Out Too Farr Read online

  When the images flashed on the monitor, there were gasps in the room. The earliest path had ended on a small island maybe half an hour from where the Bonnie Blue swung at anchor off Ellaidhoo.

  “That made sense,” Lindsay said, almost to herself.

  After that, the path became more sinister. It was clear something barred her path out in the channel, on her way back to the Bonnie Blue. Then the course turned erratic and fast-moving.

  “Oh my God,” Lindsay said, in a small voice. “They must have ended up in the water, and the current took them.”

  Everyone released the breath they’d been holding when the moving dot diverted abruptly at the edge of a reef on the electronic chart and then turned more slowly toward one of the hundreds of unnamed, uninhabited islands at the far west side of the atoll.

  When the feed finally came to the real-time travels of Rania’s chip, Lindsay couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. The chip icon on the screen was moving rapidly east from a remote western island. The speed — about ninety knots — made no sense, and then the chip moved across two islands, rapidly.

  “What the hell is she doing to take her that fast across the atoll?” Tommy demanded.

  “If I didn’t know better,” Manning said, “I’d say she’s flying.”

  Just then, the nav center’s marine radio at the helm erupted with, “Bonnie Blue, Bonnie Blue, Bonnie Blue — this is Malé Search and Rescue.”

  Lindsay keyed the radio mike and said, “Malé Search and Rescue, this is the Bonnie Blue. Go ahead.”

  “Your missing engineer Rania Elsaeid and passenger Morris Johnston are coming in for an assisted emergency landing at Malé International Airport. We wanted to alert you they are fine and will be on the ground soon.”

  Lindsay hailed search and rescue again.

  “Who are they flying with?”

  “Mr. Johnston is the pilot. They will be guided in as soon as they reach our airspace in about twenty minutes.”

  “Bronwyn needs to know right away,” Cloude said, and ran to the safety line with her phone.

  Lindsay ended the transmission and sat down hard.

  “What in the hell happened? If they’re going to talk them in, that can’t be good.”

  She yelled over to Cloude.

  “Is Moj a certified pilot?”

  “Nope. He’s just had a few lessons,” she said, and held her hand over the mouthpiece before continuing her conversation with Bronwyn.

  Lindsay strode over to Cloude and took charge of the phone. “I’m sure Moj would not be happy if the whole world knows what’s going on.”

  She spoke into the phone.

  “Bronwyn, we’ll have to call you back. Too much happening here right now. And for God’s sakes, no, don’t contact the U.S. Navy. Everything is under control.”

  Lindsay hung up while Bronwyn was still shrieking. She turned to the rest of the crew and said, “That’s the last thing they need. Some nutcase publicist blowing everything out of proportion.”

  * * *

  Rania wished she and Moj had had more time to talk before the headphones went on in the cockpit. There were so many things she didn’t say.

  She still couldn’t reveal the feelings coursing through her. Feelings she’d never had before. She refused to believe what she felt in her gut added up to love. She’d known Moj only a few days.

  How could she let down her guard so easily? How had this happened? She ticked off in her head the warning signs: the connection the first time she saw him; how his mere presence on the yacht had been a nagging irritant; the constant craving for and pleasure of his body.

  Infatuation. Had to be infatuation.

  After whatever this was ended, they’d both move on, back to business as usual. Moj to his celeb life, her back to maintaining anonymity and doing what she loved on the high seas.

  Rania was certain of one thing only: If they survived this ordeal, she’d collapse onto her bunk on the Bonnie Blue and sleep for about a hundred years.

  Both she and Moj had been living on adrenaline for the past seventy-two-plus hours, interspersed with intervals of mind-blowing sex. She didn’t know how much more excitement her heart could stand. If a doctor were to take her pulse, she’d probably commit her to a hospital.

  They’d barely cleared the reef, but at the last minute, Moj had goosed the throttle, trimmed the nose up hard, and they’d sailed over the hull-cutting jagged edges of the reef. The little craft was growing on her. It handled just like a boat, only they were flying about a thousand feet in the air. She wasn’t sure, but she suspected they were violating about a hundred international protocols, let alone the laws of the Maldives.

