Changing Lanes - 6. Travel Plans

At the studio an hour later, Helen strolled in to find Instinct hard at work laying down tracks in the main sound room. Leaving them to their work, and idly wondering just when and how would be a good time to square things with Eric for his sneaky deception – she’d figured out that it was, at least in part, a way of deflecting her away from the motorcycle issue – she waited near the studio entrance. Right on time, General Bradson walked in, and she ushered him to a meeting room. As soon as she had closed the door, she said, “General, I had a very interesting pair of visitors in my office earlier. Two FBI agents to be exact, asking questions about you, your financial transactions, your relationship with Instinct, and they also mentioned the Cayman Islands.”

Helen watched as the General’s face blanched. He’d been warned that he was attracting unwanted interest, but the confirmation came as an unpleasant though not unexpected development. After several moments, he said, “I’ve heard a few rumblings, but this is the first real confirmation that I’m being investigated. It’s not due to tax evasion or anything like that. It’s also nothing that you would find objectionable, under the circumstances.”

“Then I think I know, but I won’t ask. I just wanted to warn you that they’re asking questions,” Helen said.

The news left General Bradson with a dilemma. He had wished to avoid asking Helen and Instinct for help, but he saw no other option. His son’s life was on the line, and thinking that desperate times call for desperate measures, he said in a hushed, strained voice, “Helen, I have a problem. In a nutshell, I’m trying to do something and some elements in the government have become suspicious. My trip to the Caymans, plus my financial transactions, must have clued them in. I can’t let them stop me. For the sake of your own legal protection I won’t tell you what I’m doing, but your guess is likely correct. My problem is this; I need to leave the country for a while, without them knowing. If I travel by normal means, they’ll track my passport use.”

The General wasn’t sure if Helen could help, but he had some ideas. The first thought in his mind had been stealing a small plane and flying low, below radar coverage, to get across the U.S. - Mexican border, land on a remote roadway somewhere, and then traveling from Mexico to the Cape Verde islands by a private charter. His intention was to ask Helen, based on her considerable experience in making travel arrangements, for suggestions. Seeing the perplexed look on her face, and realizing that he needed to clarify what he was after, he added, “I just need some advice on ways I can travel without using my passport, or at least without it showing up in an electronic database. You’ve traveled far and wide with Instinct, so I figured you might have some ideas based on what you’ve noticed regarding passport procedures. I can get into Mexico unnoticed, but I need some ideas for how to get to my destination from there without being tracked.”

Helen’s first instinct was to steer well clear of the General’s project, but one look in his eyes changed her mind. He was clearly desperate: a father trying to save his son’s life. “General, that’s a tough question. Traveling by airline pretty much guarantees going through passport control at both ends, and they usually read the passports electronically. Traveling privately might be your best bet. I’ve never crossed Mexico’s southern border by land, so I have no idea how hard that might be. If you are trying to get to South America, that might be an option. If you are trying to head... ” Helen paused, trying to think how to phrase her question based on her best guess as to his destination, and then continued, “East, then it will likely be more difficult. I know that you probably can’t tell me, but it would help if I knew your immediate destination, at least the approximate region. I’m sure you’ve considered using some of your old contacts and catching a military flight?” Helen’s guess as to the General’s destination was the Middle East.

Taking a deep breath, the General considered her request. The fewer people who knew where he was going the better, but he was up against a wall. Seeing no other option, he said, “A military flight is out of the question. There aren’t any to where I need to go, which is the Cape Verde Islands.”

Helen arched an eyebrow. That was unexpected news, and though she vaguely recalled that the Cape Verdes were somewhere in the Atlantic, she didn’t know where. The thought of islands in the Atlantic raised another possibility, so Helen asked, “I’m a little rusty on my geography. Where are they in relation to the Canary Islands?”

Arching an eyebrow of his own, and recognizing a look of inspiration in Helen’s face, the General replied, “The Cape Verdes are about a thousand miles south by southwest from the Canaries. The Canaries are a couple hundred miles off the coast of Morocco, and the Cape Verdes are about the same distance off the cost of Senegal.”

