Flying Too Close to the Sun by George Jehn (novels for beginners .txt) 📕

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Once at the gate Woody quickly deplaned to check his father’s condition. Christina immediately went to a deserted section of the terminal and called Juni. “The conditions are right, but because of the weather we may be off the gate late and there might also be departure delays.”

“I’ll be there,” Juni said and hung up, hoping he would indeed make it. His watch showed 8:15. There wasn’t much time. Never enough fucking time! His Buick accelerated with a cloud of blue smoke as it exited the hotel lot and cut a swath through the swirling fog. Closer to the water the headlights had difficulty penetrating the billowing veils of mist obscuring everything and painted horizontal ribbons of rainbow-like shades tinted in every color of the spectrum across the windshield. In the yacht club’s parking lot his tires kicked up pieces of gravel and came to an abrupt halt. The conditions were so bad the only thing barely visible was another car, a dark brown SUV. The top of the marina’s gangway lights were bare smudges, with their dull yellowish glow attempting to cut through the fog. They resembled angelic halos no brighter than gaslights peering down from atop the poles. The syrupy air was turning into more of a soupy blackness. Looking toward town, Juni saw the jellylike fog rolling down the street like a silent serpent, slithering through and filling the empty spaces between the square wooden frame houses, creating what appeared to be rows of mausoleums. The vapor wrapped around everything and was so dense Juni felt as though he could cut it with his knife. A very light rain began falling and as the water-mirrored depressions in the parking lot gravel filled, his excitement built. With senses wide open, his anxiety level was rising as quickly as the incoming tide. He exhaled in short bursts like a machine gun with several misfires, the moisture from his breath clinging to his body. With footsteps falling as silently as in snow he opened the trunk and donned the tight-fitting diving gloves. After grabbing some gear and two duffel bags, he prayed the entrance lock was still jammed. Gently pushing on the gate, his damp fingers almost slipped off, but it swung open ever so slowly, inviting him to enter. As he passed by the wooden clubhouse, a bag in each hand, he squinted. There was a broad-shouldered, bearded fellow with kinky hair the color of a rusty pipe, dressed in a stark white baseball jersey with EAST BOSTON MARAUDERS inscribed in black, sitting there. The man was on a porch rocker nursing a beer. His face looked like it was cast from cement, with haunting gray eyes on the top. Did the fog distort his appearance? Pleased this wasn’t a social type fishing club, when on nights members couldn’t sail they sat around drinking beers and telling bullshit fishing stories until the wee hours, Juni simply nodded as he passed the stranger. The fellow responded with a barely detectable wave, beer in hand. Juni turned his attention to the task at hand.

At the boat, he placed everything on the deck and returned to the car to get the remaining items, again waving to the man as he passed by and made his way back down the slippery walkway. He gingerly stepped aboard the uncovered Pride of the Navy. It again listed to starboard and quickly righted itself. All was quiet except for the hardware clinking against the aluminum masts of sailboats berthed nearby. After stowing everything, he raised the lid of the sixty-horsepower Evinrude outboard, grateful for witnessing friends hot wiring cars on the Brooklyn streets. Holding the small penlight between his teeth, its beam cut through the darkness smoother than a hot knife through butter. After fumbling with the pliers, he snipped one end off the starter ignition wires and stripped away the damp plastic coating. He then connected the ignition to the battery lead wires and touched them to the starter line. The outboard coughed and came to life, ready to do its work. The motor would run so long as the ignition remained attached to the battery lead.

Due to the gloves, with difficulty he changed into the constricted wet suit and diving boots and compared the reading on his hand-held compass to the boat’s Airglide marine compass, noting they differed by only a couple of degrees. He turned on the portable Very High Omni Range navigation unit, the VOR radio, which would be his means of accurately navigating to the airport in the near-zero visibility conditions. After tuning the digital dial to frequency 112.7, the Boston VOR, as instructed by Christina he selected the 168-degree radial. While doing this he recalled their meeting at Pepi’s when he had pointed out the most important ingredient, piss poor visibility—could also hinder success. “Picture this,” he told her and Erik. “The visibility is so shitty I can’t be seen navigating to your plane, meaning I also won’t be able to see anything. There’s a powerful current running in the three-quarter mile wide channel between the marina and airport, ruling out using only a compass. This means I gotta have a way to navigate with pinpoint precision.” He went on to explain the tide also had to be at least halfway in during the flood stage, because this way he would come ashore within easy walking distance of the taxiway where they would be waiting. The incoming tide also meant Mother Nature would reclaim its rightful territory and quickly erase all signs that anyone had set foot there. Neither Christina nor Erik had considered the navigation element. “Presuming I make it to the airport, my position could be anywhere, and the wrong location would cost the most crucial element we don’t have; time. I’ll have only two to three minutes and each trip to the boat and back means two duffel bags, but four is the number I’ll be shooting for. Plus, I’ll not only be removing