Sally cautiously inched the secret panel open… fully exposing the timer-detonated explosive device held to the interior wall of the airplane with black zip ties. Whoever was responsible for rigging the explosive had planned to get in and out quickly.
The green blinking light was affixed to a digital timer that read thirty-eight seconds. Each flicker continued in cadence with the ticking bomb. Thirty-seven… Thirty-six…
“White and yellow? What the hell,” Sally announced.
She was referring to the color of the two visible wires. Nothing elaborate… but espionage training told her the wiring should have been red for hot and black for ground. Simple to rig—simple to defuse.
Twenty-eight… Twenty-seven… Twenty-six…
“Hazel, if you had to pick white or yellow for your wedding day, which would it be?” Sally asked.
“In Australia, yellow is fashionable for beach weddings, of which I would have to concur,” responded Hazel.
“Wrong answer, Eagle Three,” replied Sally as she swiveled the paracord survival bracelet on her wrist and exposed a small, embedded razor-sharp blade. “Let’s go with white.”
“But, Sal, white? I’ll be wearing a two-piece dental floss suit for my wedding—and with this bod I’ll need the yellow to camouflage any probable sand in my crack.”
Thirteen… Twelve… Eleven…
“Still—wrong answer,” replied Sally. “I plan on being your best gal at this ceremony, and my job will be to keep your fanny clean. But here’s the deal—let’s cut the white wire—so you can have a future wedding.”
Sparks flew when the wire snapped, and Winifred, who was observing from a distance, took two steps closer for a better view. The flame was short-lived like a flickering candle on a birthday cake.
“Wow, nice job, Sal,” commended Hazel. “I’ll gladly wear white on my wedding day.”
Sally had identified the correct wire by tracing it back to the timer and then defused the bomb with one quick snip. Ultimately, she considered this amateur hour (a basic explosive device that any rookie with some simple training could neutralize) even though there were precious few seconds remaining on the detonator. In her professional opinion, she and Team Eagle were alive, and this was too simplistic for someone who planned to make a serious kill.
YES, there would have been a sizable hole in the airplane. NO, they would not abort this flight and be late for their fuel stop in Dakar.
“Hey, Win, please make a full sweep of the lavatory. Hazel and I will finish up with this room,” instructed Sally.
“Sure, just take me a hot sec. And ma’am—my apologies for missing the hidden compartment with my initial scan of the plane—trust me, I am on your team,” responded Winifred.
“Win, I’m not a ma’am—it’s either Eagle One or Sally. And please—take your time—be thorough. Hot seconds, like the ONE that’s left on this detonator, are what cost people their lives.”
Winifred made a beeline for the bathroom and once out of earshot Hazel whispered, “Anyone that I’ve just met who says TRUST ME… dude… that does not evoke confidence.”
“Copy that,” replied Sally. “I’ll double check the restroom space when she’s finished. You return to the main cabin and reach out to HQ on the plane’s satellite phone. Get some background intel on this Winifred Dixie. And Hazel, no announcements to the boys about this bomb. Heimburg is already on edge, and I’m not sure if Loonsuckle is smart enough to be afraid.”
Speaking of being on edge… Our main camp man Mr. Rusty Flathers was a bit twitchy himself after being knocked for a loop by the toxins in the poop pit. But thankfully, Celine had a fresh apple fly-pie on hand and after a few wafts under Rusty’s nose he snapped to.
“Holy man,” stated Rusty while sitting up and regaining his bearings. “Please tell me your kitchen sink is unplugged?”
“Yep, hot diggity, boss,” replied Celine, “I just dumped an entire gallon jug of used fish frying oil down the hatch—no problems.”
But what she did not tell him—was that she found a taxidermy specimen of a stuffed squirrel lying among the poop-covered debris in the yard. Oddly, it resembled Cracker Jack… Celine’s nemesis and Link’s former ally.
This is troubling, she thought. I’ll need to dust off my witchcraft to nullify this potentially bad omen. Or have Minister Nev perform an exorcism on the foam-filled critter. For now, I take it to my kitchen—pulverize its head with a meat tenderizing hammer and then boil the pelt to make earmuffs.
Then she bounced and headed for the lodge with the taxidermy squirrel hidden in her undershorts. “Gotta go, boss!”
“But hey, Celine, wait… I’m gonna hit the shower. Can you grab a water hose from the dock and spray down this stench-filled yard?”
“Not my tournament, Mr. Rus-sickle. I’m your chef not your fertilizer cleanup crew. And if I were you, I’d hit the lake first. Save yourself the cleanup in the bath house. Clothing optional of course. Promise I won’t look. Or will.”
By mid-afternoon Rusty had put the pieces, along with himself, back in a functional manner. It was time for an ice-cold lemonade and a five-minute breather before his guests returned from their day’s adventure on the lake.
That was until he heard the plane. It was a deep throaty rumble… much different than any of the higher-pitched bush planes that traversed Lac des Bois.
Rusty sat straight forward in the Adirondack chair straining his ears and identifying the Cessna A185 Skywagon before it came into clear view. Then his head snapped when it circled south of the camp and tipped its wings preparing for landing.
Well, that was a short break, Rusty thought to himself. What could possibly happen now?
As the plane idled in, the oversized camshaft rolled over and roared in deep procession. A powerful unit—the plane and the pilot. Rusty then jumped to his feet and marched with hesitant anticipation toward the dock and down to the floater where he met his guest.
Tipping his ballcap, he made eye contact with the aviator. Then he grabbed the ropes from the port-side float and secured the rig to the dock cleats. Simultaneously, through inquisitive eyes, he watched as the prop on the Cessna was cut and the pilot’s door kicked open.
Rusty was… momentarily… speechless. He did not know what to say or honestly, what to do. Then he inhaled… cautiously… and said, “Ellie, why are you…”
And before the word HERE came out of his mouth, Ms. Ellie Waylayer charged like a bull and launched from six feet away. Upon landing… she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. Then, chest to chest, she smothered him with a magnificent blond bombshell kiss that left his knees knocking.
“I’m comin’ Straight On For You, Flathers!” she said after coming up for air.
Meanwhile, back on the Zimbabwe-bound charter flight… all passengers were watching the final minutes of You’ve Got Mail.
“This never happens in real life,” suggested Jackie Loonsuckle, as Team Eagle watched the iconic embrace of Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.
“Never say never,” countered Ron Heimburg, tearing up, again. “You just never know how life can take a turn.”
How true, thought Sally. The bomb had been defused, all was right with the world (as much as possible), and now for the first time Don’t Cry Shopgirl hit her like a ton of bricks. It was the first time, since she left the island, that she thought of Rusty.
“Who’s ready for a Mission Impossible flick?” announced Sally. “I’m ready for action.”
Then before they could get the reel going… the satellite phone of the plane began to buzz.
“It’s for you, Ms. Squatsnfishes,” said Win with the phone pressed to her ear.
Sally then moved from her seat to the device. “Yes, this is…”
But before she could finish, a voice overrode hers, “I’m waiting for you in Dakar. And I’m no longer practicing Catch & Release.” Then the line went dead.
“Who was it?” asked Ron, once again appearing nervous.
“No one in particular,” replied Sally. “Maybe a character from this Mission Impossible movie. Let’s roll the film.”
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 