A thousand miles. That thought gave Helen pause, and caused her to dismiss any notion of hiring a local fishing boat for the trip from the Canary Islands to the Cape Verdes. However, the idea she’d had could perhaps be adapted, so she said, “He doesn’t know that I know it, but Eric has arranged for an air-charter to the Canary Islands. He’s planning on having Brandon and Chase’s stag party and wedding there. He’s leaving in a few days. I have considerable influence with the air-charter company due to using them so often for Instinct. I’m assuming you’re a pilot, General?”

The general smiled. “Yes, Ma’am. I came up through fighters before I got too old and had to take a star on my collar and a desk instead.”

Nodding, Helen fleshed out her idea. “I’m thinking that if I pulled a few strings, you could fill in as a co-pilot for the outbound leg. Then, you can make some arrangements I’d prefer not to know about with the pilot for his silence, and walk away. I know for a fact that passport and immigration issues are supremely lax when it comes to flight crew, especially of private jets on short layovers at small airfields.”

The General nodded. The idea had serious merit, all the more so thanks to the lack of any rivals, but also some flaws. “That’s an interesting idea. I see a few problems though. A pilot must be rated – certified – in the type of aircraft being flown, and also possess a commercial license – which is something that I lack – for any use which involving paying passengers or cargo. If the aircraft normally requires only one pilot, this may work, though I’m only type-rated in the military version of the Gulfstream 5, which requires two. However, I could sure fill in as a navigator.”

Helen nodded. “Okay, then we may have a way to get you to the Canary Islands, but what about the Cape Verdes? They are still a long way off.”

The General scratched his chin as he thought that over. That was indeed a problem, but recalling his days in the Air Force, he had a possible answer, though it wasn’t the one he was about to give Helen. “Maintenance. You said Eric was going for two days. That means they’d likely be waiting around for him. If private charter outfits are anything like the Military Airlift Command, then they put downtime to use. Commercial jets need regular maintenance and inspections, at a minimum of every thousand hours of flight time. So, they would likely wish to utilize the downtime to get their maintenance done. If I can find a FBO – a Fixed Base Operator, which is an aircraft servicing facility – in the Cape Verde Islands, and I can make it appear that they charge better rates than in the Canary Islands, that gives them an ironclad reason to make a side-trip. While the aircraft is being serviced, I slip away.”

Helen angled her head, impressed with the General’s agile mind. “It looks like we might have a way of getting you there, assuming you can slip away unnoticed. However, what about getting you back? How long do you need to be there?” Helen asked.

“The return trip will not be an issue,” the General assured her, not wanting to say more.

“Then what we probably need to do is make the arrangements with the air charter company. I’ll give them a call to make an appointment,” Helen said.

The General reached out, staying her hand before she could open her phone. Shaking his head, he said, “No. I do not want you involved. That would put you at legal risk. Perhaps just tell them that I’m a nervous passenger on that flight, and wish to meet with the pilots. Don’t give them my name. I’ll take it from there.” The General hoped that the flight crew would be amenable to some extra cash, along with a little excitement.

Helen nodded. “Sorry, but I need to ask; can I have your assurance that this will not put Eric in danger in any way?”

Smiling, relieved to have a question that he could answer, the General replied, “As long as he does not know in advance that I’ll be on the flight, he won’t be in legal danger. As for any other kind, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, and I won’t be carrying anything illegal. He won’t be going with us to the Cape Verde Islands, so he will be in no danger from that trip whatsoever. At the very worst, he may find himself without a return flight home, but I consider that eventuality unlikely in the extreme.”

Smiling, envisioning the look on Eric’s face when he recognized his ‘navigator’, Helen said, “I totally agree, we need to keep Eric in the dark. He has no idea that I’m onto his plans. My only regret is that he’ll recognize you and probably figure that out. It’s a pity, because I’d have loved to see his face when he does.”