  However, she did remember from her international sea regulations training that seaplanes had the right-of-way over just about everything that moves through water, including sailboats.

  When they’d taken off, she’d had no idea what to expect, but after the reef, everything had gone smoothly.

  * * *

  Moj keyed the radio, and after some static and chatter cleared, he said, “Five-nine-nine-er, Whiskey, Foxtrot — anybody listening have the radio frequency for Malé International Airport? This is Morris Johnston, heading east at ninety knots. I’ve had flying lessons, but I’ve never soloed at landing. I may need some coaching from the tower to bring her in. And I’m not sure how much runway I’ll need. Over.”

  Moj waited for an answer, and the silence was scary. What if nobody heard him? After about ten minutes, the radio erupted with chatter before clearing.

  “Five-nine-nine-er, Whiskey, Foxtrot — this is Malé International Airport. Our coordinates are 4°11'30.6"N;73°31'44.86"E. We have only one runway — 3,218 meters. Approach heading is 179 degrees. You may have to wait a while for others to land. How much fuel do you have left?”

  “Five-nine-nine-er, Whiskey, Foxtrot,” Moj replied. “Plenty. At least 20 gallons, in a small Searey amphibian plane.”

  “Five-nine-nine-er, Whiskey, Foxtrot — approach radio frequency is one-nineteen-point-seven. The tower is one-eighteen-point-one. Good luck. Out.”

  “Five-nine-nine-er, Whiskey, Foxtrot. Roger and out,” Moj said. He wiped at the sweat running down his forehead and gave out a huge sigh before keying in the approach frequency.

  He chanced a quick look at Rania — she put up her fingers in the “OK” sign and waved a sheet out of the log where she’d written all the information he’d just gotten from the airport.

  She was the first person in his life he could count on. She was always there for him, and not just for his fame and money. He’d be damned if he’d let her walk out of his life.

  * * *

  When Moj punched the radio key again to apply for airport approach, Rania held her breath. Would the officials help them or hang them out to dry? She feared the truth was, even if they wanted to help, maybe no one on shift had any knowledge of how to fly let alone how to land an amphibian plane.

  Whatever happened would have to be fast. They were flying with a twenty-two-gallon gas tank in a plane designed for short skip-taxis on water. And they’d already flown more than fifty miles.

  “Five-nine-nine-er, Whiskey, Foxtrot,” Moj repeated on the approach channel. “I need any help you can give me to land on your runway in a light amphibian plane. I’ve landed a Cessna with an instructor, but never soloed. Out.”

  The radio was deadly silent for what seemed forever.

  “I hate not being in control,” Moj said, filling the sound vacuum. “This was one helluva first date. Sorry I dragged you into all this shit.”

  Rania grinned at Moj’s nervous ramblings.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m starting to get used to all the drama. Will we or won’t we be shot or swept out to sea? Will we or won’t we get off the island? Will we or won’t we crash into the runway? You really know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “Will they or won’t they… You sound like Cloude. Will they or won’t they get together? We did, Tesoro. No
matter what happens, we did get together.”

  Before she could respond, a steady, heavily accented voice speaking English sliced into the radio silence.

  “Five-nine-nine-er, Whiskey, Foxtrot — Mr. Johnston, this is Hassan. I’m an amphibian tour operator. I probably don’t have the same model you have because my plane seats eight passengers, but I think I can help. The tower has cleared all the traffic for now and patched me through to talk you in. They are listening on this channel and are ready for you.”

  “Five-nine-nine-er, Whiskey, Foxtrot,” Moj said. “Let’s do it.”

  Rania planted a kiss into the palm of her hand and feather-touched Moj’s cheek before settling back in her seat and tightening her harness. She was so caught up in Moj’s air of determination, she hadn’t considered the possibility of failure. Her stomach dropped to her toes when she realized she trusted Moj, trusted him like no other man besides her father.

  Their lifeline, the disembodied voice coming through the headphones, interrupted her thoughts and began slow, clear instructions.

