1.
Max Tanner sprinted across the tarmac. Airport security launched the pursuit, screaming into their radios as they ran. The Boeing 737-800 made a deafening sound as it accelerated along the runway approaching take-off velocity. Max looked over his shoulder making a slight directional adjustment, praying his calculations were correct. Whatever the outcome, he’d have to deal with it on the other side. He had no more cards to play.
The younger, healthier security staff had almost caught up when an airport police vehicle came up beside him. A man in a grey uniform sat in the passenger seat waving his arms and yelling out the window. Max didn’t understand a word he said, but knew exactly what he suggested. He continued running as fast as he could, looking over his shoulder again as the 737 lifted off the ground with a roar. Within the next three seconds he needed to be in the space the police car occupied. With no time left to think, he side-stepped, crashing his body into the police car. The driver swerved hard to the left. Max struggled to stay on his feet, and then the massive shadow of the 737 moved over him.
Time almost stood still. Max Tanner knew the sensation well. He stood with only the toe of his left shoe touching the ground. His right foot hung awkwardly in the air, with his arms still flung out to the side from his previous attempt to stay balanced. It was like being in a dream where you try to run, but your legs won’t move. The air was grey and thick, with dust blowing around in a ferocious wind storm. His eyes told him he was on the edge of a hurricane, yet he couldn’t feel the wind on his face.
He glanced up at the 737 overhead. It hovered in the sky, inching forward ever so slowly. All the deafening noise from a moment ago had ceased. A dull, somewhat evil hum filled the air. The light quickly began to fade. As the heal of his right shoe gently touched the ground, the scene around him collapsed in on itself, leaving only the blackest of darkness, and a haunting silence. Max closed his eyes and hoped for the best.
It was his last attempt at getting to a place where he’d be safe, where nobody would find him. A place he could live out the rest of his life in peace, and never fear the shadow of an aircraft again. The plan was well nutted out. An eighteen month stint in a U.S. prison gave him a lot of time to work on the details. Prison was a relatively safe place for him, but he couldn’t, and wouldn’t spend the rest of his life there. And he needed to seriously consider that if he got caught again, chances were, he’d be spending a lot of time behind bars.
2.
It first happened to Max as a child. Max Tanner grew up on a wheat farm north of Goolgowi, about 30 miles north-west of Griffith, in the Riverina District of New South Wales. A couple of times a year, his father hired a bloke with a plane to dust his crops. Steve Barton was his name. He was a lanky man in his fifties with a grey beard. His chest was almost concave, like he’d been hit with a cannon ball. He flew a single engine, 2-seater M-18 Dromader.
“It’s a good plane, boy,” Barton always told Max. “When are you going to learn to fly? If you get your licence, I’ll let you take it up for a whirl. But none of that acrobatic stuff, okay?” he’d say with a wry smile and a wink of his eye. “And don’t forget, a good ag pilot can earn more then an airline pilot, depending on the season. Mark my words, boy.”
“Why do you wear the crash helmet, Mr Barton?” Max always asked. “Do you think it’ll help if you crash?” Max knew the answer. He’d heard it many times, but it always gave him a laugh.
“Protection, boy. Sometimes, no matter what I order for lunch, the occasional duck or cockatoo unexpectedly serve themselves up straight through the windshield at 100 knots, and I don’t have time to duck. Know what I mean, boy?” Max always found that funny.
Max was eight years old, bored and full of mischief. One day he thought it would be hilarious to dress up like a scarecrow, stand as still as a statue out in the field, then burst into life as the crop duster flew toward him. He thought it’d scare the living daylights out of Barton. But it didn’t quite work out as planned. Barton didn’t even notice the scarecrow figure as he worked the field. The sun was high in the sky, and as Max sprung to life, the shadow of the plane passed directly over him.
Before Max could figure out what the hell was going on, he found himself on the back seat of the Dromader. He screamed out in horror, which really did scare the daylights out of Barton, who almost crashed the plane. They landed, and the badly shaken pilot returned Max to his family. Naturally, nobody believed the ridiculous story he told, of being in the field, then stuck in some kind of strange time warp, before finding himself in the plane. They all thought he dressed up like a scarecrow and hid in the back of the plane when no one was looking, just to play a nasty trick on Barton.