Grinning for the first time since he’d heard the news about his son, the General said, “My dear lady, I wouldn’t dream of seeing you deprived. I’ll take his picture for you at the appropriate time.”

* * *

Eric strolled into Jon’s suite, and one glance at his older brother told him that the vibes he’d picked up at dinner were not a transient mood. Deciding to clear the air, Eric plopped down on the couch beside Jon and said, “Hey bro. I can tell something’s bugging you. What’s up?”

Jon shrugged, remaining intent on the TV screen. Eric noticed that Jon’s gameplay had taken a nosedive, which was not a good sign. After half a minute of ignoring the question, Jon replied in a quieter than normal voice, “I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Glancing at his brother, whose eyes remained glued to the TV screen, Eric felt his own blood run cold. Jon only clammed up to this extent when he was angry or upset, and Eric picked up on the signs. What he didn’t know was specifically why, though he knew it must have something to do with his San Francisco announcement. Deciding to test that theory, Eric leaned back, stretched, and then said in a casual tone, “If this is about my trip, I’ll level with you. I’m not going to San Francisco. That was just an excuse, so I could get away for two days without Helen finding out where I’ve gone. I’m going to the Canary Islands to find a location and set up the party.”

Jon dropped the video game controller, which made a muffled thud as it hit the carpet. He turned to stare at Eric with a stunned look on his face, and after several seconds he said, “Dude, you’re shitting me?”

Feeling the previous tension ebb away, though knowing he might need to deal with it at some future time, Eric grinned. “I’ll give you the number of the air charter place if you want to check. I wasn’t getting anywhere online, so I decided to go in person, and I figured that Helen wouldn’t be as hard to deal with if she thought it was personal, along the lines I laid out. Anyway, what’s the big deal? So what if I’d been serious? You’ve already got one gay brother, two if you count Brandon. Why would it bug you if I wanted to experiment on that side a little?”

Jon shrugged. “It just... I don’t know. I was surprised, and then I got to thinking; I’m the only straight guy in this band. Brandon, Chase, Helen, Barbra, and I thought you, too. Guess I felt kind of the odd guy out and blamed you. I also just don’t get it. Brandon and Chase don’t have much choice; they don’t like girls. But you, I know you do. Damn, can you even count how many girls you’ve been with? I just couldn’t understand why you’d make a choice like that.”

Eric was about to answer, but thought better of it and changed tacks. “All I’ll be doing is checking out hotels and making arrangements for the party. Jim and Linda are going with me, right after their wedding. They’ll be staying and having a honeymoon. The San Francisco thing was just to get me off the hook with Helen. I couldn’t tell you ahead of time because you are the world’s worst liar. She’d have taken one look at you and known I was BS’ing her. And don’t forget, there was the motorcycle too, but she skipped right over that, no explosion.”

Jon blinked, and then gave his head an adamant shake. “Whoa, bro, you know she’ll find out what you did eventually, right? She really is gonna kill you! Either that or she’ll make it so you’re never interested in sex again. Too bad you can’t sing; having a soprano in the band might be handy.”

“Gee, thanks for the concern about my nuts, bro,” Eric said with a sarcastic laugh and then added, “She’ll forgive me eventually. This party is going to be great. I’m setting it up so it’ll be perfect. That’s why I have to go there; I’ve got to make sure all the details are taken care of, plus I need to pick the perfect place.”

Jon arched an eyebrow. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Eric had no idea what Jon was taking about, so he gave his brother an open-handed shrug and asked, “What?”

Jon shook his head in amazement. “The wedding, bro. They’re supposed to get married there too, right? But so far you sound like you’re focusing on the party.”

Waving his hand as if to dismiss the idea, Eric replied, “Don’t sweat it. How hard can setting up a wedding be? I’ll get to that later. I just want to make sure they have a kick-ass party on their last night of freedom.”

