gym shorts and a Miami Dolphins jersey, his version of pajamas. The SWAT team backed away. The team leader pointed his gun at the floor and introduced himself as Agent Matta, FBI.
“Sorry about the entrance,” Matta said. “We got a tip that you were in danger.”
“A tip? From who?”
“Anonymous.”
Jack was somewhat skeptical. He was, after all, a criminal defense lawyer.
“We need to talk to you about your client, Jean Saint Preux. Did he act alone?”
“I don’t even know if he’s done anything yet.”
“Save it for the courtroom,” Matta said. “I need to know if there are more planes on the way.”
Jack suddenly understood the guns-drawn entrance. “What are you talking about?”
“Your client has been flying in the Windward Passage for some time now, hasn’t he?”
“Yeah. He’s Haitian. People are dying on the seas trying to flee the island. He’s been flying humanitarian missions to spot rafters lost at sea.”
“How well do you know him?”
“He’s just a client. Met him on a pro bono immigration case I did ten years ago. Look, you probably know more than I do. Are you sure it was him?”
“I think you can confirm that much for us with the air traffic control recordings.” He pulled a CD from inside his pocket, then said, “It’s been edited down to compress the time frame of the engagement, but it’s still highly informative.”
Jack was as curious as anyone to know if his client was involved—if he was alive or dead. “Let’s hear it,” he said.
Matta inserted the CD into the player on Jack’s credenza. There were several seconds of dead air. Finally a voice crackled over the speakers: “This is approach control, U.S. Naval Air Station, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Unidentified aircraft heading one-eight-five at one-five knots, identify yourself.”
Another stretch of silence followed. The control tower repeated its transmission. Finally, a man replied, his voice barely audible, but his Creole accent was still detectable. “Copy that.”
Jack said, “That’s Jean.”
The recorded voice of the controller continued, “You are entering unauthorized airspace. Please identify.”
No response.
“Fighter planes have been dispatched. Please identify.”
Jack moved closer to hear. It sounded as though his client was having trouble breathing.
The controller’s voice took on a certain urgency. “Unidentified aircraft, your transponder is emitting code seven-seven-hundred. Do you have an emergency?”
Again there was silence, and then a new voice emerged. “Yeah, Guantanamo, this is Mustang.”
Matta leaned across the desk and paused the CD just long enough to explain, “That’s the navy fighter pilot.”
The recording continued: “We have a visual. White Cessna one-eighty-two with blue stripes. N-number—November two six Golf Mike. One pilot aboard. No passengers.”
The controller said, “November two six Golf Mike, please confirm the code seven-seven-hundred. Are you in distress?”
“Affirmative.”
“Identify yourself.”
“Jean Saint Preux.”
“What is the nature of your distress?”
“I…I think I’m having a heart attack.”
The controller said, “Mustang, do you still have a visual?”
“Affirmative. The pilot appears to be slumped over the yoke. He’s flying on automatic.”
“November two six Golf Mike, you have entered unauthorized airspace. Do you read?”
He did not reply.
“This is Mustang. MiGs on the way. Got a pair of them approaching at two-hundred-forty degrees, west-northwest.”
Matta looked at Jack and said, “Those are the Cuban jets. They don’t take kindly to private craft in Cuban airspace.”
The recorded voice of the controller said, “November two six Golf Mike, do you request permission to land?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice straining. “Can’t go back.”
The next voice was in Spanish, and the words gave Jack chills. “Attention. You have breached the sovereign airspace of the Republic of Cuba. This will be your only warning. Reverse course immediately, or you will be fired upon as hostile aircraft.”
The controller said, “November two six Golf Mike, you must alter course to two-twenty, south-southwest. Exit Cuban airspace and enter the U.S. corridor. Do you read?”
Matta paused the recording and said, “There’s a narrow corridor that U.S. planes can use to come and go from the base. He’s trying to get Saint Preux into the safety zone.”
The recording continued, “November two six Golf Mike, do you read?”
Before Saint Preux could reply, the Cubans issued another warning in Spanish. “Reverse course immediately, or you will be fired upon as hostile aircraft.”
“November two six Golf Mike, do you read?”
“He’s hand signaling,” said Mustang. “I think he’s unable to talk.”
The controller said, “November two six Golf Mike, steer two-twenty, south-southwest. Align yourself with the lead navy F-16 and you will be escorted to landing. Permission to land at Guantanamo Bay has been granted.”
Jack’s gaze drifted off toward the window, the drama in the Cuban skies playing out in his mind.
“Mustang, what’s your status?” asked the controller.
“We’re in the corridor. Target is back on automatic pilot.”
“Do you have the craft in sight?”
“Yes. I’m on his wing now. That maneuver away from the MiGs really took it out of him. Pilot looks to be barely conscious. Dangerous situation here.”
“November two six Golf Mike, please hand signal our pilot if you are conscious and able to hear this transmission.”
After
