he had nothing really new to say on the topic and no photos of any consequence, he’d written the book at home in Tucson, fabricating all of it. His publisher had caught a whiff of the hoax and demanded an authentic book or a return of the hefty advance.
Desperate, the pair had hired a small research vessel to cruise around the Bahamas in an effort to find something— anything— to write about, all without wanting their publisher to know. They were especially looking for photographs of UFOs, which as hard as they might be to provide, were by now being demanded by the publisher.
The flight over to the Bahamas was a bit tense, though Cat gradually filled it with small talk about seeing strange lights in the skies over the Bahamas for years. In fact, he said, he’d taken many pictures of them himself.
By the time they touched down near the Great Harbour Cays, the author was begging to buy Cat’s UFO photos at $250 an image.
“Tell me where you’ll be tonight,” Cat suggested, helping unload the couple’s luggage onto their leased yacht. “I’ll fly back with the photos. If you like them, then we can talk.”
* * *
CAT’S NEXT CUSTOMER flew out of Fort Lauderdale at 2 P.M.
He was a professional sports fisherman from Alabama. A lucrative tournament was being held in the Bahamas in two weeks. It was going to be televised and would award large cash prizes. The fisherman wanted to get to the islands early and relax before the tourney.
Or at least that was his story. A few minutes after taking off, the fisherman admitted the contest was to be held at a yet-to-be-disclosed location somewhere off South Bimini. His plan was to go around the South Bimini islands in his rented boat looking for likely places and trying his best to get a feel for them. It was a violation of the contest rules—which was why he’d hired Cat to fly him over. Again, no paper trail.
“I might know a better way,” Cat told him.
“Which is?” the man asked.
“I’m flying a couple of that tourney’s judges out here in a few days,” he said. “And they’ve already faxed me a list of their destinations. One of them must be where the tourney is being held, right?”
The fishermen couldn’t believe his luck.
“How much?” he asked.
“I couldn’t take anything,” Cat protested weakly.
“Consider it a tip, a bonus,” the fisherman said.
“Tell me where you’re going to be tonight,” Cat said. “I’ll fly out with the maps. You look at them, figure out the sweet spot—and then we can talk about a tip. Deal?”
The fisherman gave him an enthusiastic fist bump.
“Deal,” he said.
Off Thomas Cay
Six Hours Later
THE BANKER WAS sitting on the stern of his rented yacht. The girl was up on the bow, at the opposite end of the boat, as far away from him as possible.
Night had come. The last of the sun’s rays were disappearing over the horizon and the stars were coming out above. A half moon was rising in the east.
The banker took a long, sad sip of his scotch. “This was a big mistake,” he thought out loud. Just as he had feared, his performance so far had been underwhelming.
Then he heard a noise off in the distance. He looked up and saw a light approaching from the west.
“Damn,” he whispered. “Could this be the cavalry?”
He watched the light as it flew overhead and started a long slow turn down toward the isolated bay where the chartered yacht was anchored.
The banker was on his feet as the Ar-95W floatplane came down and skipped along the water. The girl was suddenly at his side.
The plane taxied up next to the yacht, so close the banker was concerned its long wings might actually clip the leased boat. But at that moment, he would gladly have paid for the damage. If the wacky pilot was carrying what he’d promised, it might just turn around this disaster yet.
The pilot skillfully maneuvered the plane so its rear hatch was nearly flush with the yacht’s stern. The banker threw out a short
Desperate, the pair had hired a small research vessel to cruise around the Bahamas in an effort to find something— anything— to write about, all without wanting their publisher to know. They were especially looking for photographs of UFOs, which as hard as they might be to provide, were by now being demanded by the publisher.
The flight over to the Bahamas was a bit tense, though Cat gradually filled it with small talk about seeing strange lights in the skies over the Bahamas for years. In fact, he said, he’d taken many pictures of them himself.
By the time they touched down near the Great Harbour Cays, the author was begging to buy Cat’s UFO photos at $250 an image.
“Tell me where you’ll be tonight,” Cat suggested, helping unload the couple’s luggage onto their leased yacht. “I’ll fly back with the photos. If you like them, then we can talk.”
* * *
CAT’S NEXT CUSTOMER flew out of Fort Lauderdale at 2 P.M.
He was a professional sports fisherman from Alabama. A lucrative tournament was being held in the Bahamas in two weeks. It was going to be televised and would award large cash prizes. The fisherman wanted to get to the islands early and relax before the tourney.
Or at least that was his story. A few minutes after taking off, the fisherman admitted the contest was to be held at a yet-to-be-disclosed location somewhere off South Bimini. His plan was to go around the South Bimini islands in his rented boat looking for likely places and trying his best to get a feel for them. It was a violation of the contest rules—which was why he’d hired Cat to fly him over. Again, no paper trail.
“I might know a better way,” Cat told him.
“Which is?” the man asked.
“I’m flying a couple of that tourney’s judges out here in a few days,” he said. “And they’ve already faxed me a list of their destinations. One of them must be where the tourney is being held, right?”
The fishermen couldn’t believe his luck.
“How much?” he asked.
“I couldn’t take anything,” Cat protested weakly.
“Consider it a tip, a bonus,” the fisherman said.
“Tell me where you’re going to be tonight,” Cat said. “I’ll fly out with the maps. You look at them, figure out the sweet spot—and then we can talk about a tip. Deal?”
The fisherman gave him an enthusiastic fist bump.
“Deal,” he said.
Off Thomas Cay
Six Hours Later
THE BANKER WAS sitting on the stern of his rented yacht. The girl was up on the bow, at the opposite end of the boat, as far away from him as possible.
Night had come. The last of the sun’s rays were disappearing over the horizon and the stars were coming out above. A half moon was rising in the east.
The banker took a long, sad sip of his scotch. “This was a big mistake,” he thought out loud. Just as he had feared, his performance so far had been underwhelming.
Then he heard a noise off in the distance. He looked up and saw a light approaching from the west.
“Damn,” he whispered. “Could this be the cavalry?”
He watched the light as it flew overhead and started a long slow turn down toward the isolated bay where the chartered yacht was anchored.
The banker was on his feet as the Ar-95W floatplane came down and skipped along the water. The girl was suddenly at his side.
The plane taxied up next to the yacht, so close the banker was concerned its long wings might actually clip the leased boat. But at that moment, he would gladly have paid for the damage. If the wacky pilot was carrying what he’d promised, it might just turn around this disaster yet.
The pilot skillfully maneuvered the plane so its rear hatch was nearly flush with the yacht’s stern. The banker threw out a short
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