Jon gave his brother a single nod, and kept his own council on what he thought of that idea. Queuing up his old favorite Grand Theft Auto, Jon picked up the controller and said, “Prepare to get your ass kicked, bro.”

Giving his brother a light elbow in the ribs, relieved that everything was okay again, at least for now, Eric snatched up the second controller as he chuckled. “In your dreams, Jon, in your dreams.”

* * *

Walking out onto the hot tarmac, smelling the familiar acrid scent of JP-1 jet fuel, General Bradson walked with Helen towards the sleek white jet. As they approached, the pilot appeared in the hatch, waving them up the stairs.

As soon as they were aboard, the pilot launched into what sounded like ­– and indeed was – a rehearsed spiel regarding how safe the Lear Jet is, and how it was far safer than the drive they’d just taken to the airport. The General, dressed in khaki slacks, a golf shirt, and wearing sunglasses, nodded along as the pilot continued the tour and explanations.

As they approached the cockpit, General Bradson removed his sunglasses. The pilot glanced in his direction, and then returned his gaze to the instrument panel where he was busily pointing out the many safety features. Three seconds later, he stopped in mid-sentence and snapped his eyes towards General Bradson, with a look of recognition plain to see on his puzzled face. The pilot hesitated for a few seconds, studying a face he’d seen on countless news reports, before asking, “If you’re General Bradson, I’ve been misinformed. I was told to meet with a passenger who has a fear of flying.”

The General nodded. This was what he’d come for, and taking off his sunglasses and being recognized was intentional. He’d noticed the pilot’s mannerisms, which hinted that he was ex-military. Sliding into the co-pilot’s seat in the sweltering jet, General Bradson turned to ask Helen, “Ma’am, mind if I have a private word with the pilot?”

Helen smiled, nodded, and exited the plane without a word. The General had warned her in advance that he’d need a private word with the aircrew, and had explained that one reason was for her protection; he didn’t want her to witness, or be party to, any potentially illegal actions.

Turning to look at the pilot, General Bradson smiled before saying, “I’m Walter Bradson, and I’m afraid I’m responsible for what you were told. I needed to meet with you. As you might guess, I’m not exactly afraid of flying.”

The General leaned over and twisted in his seat to extend his hand, which the pilot took, and was soon impressed by the General’s vice-like grip. As they shook hands, the pilot said, “I’m Fred Beam, and I know who you are, General. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Playing his hunch, General Bradson asked, “I’m guessing that you were in the military yourself. What branch?”

“Air Force, 96th Expeditionary Bomb Squadron,” The pilot said with a proud smile.

“So, you flew the BUFF, H’s, am I right? I had quite a few friends in the 13^th Air Force,” the general said, referring to the service nickname for the B-52 bomber, bestowed upon it by the residents of Guam during the Vietnam War. It stood for Big Ugly Fat Fucker, though the last word of the term was often modified to ‘Fella’ for civilian consumption.

“Yes, sir. I liked the big birds, and was in for fifteen years. Made it to light colonel before I decided to try the civilian world. The pay and benefits are better, and the hours sure are, but I miss the service.”

General Bradson nodded in acknowledgment, well able to empathize with the pilot. However, the thing foremost on his mind was that the man’s prior service potentially made the General’s task much easier and more likely to succeed. Camaraderie went a long way towards breaking the ice, and General Bradson took a deep breath. Everything depended upon the response to his next question. “Colonel,” he said, using the former lieutenant colonel’s military rank as a way to build on their common connection, “I’m going to ask you something. Feel free to say no, but I need your word as an officer that unless you find my request morally objectionable in any way, that you keep it to yourself. There are lives at stake.” The General had given his choice of words a great deal of thought during the drive to the airport; he needed to give the man an out, but secrecy was vital even if the proposal was refused.

