White Cargo by Stuart Woods Page B

whatever suits you.”
    Cat felt a little queasy at the thought of firearms. He had been shot with the last weapon he had owned. “You really think I ought to be armed?” he asked.
    â€œToo bloody right. I’d take a bazooka if I could get it in a shoulder holster.”
    Cat went to the gun shop where he had bought the little shotgun for the yacht. The place was a wonderland of death, with every conceivable sort of weapon. He picked out a magnum for Bluey, but balked when choosing something for himself. The only handgun he had ever fired was the .45 automatic the Marines had given him, although he had fired Expert with the pistol and a carbine. He didn’t want anything as big as Bluey’s magnum, and finally he accepted the salesman’s recommendation of a very expensive Hechler & Koch 9-millimeter automatic pistol, because it was light and held a fifteen-round magazine. He bought the appropriate shoulder holsters and a box each of ammunition and left the shop with everything in a brown shopping bag, feeling foolish.
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    By seven in the morning they had the airplane loaded, and Cat followed Bluey around the aircraft, learning the preflight inspection.
    â€œYou been taking lessons, huh?” Bluey asked. “How many hours you got?”
    â€œAbout sixty. I was supposed to take my check ride for my private license a couple of weeks ago, but all this got in the way.”
    Bluey nodded. “Okay, you fly her. Let’s see how good you are.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Bluey shoved him into the left seat and climbed in beside him. “It’s not all that different from the trainer you learned in. You’ve got a couple extra knobs, that’s all, for the landing gear and the constant-speed propeller. Anyway, I’m the hottest instructor who ever came down the pike.”
    Cat shrugged. “Well, I guess my student license is good.” He buckled in and, with Bluey reading the checklist and pointing at things, got the engine started. The tower wasn’t open yet, so they checked the wind sock and taxied to the runway. Bluey announced their departure on the Common Traffic Advisory Frequency and nodded. “We’re off. Full throttle.”
    Cat shoved the throttle all the way in and marveled at how the airplane accelerated, compared to the less powerful one he had been flying. As instructed, at sixty knots of airspeed he pulled back on the yoke and the craft rose into the air.
    â€œRetract the gear,” Bluey ordered. “Flaps up. At five hundred feet reduce throttle to twenty-three inches of manifold pressure—there’s the meter, there—and trim the propeller back to twenty-four hundred rpm.” He glanced at a chart. “Now start a turn to the left and aim for Stone Mountain. Climb to three thousand feet.”
    Cat did as he was told and picked out the giant granite lump that was Stone Mountain, rising through a patch of early morning mist.
    Bluey got on the radio and called Atlanta Flight Services and opened the flight plan. “I filed for Everglades City,” he said, winking, “but we’re not landing there.”
    â€œWhere are we landing?” Cat asked, while trying to concentrate on leveling out at three thousand feet.
    â€œA little place near there. A friend of mine runs it,” Bluey said mysteriously. “You’ll see when we get there. When you get to Stone Mountain, turn right to one eight zero degrees and hold your altitude. We’ve got to get past the Atlanta Terminal Control Area before we can climb to cruising altitude.”
    Twenty minutes later, Cat climbed to nine thousandfeet and leaned out the engine. Bluey switched on the loran navigator and punched in the three-letter code, X01, for Everglades City. He pressed two buttons on the autopilot and sat back.
    â€œOkay, let go the controls,” Bluey said.
    Cat let go and the airplane flew itself.
    â€œGreat