. He called out to me over the engine noise.

Jason, what’s this I hear about ‘off time’ for Mr. Security?

Yeah, good to see you too, Mack. I hear you are on off time every day.

Joking aside, Mack and I were tight. He was a Navy veteran who had flown dozens of sorties in Desert Storm between August and December of 1990. I trusted his piloting abilities without question. He was included whenever possible in my security details and was well respected in the Sarnev organization.

I brought Eleana onboard for your attendant needs, and Bob Irwin is my copilot. Oh, and I also have your favorite bourbon in the galley as an ‘off-time gift’ to take with you into the bush.

What? You got Blade and Bow on this short notice?

Yeah, well, I must admit I keep it in reserve since I heard that Andre has also acquired a taste for it. You know my butt would be hung out if the boss showed up, and I wasn’t well stocked with his favorite wines, bourbon, and caviar.

You’re not only a great pilot, Mack, but a smart man.

I boarded the plane where Eleana greeted me with her smiling brown eyes. Her brown hair was pulled back tight behind her head, which accentuated her attractive face. She gave me a hug.

Mr. Orr, I am so saddened to hear of your father’s passing. He was such a kind man.

Thank you, Eleana. I know you only met him once, but you made an impression. He spoke of you after that and often asked about you.

Eleana was born in Russia and was a great asset to our team. Fluent in English, French, Chinese, Farsi, and of course, her native tongue, Russian. She was also fit and well trained in martial arts and a variety of weapons. She was not afraid to employ her skills if needed.

I am glad you are taking time off, sir. Are you otherwise well? she asked.

I am tired, but hopefully, this break will be restful and bring me some closure. I do miss my dad. Even though we spent little time together these last few years, we did talk often on the phone. The last time we were together was three years ago in Alaska. I met him for a fly-fishing trip up on the Kvichak River. He had been there for about a week at the Alaskan Outdoorsman Lodge. I could only stay a few days. It was the last time I saw him face-to-face. It’s my final destination today.

*****

My exhaustion followed me onto the aircraft, and Eleana read it in my eyes. She took my arm and guided me to a seat midplane. The plane held nine passengers, but I was the solitary occupant on this flight.

After I sat down, she turned into the back of the plane and quickly returned with a pillow and blanket.

If you are hungry, I have a full galley, or I know it is early, but I could pour you a drink to help you relax and maybe sleep.

You talked me into it. Forget the food. I already ate. How about a Blade and Bow? Neat.

A drink was set before me in seconds, a short glass, the amber liquid’s aroma drifting up to my nose.

Eleana always impressed. Her demeanor was warm but very professional. Andre always requested her and Mack as a flight crew when he flew on this side of the globe.

As we taxied, I sipped my drink. We waited on the runway for clearance, and my thoughts ranged from the task that lay ahead to upcoming assignments. By the time we took off, the drink was having its desired effect. As I settled back in my seat, I took a final sip and thought of the copper urn stowed safely in the cargo hold.

So many thoughts occupied my heart, something my heart was not used to. Taking him home to the Kvichak brought back so many memories. He loved that river and the peace it brought him. Fishing its waters, wading out into the current, feeling the cold water’s movement on his legs. Casting out, watching his hand-tied flies drifting upon the ripples was, as he said many times, as close to heaven as he could get on earth.

As I began to drift off, I heard myself say aloud, I’m taking you home, Dad!

Chapter 3

He had been summoned! The text he had received from Joseph Lehan at 1710 the evening before gave detailed instructions on times and the mode of transportation for an unscheduled meeting with Andre Sarnev at his Bermuda estate.

Dr. Sanei was nervously scurrying through his home office, trying to put together whatever he felt relevant to present to Andre. He continually glanced out the leaded glass windows, looking out over his circular driveway toward the gate, waiting for the limo to arrive. Even though a signal would alert him to the car’s approach, his frequent glances were just another nervous distraction to what lay ahead.

He had originally planned a day of golf at the Maidstone Club but canceled his tee time early this morning. And yes, it would have been much more enjoyable to be on a fairway taking in the cool ocean breeze blowing in off the Atlantic.