Fred Beam eased his pilot’s cap back on his bald head, meeting the General’s calm gaze. He’d wondered what this was all about, and though he still had no idea of the details, he was well aware that he was about to be asked to do something risky, either professionally or legally, and possibly both. In other circumstances, he’d have likely backed out then and there, but he knew who General Bradson was, and what he’d done. “General, I need to tell you something. I live in Pasadena with my wife and daughter. I’m away a lot, but they aren’t. My house is well within the lethal fallout zone for the nuke you and your people disarmed at Dodger Stadium. What you did saved my family, and likely me too, from death. I’ll be blunt; I might still say no to you, but it ain’t likely, and you have my word that I’ll keep it to myself, no matter what,” The pilot said, as he looked General Bradson square in the eye.

“I can’t tell you exactly what I’m up to. I can say that I’m trying to save the life of a U.S. Marine in a foreign land, and the U.S. Government can’t know about it. To that end, I need to get to the Cape Verde Islands without going through passport control. Basically, I want to pose as your navigator. I’d prefer not to worry them or make them complicit, so as far as Helen or Eric know; I plan on just walking away during a maintenance stop in the Cape Verdes during your charter to the Canary Islands. Your clients are paying the charter, I’m just dead-heading, one way, and they are fine with it,” The General was stretching the truth; Eric was the one paying for the flight and he had no idea that General Bradson was going along for the ride, though the General assumed he wouldn’t mind, once he knew. “I’ve been telling them that I’ll arrange a good rate at an FBO, but you and I both know that your company would be unlikely to use an FBO in the Cape Verde’s, assuming I could even find one with the right certifications for this model of aircraft. So, all I need is dropping off... plus making sure they don’t see us coming.”

The pilot took a deep breath, and then another. “General, let me get this straight. You want me to violate a country’s airspace, let you do an egress in a plane that’s not certified for it, along with breaking so many flight regs and laws that I can’t even count ‘em, and then hightail it back to the Canary Islands, and oh by the way, not get picked up on radar doing it?”

* * *

General Bradson leaned back, gazed out the cockpit window, and reflected upon the pilot’s words. The General was unperturbed; he knew that the pilot’s incredulous question was not a rejection; he’d given similar quips himself on many occasions earlier in his own career. “That’s pretty much it. I know how to pull it off. So, will you do it, and do you think your co-pilot will play along? I can make it worth your while.”

The pilot had grave concerns, but General Bradson had read him accurately; he was willing to consider the endeavor. After a few more questions aimed at gauging the risks and probabilities, which the General answered without being too specific, Fred made up his mind. “General, I don’t want paying for this, except for whatever air hours I rack up on the Hobbs Meter; the company will need to be paid for that. I’ll get my co-pilot to play along. He’s like I was twenty years ago; he’ll do it for the thrill. I’ll trust that you have a workable plan, and I reserve the right to back out at any time. Just show up in a navigator’s uniform half an hour prior to takeoff and I’ll get you on board.”

* * *

That evening, General Bradson phoned his unnamed contact. After a few queries regarding where the General should appear, the contact replied, “I’m very glad that you appear to have resolved your travel problems, General, so that you can go along on the project. All I can tell you at the moment is that you need to get to Santo Antão Island, which is the most northwesterly of the Cape Verde Islands. Once you are on the island, call me and I will pick you up within two hours.” The contact did not ask, nor would General Bradson have answered, any questions regarding the General’s method of travel.

General Bradson smiled, thinking that his contact expected him to arrive via a ferry, fishing boat, or at the airport.

* * *

Eric, who had half an hour to spare before his appointment, strolled into Brandon and Chase’s suite to find them sitting on the floor, wearing boardshorts and surrounded by scattered sheaves of paper, working on song lyrics. Brandon glanced up at Eric. “We had some ideas for one of the new songs. See what you think,” Brandon said holding up a single piece of paper.

Eric took the proffered lyrics, and smiled as he read them. He was pleased; a rough spot they’d had trouble with had been handled, and far sooner than they’d hoped. Eric nodded approvingly at the lyrics, and Brandon stuck out his bare chest in a comically exaggerated display of pride. “It was my idea. Easy enough when you know what you’re doing.”

