Field Agent Page 10

  Deele joined me on the far side of the aircraft. “Well, they’ll pretty much always look like a plane on the outside. I mean, they need to follow the laws of aerodynamics, so you can’t very well put something in the air that looks like a backyard shed. This one has some classic lines with just a few tweaks for style.”

  He stepped up and unlatched the cabin door on the co-pilot’s side. “Here’s where you get a lot of the experimentation. Inner controls, cockpit arrangement, things of that nature.” With a wink he added, “And maybe a few adjustments to the engine.”

  I didn’t want him to see the effect that last part had on me. The limited time I’d spent in the cockpit of small planes during my military stint was enough to teach me you don’t stay airborne if your engine goes out. At least not for long. And if you weren’t somewhere that accommodated a smooth landing, things got broken. And by things I mean humans.

  After peeking around the cockpit I decided it didn’t look too unusual. But then, I didn’t really know what I was looking for, other than the mayday button and a parachute. Then I turned my attention to the good-sized rear compartment. Back here it held four additional passengers, two facing the front, two facing the rear. A second glance told me it was relatively stripped down inside, but I imagined they eliminated a lot of weight for early test flights. Best to make sure the damned thing could get off the ground first.

  “Who’s Amy Leigh?” I asked.

  Deele leaned close to my ear and lowered his voice. “She’s Benjamin’s soon-to-be ex-wife. He thought naming his newest creation after her would win her back.”

  “No go?”

  “Well, since spending all his time working on airplanes is what caused the split in the first place, not even close. I think it pissed her off even more.”

  I chuckled. “Speaking purely from a selfish standpoint, I’m glad he spent a lot of time working on it.”

  He gave me another clap on the shoulder. “Nothing to worry about. We’ve only ditched our toys twice this year. Here, climb in.”

  “Do I need a helmet or something?”

  “Would you feel more comfortable with one?”

  I pulled myself up into the rear compartment. “Just going for the Red Baron look.”

  Deele pulled himself into the co-pilot’s seat and slammed the door shut. A minute later Benjamin joined us, slipping into the pilot’s seat. I sat quietly, watching the two of them go through a pre-flight checklist, throwing switches, checking gauges, at least looking like they knew exactly what they were doing.

  And of course they did. It was an alien landscape to me, but they lived for this kind of stuff.

  Of course, others had died for this kind of stuff.

  I was out to win Deele’s trust, though, and that wouldn’t happen if I was a frightened passenger. I’d already earned a black mark just for requesting a helmet. I assumed a relaxed position, stretching out to the extent the harness system allowed.

  Shit, I thought. Might as well have fun.

  The engine fired up, incredibly loud in the small space. Deele turned around and pointed to a headset hanging from a low hook. He and Ben were in the process of putting on their own. A few seconds later I heard Deele’s voice in my ear. “All set? You comfortable?”

  I responded with the pilot’s thumbs-up, and he returned the gesture.

  Ben, satisfied with his inspection, slowly began taxiing the plane away from the hangar. I had to admit, if it wasn’t for the experimental aspect of what we were doing, I’d be enjoying the hell out of it. Getting a feel for the controls would be a kick in the pants, too, but I was in no position to make such a request.

  We trundled down to the end of the taxiway where we stopped, awaiting clearance from the tower. It seemed we waited an inordinate amount of time, but that could’ve just been a slight case of nerves. It all made sense when another plane glided in to land on the sole strip of runway. Once it was clear, we got the okay to go.

  The engine roared to life as we shot down the runway, and soon Ben had the nose up. We climbed quickly.

  I’d been holding my breath and now relaxed a bit. Looking out the side window, I watched the ground fall away before we banked to the left. Within another minute Ben relinquished control of the plane to Deele.

  For a few minutes he made some basic turns, staying in touch with the tower. He took us higher, he dropped down, and he even tried some banking that had all the earmarks of showing off. But after a few minutes I’d lost all my trepidation and simply basked in the experience.