His father took to Max with his belt like he’d never done before. Max slept on his stomach for a week. From that moment on, he grew up with a great fear of crop dusters. Every time Steve Barton came to dust the crops, Max hid under his bed while the plane was in the air. He couldn’t make head nor tail of what happened that infamous day, and didn’t connect it to the shadow of the plane. He just had a fear of crop dusters. Simple as that.
3.
When Max turned eighteen, his father became quite ill. Cancer, probably from breathing too much crop dust, slowly ate away at him. Max had grown to be a strong, keen young farmer. He stood a fraction over six foot, with thick, wavy brown hair and the muscular physique of a farmer. He took over most of the farm duties. His father always told him it was his farm as much as his father’s. He was born and raised a wheat farmer, and didn’t really consider doing much else with his life.
Old Steve Barton still showed up twice a year to dust the crops. In Autumn he sprayed a herbicide to protect against the winter weeds. Another dose of herbicide followed in early spring, with the addition of a pesticide if there were any issues with bugs. When Max heard the haunting sound of the Dromader approaching, he ran to the barn and hid, only appearing after the plane was safely on the ground.
“G’day, Mr Barton.”
“Christ, son. Won’t you ever call me Steve?”
“I don’t think I can do that, Mr Barton.”
Max had a crazy theory. The day he ended up in the back of Barton’s plane was the only occasion he ever called him Steve instead of Mr Barton. What happened all those years ago hadn’t happened since, so he figured if he always called him Mr Barton, with a bit of luck, it would never happen again.
“I see you still haven’t got your bloody pilot’s licence, boy.”
They’d have a quick chat, a laugh, and talk about better days for Max’s father. He would always pay Barton up front, leaving no reason to land again after the job was done. Max would say his goodbyes and quickly move back to the safety of the barn as Barton started the plane. He hid behind a tractor in the corner and patiently waited for the dusting to end. Only after hearing the plane move off into the distance, and the sky became silent again, would he emerge from the barn, with nervous sweat pouring down his face. On one occasion, Barton offered to take him up for the dusting. Max cringed and refused firmly, brushing it off as a simple fear of flying.
4.
Max continued this ritual for five years. The other young men from surrounding farms thought Max was a little weird, but liked him all the same. They’d occasionally get together for a beer and a barbecue, especially at the end of the harvest in late spring or early summer. A few of them were avid hunters. They went out at night to shoot roos, and every now and then took a day out to hunt feral pigs. They reckoned they were helping keep the numbers down, but Max thought they just liked guns.
When Max was twenty three, they finally convinced him to come along on a feral pig cull. It was a three day adventure. They hired a cabin for two nights outside of Blowering, off the Snowy Mountain Highway on the west side of the Bogong Peaks Wilderness. They planned to do a little drunken roo shooting at night as well.
Max’s father kept an old .22 rifle in the barn. They used it to scare off crows and rabbits, but it wasn’t very powerful. You could probably take down a big red if you hit it square between the eyes, but you’d need to be a dead shot, which Max couldn’t claim by any stretch of the imagination. Beyond that, there’s no way you’d take down a fully grown feral pig with a .22 rifle. In fact, you’d just make it mad. And as any farmer knows, you don’t want to face off with an angry pig charging at you. Not that Max had ever seen a feral pig on his property. So Max had to borrow a Weatherby Vanguard .308 riffle from one of the guys, promising he wouldn’t break it.
Not long into the first day, Max stalked a pig. He took aim from behind a tree, but the pig got spooked and took cover in a thicket. As Max moved across some open space, seeking the shelter of another tree and a better angle to shoot from, a small plane approached low in the sky. The pig ran off. Max looked to the sky at the noisy plane, cursing its untimely arrival. As it passed, the shadow of the plane fell upon him.
The world around him came close to a standstill. The distant, haunting memories of that strange day fifteen years earlier came flooding back, washing over him like a tidal wave. His mind blocked out most of what happened between the moment he danced around the field in his scarecrow outfit to the moment he realised he was in the back of Barton’s plane. But now he remembered everything. He tried to run, but couldn’t move. The thick, grey air blew around him ferociously before darkness and silence crashed down upon him. He closed his eyes in horror.
After a few seconds, Max heard the sound of aircraft propellers. He opened his eyes, but only darkness surrounded him. He pulled a small torch from his jacket pocket and found himself lying on a metal floor inside a small compartment. The space was too small to straighten his legs fully. The ceiling was no more than two feet from the floor. There were two bags at his feet, a tool kit wedged against his ribs and a drum of aviation fuel strapped to the wall of the compartment next to his head. He felt the compartment move gently up and down before tilting slightly to the left. At that point he knew for sure – he was somewhere on a plane. He gripped his riffle tight, scared out of his wits.
