3 Crystal Blue by John H. Cunningham

Author:John H. Cunningham
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Greene Street LLC
Published: 2013-08-30T04:00:00+00:00

THE FLIGHT FROM ST. THOMAS to Beef Island, the spit of land connected to Tortola where the international airport is situated, would be over in moments, but I had a few things I wanted to check first. At an altitude of 3,000 feet I could see every island in the BVI, big and small. The sky was partially clear, but the large cumulous clouds that had been building all day rocked the Beast with serious turbulence.

Somewhere down there were John Thedford and Stud Mahoney. I hoped they were still alive—and that I’d find them before it was too late. Or before Boom-Boom’s threats to bring trouble to Adoption AID came true, which amounted to the same thing.

As Tortola grew larger ahead of me I added flaps and pointed the nose of the Beast toward its west end. The harbor there was where the ferries docked and boaters passed through Customs, but across the harbor was an island officially named Frenchman’s Cay but known as Soper’s Hole.

I buzzed over Soper’s and focused on the boatyard and marina where Pusser’s and the Blue Parrot bars were located. I saw several large catamarans but no red-hulled Cigarette. I circled south, over Pillsbury Sound, and scanned the harbor again—nothing aside from some damn nice cruising ships.

With Tortola ATC barking in my headset, I continued north over Cane Garden Bay. I glanced over at Jost Van Dyke to the west, noting the concentration of white dots—boats in Great Harbor where Foxy’s was located—and vectored east around Guana Island, Great Camanoe, and Scrub Islands, adding flaps as we circled.

I straightened out toward Terrance B. Lettsome Airport and touched a third of the way down the 4,500-foot runway. I taxied along toward the FBO, where I was directed to park the Beast on the tarmac, just before the private aviation building.

The trip had been too short to process all the beauty I’d observed along the way: the brilliant turquoise water, rugged rock outcroppings, white strips of sand, and red terracotta roofs dotting green hills. Nothing replaced the feeling I always got when soaring above the islands, all of which I knew by name. It imbued my soul with a sense of peace that calmed the fears I had in coming here.

With my flight bag over my shoulder and the letters from the FAA and FBI in my breast pocket, I was as ready as I’d ever be to go through Customs. Not just because it was a mind-numbing process, island time being especially prevalent where bureaucrats reign, but because it was Tortola.

The line was short and it only took a few minutes before I handed over my passport to the blue-uniformed agent who looked as if he’d fall asleep if left alone for more than a minute. He glanced at the passport, then my face, then back to the passport photo. Okay, so I hadn’t updated it post-e-Antiquity, but it’s still me.

His fingers dragged over the keyboard. He stopped typing, glanced up at me again, looked over his left shoulder toward a closed door.

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