His home in East Hampton was beachfront. The back of the house had a south easterly exposure overlooking the sea. The unobstructed view looked over brushy dunes and then a wide expanse of white sandy beach leading down to the water. Although the home was owned by Sarnev International, his residency here was all part of his generous salary.

Sanei was the personal physician to Andre Sarnev and a handful of top officials of the company. He had left his private practice in Manhattan five years ago to join Sarnev, with a salary package he could not turn down. At the time, he had been going through a rough divorce when Lehan had approached him with an offer.

The salary package also came with access to one of the best legal firms in the country. They had ways to hide his salary and benefits, like his use of this East Hampton residence. At that time, it was beneficial in limiting his soon-to-be ex-wife’s divorce settlement.

After consulting with his practice partners, they had all agreed it would be in everyone’s interest for Sanei to take the new position. He sold his interest in the practice to his partners for one dollar. Another hard hit to his wife’s ambitions of taking him to the cleaners.

Financially, it was a great decision, but emotionally, he paid a price. His twelve-year-old daughter Sylvi would live with her mother, and Sanei would have only one weekend a month for visitation. He loved Sylvi and missed her not being around him every day. The minimal contact with her mother Rachael was a blessing.

The expected limo had to pick up his assistant, Maria Simpson, from her apartment in Sag Harbor first. Maria was his organizer and a registered nurse. She had gotten her degree from Johns Hopkins and, because of her skills, was a reluctant concession by his partners to allow her to join him with Sarnev.

She kept Sanei’s limited client pool’s records up-to-date and arranged for any testing or treatments needed by them. The job offered them both a lot of free time besides their generous salaries. He knew he was fortunate to have her.

A signal buzzed, and a glance at a screen on his desk showed a black limo approaching the gate at the end of West Dunne Lane. His heart began to beat a little faster. He was as prepared as he could be. He was glad Maria was going with him for backup.

He pressed a button on the monitor’s console and opened the front gate. The car rolled slowly onto the drive and around to the front door. The driver stayed in the vehicle, and Maria exited the Mercedes back seat. She walked up the steps to the door. As she approached, it opened, and Sanei stood there, briefcase in hand.

Are you ready for this? he asked her.

I don’t know how you can be ready for a meeting like this, she stated.

Do you have your notes?

She replied, My brief is in the car.

That was all he needed to know.

He set the house alarm, and they walked to the car together. He opened her door, walked around, and entered the back seat on the driver’s side. He acknowledged the driver with a good morning. The driver nodded, and they were on their way.

The East Hampton Airport was close, and minutes later, they were there. The Mercedes pulled in and proceeded to the north end of the field were a Gulfstream G650 ER was waiting on the runway. The driver stopped about thirty yards from the plane and announced, Have a good flight.

Sanei was taken aback that the driver did not even get out and open their doors. They both exited and moved toward the plane. A single pilot stood at the bottom of the entry stairs and welcomed them over the noise.

I am your copilot on this fight. The captain is in the cockpit finishing the pre-flight. We will be wheels up soon.

They entered the cabin, and it was empty even though it could hold up to eighteen passengers. The copilot shut the outside hatch, turned to them, and informed them that there would be no attendant on the flight today.

We are only two hours from Bermuda. Have a seat, buckle up, and enjoy the flight. When the captain tells you that you can leave your seats, feel free to anything in the galley at the back of the plane.

With that, he entered the cockpit and shut the door. They looked at each other simultaneously and exhaled.

Here we go, Sanei stated.

When they had entered the cabin, they had taken two seats at the back of the plane that faced each other. There was a retractable mahogany table between them. Sanei pulled it out. They were making frequent eye contact, and Sanei raised his fingers to his lips to indicate no verbal contact. He then reached into the brief at his feet and pulled out a notepad, then a gold pen from his shirt pocket. He began to write. When he was finished, he turned the notepad on the table for Maria to read.

We might be taped, he had written. Let’s share and compare notes, but keep our speaking to general responses.

Maria reached down, took the pad, and responded by writing, I agree.

Sanei pulled out a file with a cover labeled James Dickerson, an anonymous name used for Andre Sarnev on all his medical reports, tests, and information. He opened it, put it on the table, and again turned it toward Maria.