Max was on board a Swearingen Metro 23. It was a twin propeller, 19 seat tourist plane taking passengers from Moruya to a homestead on the Hay Plains, right at the edge of the Great Australian Outback. The plane had a good size rear storage compartment behind the seating area, but Max was stuck in the additional external pod under the lower fuselage. There was no way of opening the pod door from the inside, nor any point. He had to patiently wait for the plane to land before he could do anything. It seemed like an eternity, but eventually he felt the plane touch down. It came to a halt, and not long after, he heard voices and laughter outside the pod.
Max slammed the butt of his riffle hard on the side of the pod. The voices outside stopped. He banged again. “Let me out of here,” he screamed.
The pilot was stunned. “How the hell did anyone end up in there?” he said, unlatching the door and dropping it to the ground. Max rolled out and leapt to his feet.
“Everybody get back,” he roared, like a lion threatening a group of hyenas. The look on his face was that of a madman. He began waving his rifle at everyone around him. He pulled the butt of the rifle hard against his shoulder and pointed the barrel directly at the pilot. “You!” he screamed, “I said get back.”
“Hey, slow down, mate,” said the pilot. “Let’s not do anything rash.”
The shocked tourists held their hands in the air and began slowly moving backwards. Max knew no one would believe his story, just as no one did fifteen years earlier. On his left he saw open space and a massive old country homestead. There was thick bushland on his right. He took off like a scared rabbit and headed into the bush.
He ran and ran, eventually slowing down to catch his breath. Scratches from the thick scrub covered his face and hands. He walked on for a while before hearing the sound of tyres on a bitumen road. When he arrived at the road, he ditched the riffle, moved out to the side of the road and put his thumb out to a passing truck.
“Thanks for stopping, mate,” said Max as he climbed into the cabin.
“Well bugger me,” said the truckie. “What on earth happened to you, mate? You look like ya lost a fight with a Tazzy Devil.”
Max told the truckie he got separated from his friends while bushwalking and needed to get back to town. He couldn’t tell the truckie where he entered the bush, claiming his friends were in control of that kind of stuff. The truckie thought he might be a can short of a six pack, but was happy all the same to take him back to town. Besides, he was a big bloke, used to picking up strange travellers on country roads, and kept a heavy crowbar under his seat in case of trouble.
“I can take you back to Hay,” said the truckie.
“Hay?” said Max, surprised at being closer to Hay than anywhere else.
“I said I can take you back to Hay,” said the truckie again, before breaking into laughter. “Just kiddin’, mate. It’s a bit of a local gag around here. Every time someone says Hay, you repeat what you just said. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I get it now,” said Max, forcing a smile.
The truckie dropped Max on the main street of Hay. He took a room at the local pub for the night. A long hot shower, a steak dinner and a few beers gave him time to try and figure out what the hell happened. It was no longer just crop dusters he needed to fear. Apparently it was other planes too, although he still hadn’t made the solid connection between the events and the shadow of a plane passing over him. He had a beer with another truckie who said he was taking the Mid Western Highway to West Wyalong in the morning, and was happy to drop him at Goolgowi, but he’d have to be up early.
“Thanks mate. I appreciate it,” said Max as he stepped out of the truck at the intersection of the Mid Western Highway and Kidman Way. He walked most of the six miles back to his farm before one of the locals stopped to pick him up.
“What the hell are you doin’ out here, Tanner?”
“Seriously, mate. You wouldn’t believe me if I told ya.”
When he eventually ran into his mates, they gave him hell for disappearing and leaving them to pay his share of the cabin. One of them wanted his rifle back. He tried to explain what happen. He told them about finding himself under the tourist plane, running through the bush, and the truckie dropping him at Hay. They told him he was crazy and needed major medication. Max gave them enough cash to cover the cost of the cabin, and a new rifle. That was the last time they invited him to anything. They all pretty much disowned him.
5.
Max continued to work the farm for another ten years. He grew a heavy beard to make up for losing almost all his thick, wavy brown hair. He lived the life of a recluse, only socialising with his parents. The people in town were happy to do business with him, but secretly thought he was a complete nutter. Steve Barton kept dusting the crops twice a year, and Max continued hiding in the barn while the Dromader was in the air. Barton showed up more for Max’s father than for Max. They were mates before Max was even born.
