Cook Drowning in Goodwater

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-4835-7250-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 286 Seiten

Best friends, Leo and Ben are in for an explosive Fourth of July weekend the likes of which the small fishing village of Goodwater, Florida has ever seen. The teenagers find themselves under siege from a diabolical black ops entity testing a chemical weapon that has friends and neighbors succumbing to the lethal agent. A stranger may or may not be an ally, but there is no way of knowing.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Cook, Karen

Leseproben

Chapter 2   Alan landed the Cessna smoothly and taxied to Gulf key’s hanger. He was out of the plane and crouched at the rear of the modified fiberglass belly tank. This hopper was the storage for the chemical to be distributed through both wing misting systems. There was a main disbursement nozzle on the tank. It had a larger spout. There was dried residue around the rim where the spray evacuates the system. A red liquid pooled inside. Alan pulled out a rag, wrapped it around his index finger and dabbed the liquid. He smelled the stained rag. It had no distinguishable odor. The rag appeared blood soaked and naturally brought questions to Alan’s mind: What were they spraying? “Hey Bandy!” The mechanic yelled, as he picked up the pace to a jog to reach Alan. Quickly, Alan stuck the rag in his pocket. When he got out of there he would put it in a plastic bag while he researched repellent sprays. He wanted answers and the best way to get to the truth was to examine the evidence. The suspicious chemical added to the uneasy feeling in the back of his mind, about Gulf key. “I’ll take care of the plane from here,” John said. “Yeah, I was just taking a quick look at the sprayer before I headed your way. I experienced what felt like a blockage when trying to activate the spray. The system cleared it after I let off and tried again.” Alan used his foot to point to the big nozzle under the belly of the plane. The sturdy pilot lost his balance then caught himself before falling, but his foot clipped the connection where the nozzle meets the hopper, spilling some of the dry chemical. “Whoa, you feeling okay?” John asked. “Yeah, trick knee—plays games with me after squatting down sometimes,” Alan lied. He felt dizzy and wondered if sniffing the spray caused his instability. He was in great health—the results from his physical last month were that of a man half his age. Alan kicked his leg while keeping up the story about a false knee injury. “Just gotta give it a couple kicks, and it’s good as new.” “I got this,” John said dryly, pointing to the plane and its malfunctioning equipment. Alan walked toward the hangar. He took a few deep breaths to regain his equilibrium. This was his third civilian air job since he ended his military career at Tyndall Air Force Base in Panama City, Florida, twenty years ago and by far should have been the simplest. The events of the day told a different story though. He recalled his first meeting with John, the mechanic, followed by Bill, Gulf Key’s owner. ~ ~ ~ “This area is for air personnel only. What business do you have here?” The lanky six-foot-tall mechanic yelled, as he wiped his hands of excess grease. He was wearing steel blue coveralls with the name “John” embroidered above the chest pocket. “Well, I am looking for air work.” “Your timing may be right on the money. I’m John. You’d need to talk to Bill. You got respectable hours?” “Twenty years in the Air Force, ten years commercial then some agricultural work, but I’m not looking to work with the public.” “A local company?” “No, up in the panhandle.” “New to this area, huh?” “This week.” “Your family must still be unpacking.” John gestured to Alan’s left hand. “Just me. Wife passed.” “I’m sorry to hear that. Kids move with you?” “Grown, just one, overseas.” “I have a brother back packing through Europe. Crazy s.o.b.” “She’s in Germany.” “Service? Landstuhl?” “No.” “Oh, I thought maybe she followed her father’s footsteps” “I wish it were true, if I had a guarantee…” Alan trailed off longing for a different reality for his sweet Madelyn. “I’m sorry. Sounds like any guarantee is too late.” “She was struck by a man stoned on marijuana. The result … a coma.” “Oh my God. I am so sorry.” John patted his shoulder. “Is she too weak to come home?” “Aaaaah.” Alan paused. “I am out of line. I didn’t mean—just can’t imagine my child that far away.” “Her husband works there. He calls every Saturday night to give me a condition report.” Alan thought Justin, his son-in-law, would be happy not to call anymore. They had nothing in common outside Madelyn and to report no change week in and week out was awkward for them both. “Well, you must have someone down here, brother, cousin … friend? Most