huge wooden propeller. Below its bi-wings was a large floatplane.
At some point, the plane’s original thirty-five-foot fuselage had been stretched to forty-four feet and expanded to accommodate a six-person passenger compartment. The addition of an enclosed cockpit provided side-by-side seats for a pilot and copilot. Four Plexiglas observation bubbles were installed along both sides of the fuselage, making it perfect for aerial sightseeing, and retractable landing gear was added. The interior of the plane featured highly polished wood and gleaming aluminum, and was now equipped with a quadraphonic sound system. The result was a seventy-year-old hot rod that flew.
But the airplane’s uniqueness didn’t end there. The Ar-95W was also foldable. Its wings, slightly swept back in the original design, hung on hinges that allowed them to be folded back and down. The rear third of the fuselage was also hinged and could be folded forward. The struts that held the pontoons folded upward. Even the propeller was hinged to be folded backward.
The odd, flexible design came from the notion that, had the Ar-95W gone into mass production, it would have been an ideal recon aircraft for German U-boats, because in its folded-up position, it could be carried inside the submarine itself.
So, the plane was very unusual.
But not any more unusual than its owner.
* * *
COLONEL CAT WAS in his middle forties, though his long ZZ Top beard made him look older. He always wore the same clothes: tattered island shirt, ragged shorts, dirty sneakers and a long-sleeve denim jacket. He was well known around the Fort Lauderdale airfield where he housed the Ar-95W and all over the Bahamas. He had the Caribe look and the demeanor down pat. If you wanted to go, he was the man who’d fly you to Margaritaville.
Colonel Cat hired out his unusual seaplane for a number of functions. He gave sightseeing tours of weird Bahamian locations, like the Stairs of Atlantis, the Tongue of the Ocean and the islands’ mysterious Blue Holes. He would take people deep-sea fishing, flying out to an ocean location to fish right from the cabin of the plane. He also flew scuba enthusiasts to hard-to-reach dive sites.
A lot of his business, though, involved transporting people who had chartered yachts waiting for them in the Bahamas. Many of these customers were novice sailors not experienced enough to handle what could be a rough crossing over from Florida, a transit that involved fighting the fast-moving and unpredictable Gulf Stream. Other charter customers were people who might be carrying items they did not want airport security to see, or for whatever reason didn’t have a valid passport. Some were just out-and-out criminals. Most wanted to travel without leaving a paper trail.
These special clients usually had money and weren’t afraid to spend it, allowing Cat to charge premium prices for his shuttle service. In most cases the flight from Fort Lauderdale to the Bahamas took under an hour, and as an extra bonus Cat could land the customer right next to his chartered boat. He even helped with their luggage, whatever it might contain.
As Cat liked to say: “Discretion is my middle name.”
* * *
HE HAD TWO customers this morning; they were typical in just about every way.
He was a sixty-ish married, wealthy banking executive from Ohio. She was a “hostess” at a bar on Miami’s South Beach. She was one-third his age and stunning.
They had met only recently and were in a whirlwind romance of sorts. The executive had quietly chartered a yacht for three days out of Alice Town in North Bimini, intent on getting some alone time with his new paramour.
He’d seen Colonel Cat’s ad in the local Beach Scene Magazine and called. Cat got the banker to agree to pay $1,000—cash—for a private flight over to Bimini and back.
* * *
CAT FUELED HIS plane and was ready to go from the Fort Lauderdale airport by 9 A.M. The happy couple arrived by limo a short time later.
He loaded their luggage. The banker was clearly drunk with lust. Cat couldn’t blame him; the hostess was gorgeous.
They took off at nine-fifteen and were soon heading east. The hostess sat up front; the banker was behind her, massaging her bare shoulders as they flew. After a lot of small talk, Cat went into his pitch.
“If you have a few extra minutes, I can show you some interesting sights,” he began. “Lots of strange things out here. Some people don’t realize it, but the Bahamas are right in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle.”
The