  Until Deele glanced back and spoke to me through the intercom.

  “We’re gonna try some stuff now. Don’t be alarmed if the engine shuts off.”

  “What?” I asked, not sure I’d heard what I thought I’d heard.

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he and Ben discussed something I didn’t understand. The result, however, was that Ben killed the engine.

  My rational mind knew this wasn’t necessarily a problem, that pilots train for it all the time.

  But try telling your monkey mind that when you’re ten thousand feet above the plains of South Texas and your aircraft’s engine dies. I threw a nervous glance out the window as we began settling toward the ground. My stomach lurched.

  Thirty seconds passed that felt like thirty minutes. While I certainly was interested in the activities up front, I couldn’t tear my gaze from the view outside. The brown landscape below, which moments earlier had been merely a pleasant patch of scenery, now threatened to kill me. I found that with the engines off we’d popped into a surreal environment, more terrifying than if we’d plunged earthward with the engines screaming in protest. There’s something about hurtling to your death in absolute silence that your mind can’t or won’t process.

  Through my headset I heard another quick discussion between the pilots. I finally turned my attention away from the window in time to see Ben pointing vaguely at the instrument panel. Deele triggered something and the engine kicked back to life.

  Then died again.

  The two geniuses in the front seat chattered for a moment before Ben did something else.

  The engine tried to start, but didn’t catch. Then it happened again.

  The plane’s descent accelerated. My fingernails dug into my palms. The situation was obviously not ideal up front and I was powerless to do anything to help. So I resorted to my customary response: Laughing in the face of death.

  “Hey,” I said. “When do you start the drink service back here?”

  No reaction from the pilot, but Jason Deele offered a quick laugh. “You’ve earned a drink, I think,” he said. “No worries, we’ll be fine.”

  I started to give another thumbs-up, but decided that would be ridiculous. Instead I looked out the window again. Well, at least the view was pretty. Even if it was going to be my last view for a few days.

  More chatter from the Wright brothers, who, I had to admit, sounded remarkably calm. After we’d dropped another few hundred feet I saw Deele throw a different combination of switches. A moment later the engine roared back to life.

  And kept roaring.

  There are deep breaths, and there are deep breaths when you realize you’re not going to die in a horrific fireball. That’s the deep breath I took.

  After that excitement the rest of the trial flight held no further drama. We stayed up about forty minutes, and then Deele brought the plane in for a landing. Smoothly, I might add, like a total pro. Which I suppose he was. I paid close attention from my perch in the back seat, genuinely curious about how the operation of this plane differed from others I’d flown.

  We taxied back to the hangar where Diana Capaldi waited outside, her own look of relief visible. She’d no doubt witnessed plenty of dangerous stunts pulled off by her boss. I wondered if she’d ever had a front row seat, too.

  The engine shut down, we removed our headsets, and a minute later I stood on terra firma.

  Deele spoke briefly with Ben, then walked over to me with a big smile.r />
  “Fun?” he asked.

  “Loads,” I said. “Especially the ol’ run-out-of-gas routine.”

  He laughed. “There was never any danger. We were trying some unique ways to restart, some method Ben thinks could work if he does a little tinkering. But the standard restart—which we eventually did—was never in question.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up beforehand,” I said.

  “Oh, but you would’ve missed out on that shot of adrenaline,” he said. “The one you felt when it wouldn’t start up. Then, of course, you lived more when it finally did start than you have at any other time this year. Maybe the last several years. I’m sure of that.”

  The thing is, he believed it. That was his mantra. Squeeze every drop of excitement you could out of life’s thrill ride. Savor as many intoxicating moments as possible. All the way to the end.

  And, apparently, indoctrinate others along the way.

  “I have to get back to the office pretty soon,” he said, leading me toward the large hangar door. “But Diana has arranged a late lunch for us. Let’s talk about soybeans before I have to go, shall we?”