  “Your wheels should be down now, speed seventy to eighty, flaps at ten degrees and throttle and trim as needed.

  “Since you told us you’ve had a landing lesson, but no solo in a single-engine Cessna, Mr. Johnston, I’m going to give you a quick overview of the critical differences in the little amphibian you’re flying.

  “Your aircraft is going to be more draggy because of the lighter weight, so aim more for the ground and trust the steep glide angle. You have to keep your speed up until almost on the ground, then flare at an angle that at first looks like you’ll plow a furrow. Hold it off until it lands.

  “Make a couple of practice turns and then line up with the runway, put it square between your legs and do whatever you have to do to steer to the exact middle. Whenever you’re ready, line up and cut the throttle for the descent.

  “As soon as you’re close to the ground, start using the rudder and engage the brake pedals immediately on contact.”

  “That’s it?” Moj asked.

  “Yessir.”

  Moj circled the airport twice and then moved to the downwind side. When he cut the throttle, nothing happened. After two more tries, they were still circling at ninety knots.

  Finally, Moj spoke into the radio.

  “Five-nine-nine-er, Whiskey, Foxtrot — if our guardian angel is still listening, the throttle is stuck. Now what?”

  “Five-nine-nine-er, Whiskey, Foxtrot — on your next pass, give yourself some extra room and turn off the power. You’ll have to glide in dead stick. Don’t forget about the steep glide angle. And pray.”

  Rania could not believe the man’s voice remained as calm and steady as before.

  Moj headed for his final circle and gave Rania one last look. She could barely swallow for the large lump in her throat, but still managed to nod and smile.

  Moj shut down the engine and began the glide.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Moj killed the engine on the little Searey and went deep inside himself. Memories of his mom, his dad, and his dead wife Fiona flashed through his head, immediately replaced by a vision of Rania. Her beautiful body spread beneath him, the look on her face when she fell apart in love.

  That was the precise moment he knew they were going to make it, not a doubt in his mind. He became one with the tiny plane, absorbing the feel of complete freedom. No sound, just a gentle whoosh as they glided slowly toward Earth.

  The Malé runway was amazing and scary at the same time. There was so little space on the island where the city of Malé perched, the Maldivians had appropriated a sliver of an island to the east, maybe a couple hundred meters across the water, for the airport with only one runway. Only one chance to nail it.

  The closer they sped toward the paved runway, the more difficult the steering became. He held on tight, then loosened his grip, instinctively going for a lighter touch. No room for errors.

  And then he was at the downwind side, giving him a little more momentum. He hit the cockpit touch screen and saw he was still at several hundred feet. Time to use a steep glide. He trimmed the nose down hard, and the final drop began. No way he was gonna waste that nine-thousand-plus feet, ’cause that was all there was. After that, they’d ram back into the ocean at the end of the runway.

  At the last minute, he panicked a little when it looked like the pavement was coming up too fast. He instinctively yanked back up on the nose, and they hit the runway hard on the back wheel. The plane bounced sideways before spinning out to the edge of the tarmac. When he practically stood on the pedals to stop their momentum, he smacked his head against the windshield before his harness pitched him backward.

  The spinning finally stopped, and damn, they were down.

  Two fire engines roared toward them, sirens screaming, and he ripped himself out of the cockpit before racing to the other side for Rania.

  * * *

  When Moj pulled Rania free and cradled her for a moment, she flung her arms around his neck and closed her mouth over his for a long “can’t believe we’re alive” moment.

  As she ended the kiss and looked over his shoulder, a handful of photographers clicked away at the fence at the edge of the runway. A sharp, heavy pain stabbed at her chest. This was what she’d feared from the first moment she’d let herself fall for Moj.

  Her cover was blown. It was only a matter of time before one of the photos came to the attention of the man in Egypt. The man in Egypt who hated Rania enough to have her killed. Nassef Youssef Fayed.

  She wrenched out of Moj’s arms and stared at the security cars skidding to a stop. Two separate groups of officers led them away for questioning.

