AK 239: The Enemy Is Already Here

He grew up in Dover, England and travelled to Alaska once when he was a boy with his parents on vacation and fell in love with Alaska. Jimmy came back as an adult and never left.

Jimmy’s a pilot, like his father before him, and said he came to Alaska as he “connected with the sky here,” whatever the hell that means, I thought as I sat in this death trap called our police plane.

There is something spiritual in nature here, Jimmy would always say.

“Whatever,” I would always say back.

Don’t get me wrong I love Alaska except for the bitter, cold winters, my old cold drafty house, my cars that don’t run properly and… and come to think of it I really don’t love Alaska at all. I would give anything to be sipping a cold drink on a nice warm Caribbean island somewhere!

The Ketchikan Police Department technically owns this piece of junk only because no one else wants it. This old bucket of bolts is literally flying: “On one wing and a prayer!”

As we fly over Annette Island, my damn phone goes off again.

At this time, I still didn’t see Denning’s text for help.

That’s because it sits with ‘104’ other casual texts from my wife and sons that I would routinely ignore.

I answer the phone because I can’t ignore my wife any longer.

“Hi Yura.”

The plane suddenly sputters and pops.

This scares the hell out of me.

The pilot and Tony don’t seem upset at all.

“Oh my God! Why doesn’t anything with an engine we own run properly?” I yell.

Tony pipes up, “Cause the Eskimo repairs them.”

I put my phone on speaker as Yura says, “That’s so racist!”

I say, “Eskimo is only racist in Canada.”

Yura, “I’m from Canada.”

I jokingly say, “And you can go back there any time ya want.”

Yura doesn’t take it as a joke. There is dead silence on the phone.

Tony says, “How can calling my bother an Eskimo be racist, mom?”

Yura, “Don’t call your brother an Eskimo. Tell your son to stop talking like a racist!”

I say, “Eskimo 2, stop calling Eskimo 1, an Eskimo, you racist Eskimo, you!

Yura, “You guys all sound like racists!”

I say, “How can I be a racist? I married you!”

Yura says, “Very funny. I have a 911 call on hold.”

“Okay, honey, bye,” I say.

The pilot looking at me and says,

“Wow!”

In jest I say to Tony, “I’m thinking of adopting a white kid so our family can be more diverse!”

After he doesn’t laugh I then ask him,

“So what did the pilot say?”

“He was taking two people all cash to Pond Bay on Duke Island,” says Tony.

“I thought they were going to a fishing lodge?”

“The suspects changed their itinerary midair,” says Tony.

“Well, that sounds fishy,” I reply.

I look at the pilot, “What’s at Pond Bay?”

“Nothing,” he says.

I ask, “Did the Pond Bay pilot have IFR?”

IFR is: Instrument Flight Rules that allow flying in any weather conditions, day or night. Most of the floatplanes that fly around here for the cruise ships in summer don’t have IFR. They only have VFR (Visual Flight Rules). VFR is for daylight, good weather conditions, not night and low ceilings (clouds) where you need instruments.

“I seriously doubt it but cash always speaks louder than words,” says Tony.

“True but he could lose his pilot’s license!” I answer.

Jimmy speaks up, “I could lose mine!”

“We don’t have any IFR on this piece of junk?” I ask.

The pilot just stares at me as if,

Didn’t you just answer your own question?

“I should arrest you right now! You can land this thing on Pond Bay, right?”

“In? Yes! On may be another story,” replies Jimmy sarcastically.

I look at Jimmy long and hard, not appreciating the joke. I finally look at my phone again and see “104” text messages saying,

“I wish you guys wouldn’t text me every time you think of something. I do have other things…”

I finally see Denning’s text message and open it.

“Holy shit!”

“Turn this plane around. We’re going to Bokan Mountain!”

“Now!”

The pilot makes a 180-degree sharp turn that would curdle the blood of a fighter pilot.

The old engine struggles to keep up with it’s own wings.

I hang onto the ceiling while trying to call Yura,

“I’m sending you this text now, Yura. Get it to the FBI Strategic Information Operations Center in D.C. and only speak with an HRT supervisor, okay, sweetheart?”

HRT is the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team and has an undisclosed number of Gold, Red, and Blue Teams stationed all over the United States.

But this is Alaska.

I’m thinking it could take a hostage rescue team a day or more to get up here.

And, at this time, I clearly had no idea what I was in for.

“Better call SERT and send them the same text I’m sending you now,” I say, in a panic.

SERT is the Special Emergency Reaction Team and is Alaska’s Special Emergency Response Team.

They are basically the equivalent of a SWAT team.

“Okay,” says Yura.

“My cell won’t work much longer. You’ll have ta call Jimmy on his two-way, Okay?”

Yura can sense the fear in my voice as she says,

“You guys take care.”

I pretend to act tough,

“Hey, we’ve made it this far in this piece of junk. Nothing can hurt us!”

Yura then says, “I love you guys.”

I hang up the phone and looking at the pilot I say,

“You got a gun?”