  13

  The lunch was more of a snack, a modest spread of salad and fruit, delivered while we’d been airborne. It occupied a six-foot banquet table set up in the hangar. Some of the workers stood around, obviously instructed to wait until the boss had helped himself before they could dive in. Three round tables had also been hastily arranged for dining. Assembling an on-the-go cafeteria on a whim beat the hell out of your typical drive-thru, and was easy when you had the money and a platoon of helpers. I wondered if Jason Deele ever wanted for anything in his life.

  Of course, we always imagine the supremely-wealthy living carefree, glamorous lives, with everything perfect. Movies and television had warped our perception until we naturally assumed these people never experienced a moment of unhappiness.

  Now this is where you expect me to tell you it’s all baloney. That billionaires live sad, lonely, stress-filled lives. That they can never develop satisfying personal relationships because their own view of normal, day-to-day living has been sublimated by layers of phantasmagorical excess. That deep down they’re miserable.

  Ha! That’s complete bullshit. They’re not miserable; they’re having the time of their lives. They love every glorious moment of their gilded existence, and can’t wait for one day to end so they can experience another one tomorrow that’s just as fabulous, if not more so.

  In fact, I think the rumor that they’re unhappy is spread—probably by these very same wealthy people we’re talking about—to make the rest of us feel not so envious. If we can say, Yeah, they’re super rich, but they have problems, too, then we don’t covet their $20 million mansions and their $300,000 cars nearly as much because the money has darkened their souls and they’re suffering.

  Nope. You and I get stressed and angry if our car breaks down because it means a couple weeks of hassle and an inconvenient expense. Billionaires have someone pick them up in another spectacular car, if not a helicopter, and they have people to clean up the messy details while they jet away to the Caribbean, Europe, or a sun-dappled island in the South Pacific. Hell, by the time they get back they’ve probably forgotten they ever even had the broken-down car.

  They have a billion dollars. Even if they get a toothache, I promise you it will never hurt nearly as much as the one you get.

  For now it was interesting watching Jason Deele interact with the people around him. I hung back for a minute and observed him talking to some of those airport workers. As smooth as he was, you could see it was still an effort for him to converse with the hoi polloi, his awkward forced interest and their clumsy nervous laughter a dead giveaway. I gave him brownie points for valiantly attempting to relate to the common folk when he knew they were bending over backwards for even the opportunity to kiss his ass. Neither side was comfortable in the exchange, although the players all tried their best to make it appear that way.

  As I watched, I realized this was the avenue I’d been looking for. My calm, unaffected reaction in the office to Deele’s aggressive opening comment had earned me the airplane ride; that same unimpressed attitude would perhaps get me even further along.

  I filled a plate with a smidge of salad and some pineapple and breezed over to the table where Deele sat with Diana. He pointed to the chair across from him.

  “Is Ben joining us?” I asked, looking around. The private security man who’d been stationed at the stairwell now stood nearby, his arms crossed. He gave me a glance before scanning the rest of the room.

  Deele shook his head. “Benjamin wouldn’t be caught dead eating salad. I’m sure he’s off to get a burger somewhere before he spends the rest of the day under the hood of that beast.” He nodded toward his assistant. “I told Diana you earned your wings today. Did you have fun?”

  “Oh, I figured you’d do something to spook me, but killing the engine was an A-plus prank. The only way you could top it would be with a surprise ejector seat.”

  He grinned and leaned toward Diana. “Make a note to ask Benjamin about an ejector seat.”

  I pushed some leafy greens around my plate. “It would seem you’re a certified adrenaline junkie. Have you always danced around fear?”

  Deele wiped his mouth with a napkin, then sat back. “When I was a kid I remember my father being terrified of spiders. So when I was seven I got my first deadly specimen, a red widow.”

  “Not a black widow?”

