He touched down, buckled his knees and rolled as he had been taught, then he was on his feet, gathering in the billowing chute. He could not believe his luck. He carried the chute to the sidelines of the field, then walked past the bleachers and found a large oil drum, used as a wastebasket. He set down the chute and took some old programs out of the drum, then stuffed the chute into it and put the trash back on top. Then he started walking.
He had seen some railway tracks as he floated down, and he headed that way. When he found them he thought about it, then started walking south along the tracks. After half a mile or so he could see a train station ahead of him, and he made for that.
A sign on the station proclaimed the stop to be Rye, New York. Estancia hoisted himself onto the deserted platform and looked around. A schedule on the wall told him the first train of the morning would be arriving at five-ten. He checked his pockets for money but found only euros. He went into the station men’s room and urinated, then pulled out his shirttail and took out some dollars, replacing them with the euros from his pocket. He also removed an American passport. He put everything in his pockets, then tucked in his shirttail and buckled his belt.
He went back to the platform and sat on a bench, then he used his cell phone to call his home in Spain. His wife answered.
“Hello?”
“Listen carefully,” he said. “Plan B.” He waited while she thought about that.
“I understand,” she said.
“All is well,” Estancia said, then hung up.
Plan B meant that she was to immediately pack up the children, most of their clothes, put them and all the staff into four vans, drive to Gstaad, Switzerland, and occupy their house there.
A man walked onto the platform pushing a hand trolley loaded with a high stack of newspapers and began filling a row of coin-operated newspaper dispensers. Estancia didn’t have any change, but he negotiated the purchase of a New York Times for twenty dollars, the smallest bill he had, then he settled himself on a bench and waited for the train.
The C-17 settled onto the runway at Stewart International, braked, and taxied to the lighted ramp in front of the airplane’s hangar. The copilot went aft and lowered the rear ramp, then started releasing the cables holding the pallets in place. Two forklifts rolled up the ramp and began removing the pallets to waiting trucks.
Mike Freeman stood behind the trailer, looking at the sides of the airplane. “I count eight bullet holes,” he said to Todd. “You’d better get your maintenance people on that right away. They’ll either have to be patched or the panels replaced.”
Todd produced his cell phone. “I’ve got to call Lance Cabot,” he said.
Holly put a hand on his arm. “I think you’d better let me do that,” she said. Leaving Todd to speak to the maintenance crew, Holly, Stone, and Mike walked into the offices of Airship Transport and sat down in the lounge. Holly dialed a number on her cell phone.
Stone sat next to her, and he could hear both sides of the conversation.
“Cabot,” a voice said loudly.
“It’s Holly. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Where are you?”
“Back at Stewart.”
“I got your text message,” Lance said. “Congratulations on a successful extraction.”
“The extraction went perfectly,” she said. “Todd did an outstanding job of planning it.”
“Then why do you sound so down?” he asked.
“As we were approaching the coast we lost Estancia.”
“You lost him? How the hell did you do that?”
“He lowered the rear ramp of the airplane, then got into the Mercedes that delivered him, started the engine, and backed out of the aircraft.”
“Backed out of the aircraft? Onto the tarmac?”
“We hadn’t landed yet.”
Lance digested that for a moment. “You were still in the air?”
“Yes.”
“Estancia committed suicide?”