  * * *

  Moj sat in a claustrophobic concrete room in the back end of the Ibrahim Nasir International Airport on Malé. It was a room customs normally used, but the Maldives government had taken it over to question Moj and Rania.

  Moj gave his plastic bottle of water a rueful look. The seal had been broken, so even a single sip was rolling the dysentery dice. Shaking it brought up yellow sediments from the bottom. Gross.

  Equally as distasteful was the rest of the room. Mold darkened the corners and cracks. The stuffing of the two chairs burst from the well-worn Naugahyde stained black after years of sweaty butts. One table stood in the center of the room with no windows and only one door. And yeah, one bare light bulb. Moj did appreciate the cinematic elements of the room. Very movie.

  A wall AC unit wheezed and choked but blew enough coldish air into the room that it wasn’t stifling. Too bad it also brought the stench of fish guts roughly three days old.

  Moj was alone for a moment, waiting for the local authorities to come busting in for what was probably going to be an exhausting interrogation. Landing a mysterious airplane at an international airport was bad enough, but Rania came packing her guns, which the Maldivians didn’t appreciate. As a Muslim country, they didn’t even like beer crossing their borders.

  The door opened, and the last person in the world Moj expected to see walked in. Even seeing his own father might’ve been less surprising.

  Devin Manning, dressed in a gunmetal gray suit, sat down at the table across from Moj.

  “Morris Johnston, a.k.a. Moj, how is it that you and I rarely cross paths?”

  “I don’t spend much time in mental institutions,” Moj said. He didn’t mean to be cruel, but he was tired and thirsty.

  “I don’t, either,” Manning said, “though I did some deep cover work at the Agnews Insane Asylum near Santa Clara, California, before the facility was decommissioned.”

  The man adjusted his perfectly tied tie and the lapels of his suit coat. “Would you prefer I call you Mr. Johnston, Morris, or simply your alias, Moj?”

  “Not an alias, guy, it’s my name.” Moj lifted the bottle. “Hey, can you get me some water? This bottle has been opened, and I don’t want to drink Maldives tap water.”

  Manning leaned forward, his gray eyes intense, perfectly matching t
he color of his suit. Moj didn’t think that was by accident.

  Manning spoke in a hushed voice.

  “You have more to worry about than a parched tongue, my friend. Your very life hangs in the balance.”

  Moj burst out laughing.

  “Come on. I have enough lawyers on my payroll to get me out of most anything, illegal or not. And Bronwyn would literally nuke this entire country to keep me shaking my ass for her and the media. I’ll be fine.”

  “You will,” Manning agreed. “Thanks to me. I have numerous contacts in international law enforcement agencies including Interpol. I have already discussed your situation in detail with the Maldives authorities as well as intelligence agencies in nearby India. I have friends at the BPR&D, CBI, DRI, IB, JIC, NIA, and the NCB. That stands for the Narcotics Control Bureau.”

  Manning paused dramatically, probably to let the alphabet soup sink in.

  “You’re going to give me only one of the acronyms?” Moj’s mouth quirked into a grin.

  Manning’s brow furrowed.

  “There’s only one acronym you need to know. The NCB confirmed that the Renault drug syndicate has been active in the Maldives. We think the hideaway you found and the plane you commandeered belonged to them. Did you happen to discover foie gras on your deserted island?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Moj said.

  Manning snapped his fingers. “I knew it. Those French bastards can’t go a week without their goose-liver fix.”

  Moj squinted. Damn. Manning might actually be able to help.

  “Tell me about Rania Elsaeid. Are you two lovers?” Manning asked.

  No, not helping.

  “Not gonna say. None of your business. When the real authorities get here, I’ll tell them the truth. She is the Bonnie Blue’s engineer and she was working security when we were attacked by pirates.”

  “Yes,” Manning whispered. “The pirates. We have no idea who they are. Only what they want. And that is you, my friend. Do you plan on continuing your cruise through the Indian Ocean? I believe you have a photo shoot in the Seychelles in one week’s time. Val Kendrick is scheduled to appear with you. She is a very beautiful woman, but erratic.”