Chase glared in mock surprise at his boyfriend, before hurling a handful of crumbled paper – rejected prior attempts – in his general direction. “Brand, you ass, if it was that easy we wouldn’t have fifty different versions!” Chase said, before doubling over and laughing.

Brandon dropped his false bravado and smiled. “Yeah, it took a while, but we finally got the wording to work. We’re thinking we could try it out at Jim and Linda’s wedding.” Eric’s face brightened at that suggestion, so with that issue behind them, Brandon changed the subject to ask what was really on his mind, “So, what about you, bro, are you still heading off to San Francisco next week?”

Feeling a little guilty for lying, but salving his conscience with the thought that it was all in a good cause, Eric replied, “Yeah, the day after we get back from Jim’s wedding. It’s just something I need to do. I’ve already mapped out a route and everything. I’ve started laying down extra bass tracks so it won’t hurt our schedule.”

Chase leaned back and stretched, his golden tan skin rippling. He then leaned forward, saying in an offhand way, “Not much of a route to plan; you get on Interstate 5 a few miles from here, and it takes you all the way to San Francisco.”

Eric, focused on the lyrics, nodded and said, “Yeah, pretty easy. It’ll be a fun ride.” Checking his watch, Eric said, “Sorry, gotta go. See you guys later.”

As soon as Eric was out the door, Brandon turned to say to Chase, “You were right; he’s not going to San Francisco. Jim is supposed to ride with him but Jim said he and Linda are heading off on a honeymoon trip the day we get back from Telluride. Some route planning he did; he doesn't even know the I-5 doesn't go anywhere near San Francisco. So, where do you think he’s really going, and why?”

Chase gave Brandon a puzzled shrug. “Maybe it’s something to do with our wedding. He was all about the party for a while, and then a week ago he shut up about it, so I know he’s up to something. We’ll find out sooner or later. In the meantime, we can pump Jon for info, just to make sure Eric isn’t planning something insane for the party. Jon can’t lie worth a damn, so we’ll pick up some clues if he tries.”

“You don’t think Eric is planning anything crazy, do you?” Brandon asked with a concerned look.

Chase nodded. “This is Eric we’re talking about. Of course it’s something crazy.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Brandon replied with a chuckle.

* * *

Eric gunned the Yamaha’s engine just before clicking off the ignition key, for no other reason than he loved the loud throaty growl it made; the sound of power, temporarily restrained.

The paparazzi had yet to put in an appearance. They had been thankfully absent of late, and Eric wondered if he even needed to wear his padded jacket as a disguise. Jim had not been forthcoming with specifics due to wanting to protect the Instinct guys from any charges of complicity, but Eric had picked up hints of further ‘conversations’ with the paparazzi. Eric figured that the encounters must have drummed home the bikers’ point, because Chase had mentioned a chance encounter with a paparazzi while out shopping, and said that the paparazzi had exited the area as if fleeing the devil himself. That fitted well with a fear of big, angry bikers, so Eric had reason to hope that the days when he and his band mates were stalked and harassed anytime they went out in public might be at an end.

Sweating a little due to wearing the heavy leather jacket in the early summer heat – It wasn’t bad when riding due to the vents, but for walking around in the heat it was stifling – Eric donned a pair of sunglasses. He tucked his helmet under his arm and walked out of the parking lot, entering the two-story apartment complex via a lawn-covered gap between the buildings. Passing the swimming pools that dominated the center of the complex, Eric glanced at the directions he’d been given, and looked for Building C. A quick glance confirmed that he was standing next to Building B, so he quickened his pace.

A few yards later, he was close enough to see a large ‘A’ on the next building, so he reversed course, and soon found the building he was looking for.

The apartments on the upper floor were arranged in pairs, each pair sharing an open exterior staircase from a small landing. Glancing at the doors on the lower floor, Eric walked until he found C105, and then climbed up the stairs to rap on the door of C205.