folks don’t leave their comfort zone. Most folks.” The inquisitive mechanic smiled now shifting the conversation to a lighter subject. Alan gave a look with a head tilt indicating to this mechanic, he wasn’t most folks. “Welcome,” he said, as he led him toward the office. Alan thought he was just nosy, and, looking back, regretted being so forthcoming with his personal information. He remembered standing in the tiny reception area, John had offered him a seat by the door in the small reception area. A table with magazines, Plane and Pilot rested on top of Aircraft Maintenance Technology next to the only chair by the door. Alan chose to stand to avoid the sun beating in on it. He could hear the mechanic in a low voice speaking to an unknown person, presumably, the owner of Gulf Key. He thought the conversation was odd like he had more than a mechanic’s relationship to the owner. The mechanic left the office. Alan heard the sound of the hangar door closing after him. He guessed he was likely returning to the plane where he found him. The unknown person filled the doorway with height at more than a couple inches over six-foot. Time marked his face but hadn’t reached the half-century milestone yet. Alan decided he was mid-forties by the lines at the corners of his eyes and the ones that framed his mouth. Bill had fair skin, Nordic features, and balding blonde hair so short he appeared completely bare. “Bill Rand. Good to meet you,” Bill said. The two gentlemen shook hands. “You, as well. Alan Bandy. I’m retired Air Force and have flown civilian over the last twelve years. Capital Airways, advertising in Panama City Beach, and aerial topdressing—fertilize—in Washington, Bay and Gulf county farmlands,” Alan said. The retired pilot eyed the interviewer. Alan sat in the single chair in Bill’s office across the desk from the man who may be providing him with something to do during his waking hours. Alan noticed Bill’s office was minimally decorated. It felt sterile. Not a lot of paperwork to imply a thriving business. Aerial maps covered most the wall space. Bill informed him they were in the process of mosquito spray control and some agriculture pesticide work. He told him about new work coming up just south of Goodwater on the edge of Ten Thousand Islands. Alan supported his pilot credentials with a resume and his federal license, physician approval, DD-214 discharge papers from the Air Force, as well as a certificate of commendation for achieving four-thousand air hours. It represents an achievement that fewer than two dozen military pilots have accomplished. Alan was more than competent to pilot for Gulf key’s aircraft. Bill made copies of the pilot’s documentation and advised he would be in contact in the next couple days. Alan stood looking at one of the maps focusing in on Goodwater and the all those islands south of it. Alan realized his anxiousness affected his ability to sense trouble. He was intent on finding something to do in his retirement besides fishing. And a flying job at Naples Airport would sate the fire in his belly. A small municipal aviation field was ideal. The first flag was running into the friendly man coming out of Piper’s hangar who suggested checking out Gulf Key for private contract work. “They are new. Don’t know much about’em yet,” He said.   ~ ~ ~   Alan washed his hands thoroughly to remove any of the chemical residue that transferred on to his skin from the rag that was now wadded up in his pocket. He looked down at the bulge. A stain now appeared on his pants where the rag was inside his pocket. He spotted more evidence on his boots in the dry form of the chemical. The powder was piled there on the rim. Alan laid a couple paper towels down, tapped the toe of his boot on the towels to get a dry sample. He saw John coming his way again. He had the towel folded and now in his other pocket before John could see what he was up to. John stopped just inside the area considered one’s own personal space, but Alan stayed cool. John looked at him, the look made Alan uncomfortable; he could almost see John surmising the situation. Then the questions came: “Do we need another pilot?” A less inquisitive pilot without family ties … an expendable pilot. Alan didn’t answer. “That top dressing work you did up north … did that familiarize you with other spraying jobs?” “How do you mean?” Alan asked. He was not going to be as free with his personal information as he was when they first met or let John in on any knowledge he may or may not have about repellent spraying. “The chemical mix of mosquito spray?” “No, I knew a guy who flew pesticide,” Alan said, trying to sound innocuous all the while shielding his stained pocket with his jacket. “Oh, well, it’s just this new additive,” he began rather benignly. “I think that may have clogged the exit line. There’s...