  “Oh, much too pedestrian. From there I worked my way up until at 11 I got my first Atrax robustus: the Funnel-web spider from Australia. My parents hated it, but as long as I kept the spiders contained they put up with it. You know, one of my favorite pastimes was to bring a classmate home from school and, when their back was turned, place one of my lovely critters beside them.” He laughed. “God, they all pissed their pants. I don’t know why it was so funny to me, but I couldn’t resist. Sadly, it wasn’t long before the word got around and suddenly nobody would accept my invitation to come over.”

  It was a little thing, but I noted that he referred to them as classmates. Not friends.

  His eyes sparkled as he continued. “I branched out to snakes, and was satisfied with creepy-crawly things until I was a teen. Then I discovered physical rushes. Bungee jumping, skydiving, underwater cave diving. Some call it a type of sickness, but I figure why go to the trouble of living if you’re not pushing the needle to the max? So that’s what I do, with my hobbies, and with my business.”

  I smiled. “Yes, business. Now that we’re safely on the ground I’d like to hear about your work with soy.”

  His brow wrinkled. “How did you hear about it? I’m always curious what brings people to our modest outfit, especially when those people represent a sizable organization like D.M. Cash.”

  I took a gamble. “Oh, let’s just say you’ve caused a stink with some of your claims. Word gets around.”

  “Would this stink emanate from Iowa?” he asked.

  “It would.” I placed a bite of pineapple in my mouth and said no more.

  After a pause, he smiled again. “I’m offering something new, something different. It makes some people uncomfortable. But I never expect the forces currently in power to hop on board right away. They’re much too complacent. Success breeds intractable laziness.”

  He sat back, and for the first time I witnessed what Fife had described as Deele’s ticktick problem. He became quite still, almost frozen in his seat, while his eyes grew wide. Fife had claimed it was like a balloon swelling, and I had to admit he was spot on.

  It lasted only a few seconds, then Deele’s eyes returned to normal and he grinned. “Do you know, Mr. Thomas, what the New York Times had to say when they first heard about this new invention called the telephone? They called it, quote, a device of the enemies of the Republic. They were convinced it would be our undoing.”

  I decided to poke him. “And you’re the Alexander Graham Bell of farming, I
take it.”

  At first he just stared at me. Without looking in her direction, I could feel Diana Capaldi fidgeting. I stabbed another piece of fruit and ate it.

  Finally, Deele laughed. “All right. I’ll say yes. I am the Alexander Graham Bell of farming. I’ve showed up with a new spin on the recipes and techniques that many of these traditional communities find, at the best, unnecessary or, at the worst, dangerous. It’s neither.”

  I wanted to say, Well, it was dangerous for David Culbertson. Instead I pushed forward.

  “There’s talk you’re offering a solution to a problem that doesn’t exist.”

  “Which is ridiculous. There are always threats to the world’s food supplies. The problems we faced yesterday are nothing like the ones we’ll face tomorrow. And the day after that they’ll be different still. Only a fool bets on the status quo.”

  One of the catering people stopped by, offering glasses of tea or ice water. The drinks we’d discussed in the air were nowhere to be found. I thanked her and took a long drink of water. Then I sat back and crossed one leg over another.

  “Jason, I represent people who aren’t afraid to bet on tomorrow. If you’ve looked at our history—if you’ve looked at my history—then you understand why I’m here talking to you. You may have even expected a visit from DCM.”

  He assumed his own casual, relaxed pose. “Well, let’s say I’m not surprised. Your company has a reputation for innovation. But you’re right, I do my research, Mr. Thomas. I know D.M. Cash plays the part of serious suitor even when they have no intention of marriage. So if you’re here for just a few dates, then I’m afraid I won’t be able to accommodate you. To be quite straight-forward, I don’t have time for an individual, personalized sales pitch if it’s only meant to entertain. As high-end realtors are fond of saying, serious buyers only.”

  I pursed my lip. “Suppose I’m serious. How would I go about finding more information on your magic beans? It wouldn’t require another joy ride, would it?”