Occasionally a mechanic named Thompson would come out from town to bring parts and help Max with some of the more tricky repairs to his farm equipment. Max invariably offered a barbecue and a few beers after the work was done, but there was always a polite refusal. When Max was thirty-three, his father, who by that stage was just skin and bone, finally died. His mother passed away only three months later. After that, he decided he’d had enough of farming life. He needed a fresh start, in a place where no one knew him. He sold the farm, bought a new car and decided to head to Sydney and see where life took him.
6.
Being in no rush to get to the city, Max took the scenic route. He’d always wanted to see The Pilliga, so he headed north from Wyalong on the Newell Highway. The long drive took him through Parkes, Dubbo, and eventually into the Pilliga Nature Reserve. He spent three nights in Narrabri, cruising back and forth to the nature reserve until he’d seen enough. He then headed south-east through Gunnedah and Muswellbrook on the New England Highway before joining the M1 near Newcastle, heading south to Sydney.
Max had never been to the big smoke before, and didn’t know exactly what to expect. The closer he got to Sydney, the more insane the drivers became. He used to think country folk were crazy drivers. Not anymore. Late in the afternoon, he pulled off the M1 at Wahroonga, turning left off the Pacific Highway not long after, desperate for a break. Near Wahroonga Train Station he found a coffee shop called Cafe Patina, opposite a park. He grabbed a takeaway coffee and slowly wandered through the expansive gardens of Wahroonga Park, soaking up the sunshine, trying to imagine what adventures lay ahead.
In the northern sky he saw a plane, bigger than any plane he’d seen before. It was a Qantas Boeing 747-400 on approach to Sydney from San Francisco. He glanced down to ground level and noticed the trees in the northern end of the park drop into shadow for a split second. The enormous reality of his situation hit him like a sledge hammer. It was the shadow of planes he needed to fear. The coffee cup slipped from his hand as the giant shadow of the 747 fell upon him.
Time slowed to a crawl. Again, the memories of finding himself in that position came flooding back. Again, he was trapped in a thick, grey, dusty wind storm. A dull hum filled his ears. His coffee cup slowly inched toward the ground. Droplets of coffee hovered in the air around it. Before the cup had time to hit the ground, the scene collapsed and darkness fell upon him.
He found himself in a tiny room with a toilet, a basin and hardly enough room to stand. He heard an announcement, something about staying in your seat until the plane had landed and come to a complete halt. Wait for instructions from staff, the announcement said. Max stayed quiet and waited for those instructions. What else could he do? The epiphany of finally realising what was going on in his life, that it was the shadow of planes he needed to fear, was overwhelming. He had no idea what to expect when he opened the door. He needed to come up with some kind of story and fast.
After landing, Max calmly exited the toilet and walked off the plane, smiling at the stewardess marking the door as he passed. He looked around nervously for an easy escape, but there was no simple way to walk through customs and security to freedom. Carrying no bag, and looking very unsettled, customs officers pulled him aside and began asking questions.
“Can I see your passport please sir?”
Max had no passport, no ticket, and wasn’t on the passenger list. “Oh no, mate. Ah, there’s been some kind of mistake. I wasn’t on a plane. I’m just a bit lost. I’m not quite sure how I got to this part of the airport. Can you show me the way out?”
Customs staff didn’t believe him. They took him to a small room and continued questioning him. Nothing Max said added up. The Federal Police were called in.
Max sweated like a feral pig throughout the interrogation. The police were convinced he was running drugs. A full body search, including internal cavities was carried out, but they found nothing. He was arrested and taken away for further questioning. He continued to insist he wasn’t on any plane, and had no memory of how he even got into the airport. The staff on the 747 couldn’t remember seeing him on the plane during the long journey. The lady marking the door as passengers exited said he looked familiar, although couldn’t be absolutely sure.
The police were baffled. After three days of investigating, they couldn’t figure out what was going on, or how Max ended up in the secure area of the airport. He was eventually charged with breaching security guidelines at an international airport. Legal aid was provided. The lawyer thought it best to suggest Max had some small and relatively harmless mental issues resulting in memory loss and disorientation. The magistrate, after considering what little facts there were, gave Max a one month stint at the secure North Ryde Psychiatric Hospital for a full analysis. They couldn’t find anything wrong with him, except for a mild case of paranoia. It was noted that Max refused to go outside into the walking yard when the skies were clear and the sun was shining. They suggested further monitoring.