She picked it up, sat back, and began to scan the pages inside. During the twelve minutes she studied it, she looked up at Sanei several times with a questioning, cocked eyebrow. When she was done, she laid it back on the table, picked up the notepad, and wrote.

This was my greatest fear. I have done a lot of research since we spoke two days ago. But everything is premature. Further testing is needed.

Sanei nodded yes. He took up the pad and wrote, We are faced with a no-win here! Anything we have written on this pad needs to be flushed in the lavatory before we land. This meeting will be hell.

Chapter 4

The Cessna Citation touched the ground at the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport. It landed at 1155 hours. As the plane taxied onto the private plane’s runway, it slowly turned and rolled into position by a small hangar. Mack shut down the engines, and I looked out the window to see my good friend and bush pilot, Bo Cavanaugh.

Bo was a burly man, six foot three inches, probably 280 pounds. He stood next to his ’57 Willys Jeep Wagoneer, looking toward the plane. Bo had served in Vietnam from 1968 until 1971, was a Purple Heart recipient, and was the best damn copter pilot in theater according to Bo.

As I peered out the window looking Bo’s way, I thought the man looked a lot older than when I saw him three years ago. His oversize handlebar mustache was all gray, along with the hair sticking out from under his camo ball cap. As usual, he had on his aviator chrome lens sunglasses that hid his eyes. His trademark cigar dangled unlit from his mouth.

When the plane came to a stop, I quickly got out of my seat and moved to the cabin hatch. As Eleana opened it, I jumped to the tarmac, not waiting for the stairs to be lowered. I moved swiftly toward Bo who raised his arms to embrace me.

I felt like his son. My father Jack had been one of Bo’s best friends for many years. They both shared a love for Alaska. Bo enveloped me with a strong, hard bear hug, then held me back at an arm’s length.

Damn, son, you put on some pounds. That rich lifestyle you’re living is making you soft.

I retorted, Well, Bo, you’re ugly as ever. Then, I slapped my friend’s shoulder with an open hand. It was good to see him after all this time.

The stairs dropped from the plane, and Mack and Eleana exited. I turned and looked their way.

Bo, I want to introduce you to Eric Mackey, a fellow veteran and Sarnev’s best pilot. I then took Eleana’s hand and said, This beautiful lady is Eleana. Don’t even think about messing with her. She’ll have you in an arm bar and on the ground before you know what hit you.

Mack extended his hand to Bo who gripped it tightly in his weathered paw. Bo moved to Eleana and removed his hat. He held out his hand. Glad to meet you, ma’am.

Eleana shook his hand, then nodded toward Bo’s hat. In her Russian accent, she said, I see you have a sense of humor, Mr. Bo.

Above the rim of his hat stitched in red letters, it read, Real Pilots Do It in the Bush. He looked down at the hat. His face turned red around his mustache, highlighting the small amount of cheek that was still visible.

You know, I’ve been wearing this hat so long, I forgot what was on it.

Eleana laughed and then said, I am not offended, Mr. Bo. It is an honor to meet such a good friend of Jason.

With that, Mack unlatched the lower storage door on the belly of the plane and removed my bags.

Bo moved forward and asked, Which one of these is Jack in?

Mack handed Bo the right bag.

Bo looked at it and said, Welcome home, Jack. I’m here to fly you back to the Kvichak.

He carried the bag to the back of the Willys and placed it delicately into the back. I grabbed my other bag, looked at Mack and Eleana, and told them, I will see you in a week, if not sooner. You know how things can change. Have a great flight home, you two. I am grateful for your support and friendship.

Eleana hugged me and said, Be safe, my friend. You’ll be in my prayers.

Mack shook my hand and said, I know what this trip means to you. I hope all goes as you want it to.

Thanks, my friend. I turned and walked to the Willys.

Of course, it was green, clean, and spit-shined. The exception being flecks of mud and sand thrown up on the lower fenders by its oversized tires. Both Bo and I jumped into the front seats. Bo started the engine. It purred like a lion. He put it in gear, and we headed out Aircraft Drive to Floatplane Drive.

We followed it around Lake Hood to Bo’s office and hangar at the end of Floatplane Drive. The setup at ANC was unique. Lake Hood was next to the airfield, and it afforded all