In the literary style of John Grisham’s legal-thrillers and Tom Clancy’s cold war sagas, UNLAWFUL FLIGHT chronicles the story of two strangers whose lives become inextricably linked by fate and common cause, exposing a tangled web of underworld crime, international conspiracy, and governmental corruption at the highest level.
Stephen Goddard is facing financial ruin. Fired from his six-figure job as an airline captain, being divorced by his wealthy socialite wife, he reluctantly accepts a lucrative and illegal job of flying narcotics from a mountain lake in Colombia to a snake and alligator infested river near New Orleans. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Carlo Matranga, Godfather of the New Orleans Mafia, intends to steal the syndicate’s money, leave town, and retire quietly in his native Sicily. Had he known that he had terminal cancer or that the FBI was listening to his phone calls, he might have done things differently.
When Goddard is arrested on drug smuggling charges after the deal goes awry, he and Matranga become unlikely allies and co-conspirators to flee from New Orleans and federal prosecution. With the FBI, Interpol, and the Mafia one step behind, the two fugitives embark on a globe-hopping, adrenaline-pumping journey of adventure and intrigue.
Excerpt
Chapter IV
Politics and Bedfellows
Belle Fontaine Beach, Mississippi – August 5, 1985 – 2 PM
Colonel William Barksdale, US Army Special Forces, retired, steered his camouflage-painted H1 Hummer down the sandy, rut-filled road, bounded on both sides by palmetto thicket and huckleberry scrub.
The sultry air of August was close and oppressive, almost suffocating. Spanish moss adorning the gnarled branches of centuries-old live oaks hung motionless in the noonday stillness.
Barksdale’s vehicle appeared to be authentic military except for its Louisiana license plates. It was the Colonel’s personal vehicle as well as a campaign tool.
At the end of the road stood a dilapidated cabin that looked more like a vegetable stand than a house. Parked in front of the cabin was a black Sedan DeVille. Behind the cabin, a weather-beaten fishing pier extended three hundred feet from the shore into the Gulf of Mexico.
Barksdale parked the Hummer next to the Cadillac. He waded through a profusion of weeds and wildflowers adorning the yard before stepping onto the pier.
The sound of his footsteps on the planks reminded him of the cadenced pacing at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. He had spent two years of his thirty-year military career on that honorable but lonely vigil, living a life more akin to an ascetic monk than a soldier.
He loved his country, he had done his duty, and in return, he wanted to be Louisiana’s next senator. The man at the end of the pier could seal his fate, one way or the other.
Carlo Matranga managed to find enough shade to stay reasonably cool as he sat beneath the small gazebo at the pier’s end. He stared at a low-lying island on the horizon, watched seagulls scream and soar, and occasionally glanced at his watch.
His bodyguard wasn’t as fortunate. He stood his vigil in the midday sun some thirty yards away. He was wearing a dark suit, his tie cinched tight enough to cause the blood vessels in his thick neck to bulge. He was hot, sweat beading and dripping off his face onto the split and twisted boards on which he stood, but he did not complain. It was his job to make sure that anyone approaching Carlo Matranga had a valid reason, and a valid reason did not include a weapon.
“Hey, boss, someone’s coming,” he said, peering down the pier toward the shore.
“State your business!” the bodyguard called out, his hand moving inside his jacket and resting on the handle of his pistol.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Matranga,” Barksdale replied.
“It’s okay, Ricky,” Carlo said. “Let him pass.”
“Colonel Barksdale, I presume,” Carlo said as he stood. “I have some Dom Perignon in the cooler. Would you like a glass?”
“No thanks, Mr. Matranga. The last thing I need right now is a DWI.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I do. Ricky, pour me a glass of wine and find Colonel Barksdale a bottle of water, please.”
“You got it, boss,” Ricky said, tossing a water bottle to the colonel, and then peeling the foil from the ice-encrusted champagne.
“How can I be of service, Colonel?” Carlo asked.
“First of all, thank you for the opportunity to discuss a mutually beneficial objective. I’ll be candid, Mr. Matranga. I want to be the next senator from Louisiana. But, before I announce, and spend money on a vain campaign effort, I want to get your blessing and support.
“I’m a West Point graduate and a decorated veteran of ‘Nam with thirty years of combat experience. With my military record, I have no doubt that I can garner a substantial majority of the always-patriotic rural and small town vote, but I need New Orleans for an outright win in the open primary. It’s no secret that you control the political machinery in Orleans Parrish. In order to achieve my objective, I need your help.”
“I can see the wisdom in your strategy, Colonel, but if I were to deliver New Orleans, how does that accrue to my benefit?”
“As a senator, I wouldn’t be able do anything overtly because of your notoriety. If I did, I would never get re-elected. But, I could do a lot for you indirectly through your commercial ventures. New Iberia Shipping Company has widely diversified business interests. I promise you, as your senator, New Iberia will have a strong advocate in Washington. That includes seaborne transportation contracts with the Pentagon, favorable trade legislation, and tax breaks for American-flagged vessels, not to mention lucrative government programs for your subsidiaries.”
“I see you have done your homework, Colonel, but why should I support you instead of one of your opponents?”
“Justin Thibodaux is a law and order man. He has already introduced five bills in the House of Representatives to combat organized crime. You can expect even tougher legislation if he becomes senator. He has name recognition, and he’s charismatic. If the election goes to a runoff, he’ll win.
“Joe Cranford is sole heir of the Bateaux Sugar conglomerate. He has all the money he needs to run a top-notch campaign without any outside help. He’s also a deacon in his church. Maybe he’s not untouchable, but it’s highly unlikely he would pursue any quid pro quo opportunities with, shall we say, unsavory elements. No offense intended.”
“None taken,” Carlo replied.
“Unfortunately for his campaign, he has the personality of a perch. My polls indicate that he doesn’t have a chance of winning, but he could draw enough support from the evangelicals to be a spoiler and push the election into a runoff, thereby assuring a Thibodaux victory.
“Now, that leaves me. I’m a war hero, recipient of the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart, and I have no baggage. I’m ambitious, and I’m willing to accept the realities of politics.”
Carlo poured another glass of champagne, watched an osprey snatch a fish from the sea, and looked back at Colonel Barksdale.
“Colonel, I don’t deal in abstractions. My word is my bond. I expect—no, demand—the same from those with whom I conduct business. You have asked for my help. If I deliver New Orleans to your side of the ledger on Election Day, and if you are successful in your quest for the Senate, in return, I will expect you to honor any reasonable request to advance my interests.”
“Who determines what is reasonable?” the colonel asked.
“I do,” replied Carlo, smiling. “Do you still want my help?”
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