When the month was over, Max was released on three strict conditions. Firstly, he was not able to apply for a passport. Secondly, he report to Ryde Police Station once a week. And finally, he had a session with the doctors at North Ryde Psychiatric Hospital once a month to monitor his condition, with a regular report provided to the Federal Police. Security was upgraded at Sydney Airport, and Max’s photo added to the danger list.
7.
Max had no intention of reporting to the police, or visiting the hospital again. He needed to move fast. He had a six day window to drive deep into the bush, a long way from plane routes, and disappear off the face of the earth. The first thing he needed was cash. He went to his bank and withdrew just under ten thousand dollars, slightly below the alarm bell amount, before proceeded to a different branch and repeated the process, claiming he needed the money to buy a car from someone insisting on cash. He then caught a train back to Wahroonga to retrieve his car. When he arrived at the park opposite Cafe Patina, his car was gone.
“Where was it parked?” asked the cafe owner.
“Just over there, opposite your shop.”
“There’s a two-hour limit there. I’m guessing it’s been towed. Try Hornsby Council or the Hornsby Police Station,” she said. “Was it registered? I’m surprised they didn’t try to contact you.”
“I just got here before landing in hospital. They probably tried my old address and phone number. Can you tell me how to get there?”
The police station was two stops north on the rail line. He figured he could tell them the truth, and that he needed his car back. After all, he wasn’t due to report to the police, or the hospital. They could check out his story with the Federal Police, and everything would be okay. He hadn’t done anything wrong – yet. As he walked to the train station, he heard the United Airlines Boeing 787 out of Sydney bound for San Fransisco approaching. It was late in the afternoon and the plane flew low in the sky. The looming shadow left him all of three seconds to find shelter. He sprinted toward a shop awning, but the shadow hit him. He was taken again.
After the grey storm and darkness passed, he found himself in a large, poorly lit, metallic space. There were crates, boxes, motorised trolleys, and lots of travel bags. Max was in the luggage compartment. He had no choice but to ride out the flight, and try to formulate a believable excuse for being where he was. Max had no idea where he was going. He figured where ever he ended up, he’d hide at the back of the luggage compartment, wait for most of the bags to be removed, time the gaps between staff entering and leaving the compartment, before attempting to sneak onto the tarmac, and make a break for it.
The flight seemed to go on forever before the plane eventually landed. Max kept quiet behind some large crates at the back of the compartment. The ramp opened. It was daylight outside, with the sun low in the sky. Several large trolleys of bags were removed from near the compartment door. Max took cover behind a large crate as a small forklift moved to the back of the baggage compartment to remove a pallet of boxes. The ground crew spoke in many languages, giving Max no clue as to where he was. Three motorised trolleys took turns loading bags on, and before Max had a shot at sneaking out, the ramp closed again.
Max was on the ground at San Fransisco International Airport. Passengers from Sydney had disembarked and a fresh lot boarded the plane, ready for a flight to the east coast. After a long wait, the jet engines came to life again and the plane began to move. The throttles were pushed hard and the plane picked up speed with a deafening noise. Max hit the floor hard as the plane tilted up and took to the sky.
Several hours later, the plane landed again. Max decided to stick to his original plan, still not having the slightest idea where he was. One thing was certain. Based on the length of the flights, he was a long way from home. He kept himself well hidden behind the large crates and timed the entry and exit of the baggage staff. He could hear lots of planes landing and taking off. Where ever he was, it was a busy place. With not much left in the compartment, he decided to make his move. Keeping low, he crept to the open ramp. From his position, he saw nobody. He casually moved down the ramp and out onto the tarmac.
As soon as he hit the ground, he saw all the activity around him. There were motorised trolleys, small cranes, vans, refrigerated trucks, security vehicles, and a lot of people in hi-vis vests of varying design. Max stuck out like a sore thumb. Within seconds there were people yelling out to him. He ran toward open space. Four security vehicles immediately took off after him. They quickly surrounded him and lots of angry men dressed in black jumped out with guns drawn, demanding he hit the deck and keep his hands in clear view. Max lay on the tarmac at Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey, in deep trouble.
The New Jersey Police and Newark customs officials were nowhere near as polite with him as the Australian Federal Police. He underwent the same search procedure as in Sydney. Again, he had no passport, no ticket, no visa, wasn’t on the passenger list, was stowed away in the luggage compartment, had almost twenty thousand Australian dollars in cash and carried no bag. He had no logical explanation for any of these anomalies. They contacted the Australian Federal Police and were told about his recent trouble and flight restrictions. It was all over. The FBI were called in. Max faced the full force of U.S. law.
The Australian Consulate arranged a lawyer. Max was refused bail and incarcerated immediately. He was charged with travelling to the U.S. without a visa, travelling without a legitimate ticket, stowing away in the luggage compartment, breaching airport security, not cooperating with federal agents and anything else they could think of. A month later he had his day in court, but in light of what happened in Australia, he had little hope. The charges stuck and he was convicted. The judge gave him the maximum available sentence of two years with an eighteen month non-parole period, to be served at the Federal Correctional Institution, Fort Dix, in New Jersey.
8.
Serving time in an American prison wasn’t exactly what Max had in mind when he drove to Sydney to see where life took him. Nevertheless, that was his reality. Prison wasn’t quite as bad as he’d expected. He found himself in a low-security wing at FCI Fort Dix surrounded by thieves, con-men and fraudsters. The inmates quickly took a shine to him with his country-boy looks and thick Australian accent.
They loved his bazaar sense of humour, and enjoyed his man-on-the-land stories. Max took advantage of this, assuring them that back on the farm he had a pet crocodile named Chomp in his swimming pool and the local kangaroos were good mates of his. They’d drop by for a beer and a barbecue, were smart enough to flip the prawns, and enjoyed lots of tomato sauce on their sausage sandwiches.
“After a few beers,” Max would say, “the larger roos slip on the gloves and box a few rounds next to the shed for a bit of entertainment.” The inmates weren’t stupid, and knew very well Max stretched the truth, but had lots of fun and a great laugh listening to Max’s ridiculously tall tales.
Max never tried to explain exactly how he ended up there. “Seriously, mate. You wouldn’t believe me if I told ya,” he’d say. He was surrounded by very competent liars. They all had their own theories as to why Max was on an international flight with no passport or ticket. In fact, they all considered him a bit of an amateur for being so poorly prepared for whatever scam he was trying to pull off. Max was happy to leave it at that.
Within a few months, he formed a close friendship with an Australian ex-pat by the name of Kevin Kavanavich. He was a weedy looking bloke in his forties with a drawn out face. He looked like he’d been high on his own supply a few too many times. On the outside, Kevin ran a complex drug-running operation. Being quite the chemist, he had a meth lab and pill press set up in the basement of his Californian beachside mansion. Several Mexican illegals worked for him. With the help of a talented forger, he provided fake IDs, immigration papers and Driver Licences to his team of Mexicans. They ran his drugs all over the west coast under the guise of delivering specialised stationary products.
That was Kevin’s registered business, and the cars they used had his company logo on the side. Unfortunately, the IRS became suspicious of Kevin’s lavish lifestyle in comparison to his minimal tax contribution. The FBI raided his house, found his lab, and offered the Mexicans deportation without charge if they testified against Kevin. They all sang like birds, and Kevin copped five years.
“What really happened to you, Max?” Kevin asked one day.
Max tried his standard response. “Seriously, mate. You wouldn’t believe me if I told ya.”
“Try me,” said Kevin.
“Okay, I’ll tell ya, Kev. But trust me, it’s not what you’re expecting.”
He told him his entire life story, including the four occasions he’d been taken by plane shadows prior to landed in jail. Kevin took it all on board. He didn’t really believe Max. In fact, he thought Max was mad as a hatter. Whether it was all true or not, Kevin believed that Max believed it, especially considering how Max behaved in the prison yard. He was always paranoid about being outside on sunny days. He had all the shaded areas of the yard marked in his head, never far from any of them. Whenever a plane flew over, which was often, Max quietly cowered in a shaded spot. He was always the first to move back inside after an exercise period.
Kevin believed one part of Max’s story. That was the part about his parents’ death and the sale of his farm. It was believable that Max had a healthy sum of money in an Australian bank account, and Kevin, being a man of a particular nature, put two and two together, and the answer was opportunity. He knew Max’s dream of getting to a place where no one would find him, and no planes flew over. A place where he could live out the rest of his life in peace, without fear. Kevin was more than happy to help Max achieve his goal, if the price was right.
“I think I can help you, mate,” said Kevin. “Just hear me out.”
Kevin could solve most of Max’s problems with the help of his mate, the forger, on the outside. He put his proposal to Max, and his price for getting the job done. Max agreed. They spent the next eleven months nutting out a plan that involved three possible scenarios, and worked on all the finer details for each. Kevin used his outside connections to research flight paths, schedules, stop-overs, airport layouts, and most importantly, possible final destinations. Returning to Australia wasn’t a preferred option. Max was a marked man at Australian airports and wouldn’t be allowed to board a plane to anywhere, even with falsified papers. He’d have to go bush for the rest of his life. He’d already been there and done that. He wanted more.
There were three likely routes the FBI would send Max on in order to deport him back to Australia. They were New York to Sydney via Los Angeles, via San Fransisco, or via Vancouver. During the layover, Max would receive fake papers with his new name, proof of American citizenship, passport, visa, a hi-vis vest, and most importantly, a valid boarding pass to an outgoing flight of his choice. He’d escape from the lounge area, move out onto the tarmac in his hi-vis vest looking like a member of the ground crew, and get taken by the shadow of a targeted plane. Once on board, he would have all the appropriate papers. All they could get him for was not checking in correctly. He figured he’d get away with that.
Still, Kevin thought Max was crazy. As they worked through the plan, Kevin struggled to come to terms with one aspect. That was the part about being magically taken by the shadow of a plane. But that aspect was non-negotiable with Max, who believed it to be the best way out for him. Kevin set the whole thing up. He organised fake papers to be delivered to Max during the yet to be determined layover. At the last minute he’d arrange a legitimate ticket for the flight Max intended to be taken by, and the possible bribing of airport staff.
Kevin needed an insurance policy in the likely event that things didn’t quite go as Max imagined. “What if you don’t make it out? How are you gonna pay me?”
With little choice, Max gave Kevin the information required to access his bank account, trusting him to only take the agreed amount. What Max didn’t tell Kevin was the fact that most of his money from the sale of the farm was in a trust account in his family name set up by his father. That was Max’s insurance policy in case Kevin got a little greedy.
One week prior to his release, Max met with Brian Langley, the prison social worker. He was a standard cardigan wearer with a soft touch. He provided Max with the details of his flight, and the estimated time of arrival in Sydney. Mr Langley offered to contact a friend or family member to meet Max at the airport. Max told him he had nobody to complete that task, and had a plan to catch a train into the city, stay in a hotel for a few nights before heading north, and seeing where life took him.
Now armed with the crucial flight details, Max passed them on to Kevin, who put the final pieces of the puzzle into place, including the help of an airport security guard. Max would be traveling from Newark to Sydney via Vancouver. Kevin’s people on the outside organised a legitimate plane ticket for Max’s new identity – Tod Henderson, a wheat farmer born and raised in Hannaford, North Dakoda.
From Vancouver International Airport, Max planned to be taken by the shadow of an Alaska Air 737-800. He would fly via Anchorage to Adak Island, on the western tip of the Aleutian Islands, a chain of small islands separating the Bering Sea from the Pacific Ocean, about a thousand miles south-west of the Alaskan mainland. From there he’d board a boat to Tanaga Island and quietly live out the rest of his life as an American citizen. Max prayed to God he wouldn’t end up in the luggage compartment this time, or worse, the cockpit.
9.
Max’s release date finally arrived. Everything was in place. Max completed the release procedure before being met by two burly looking FBI agents at the front gate of FCI Fort Dix, who drove him to Newark Liberty International Airport without saying a word to him the entire journey. They talked among themselves about baseball and women troubles. On arrival they took Max to the departure area, provided staff with all the necessary paper work, then stood quietly at the boarding ramp entrance until the plane moved to the runway and took to the air, convinced they’d done their job.
The first leg of the flight went smoothly. Max arrived on time at Vancouver International Airport. As he moved off the plane, two airport security officers intercepted him. “Sit tight, buddy. Do not leave the lounge area under any circumstances. Your flight to Sydney leaves in a little under three hours. It’s our job to make sure you board that flight. If you need to take a piss, ask one of us. Don’t give us any trouble. You got that, pal?”
“No worries, fellas,” said Max with a humble look.
He sat down and looked over the area. The electronic indicator boards were down. There were constant announcements regarding potential delays, flights currently on schedule, and who should be boarding and when. Seek advise from the information desk if required, the lady said. The queue from the desk ran halfway across the lounge area. Max listened carefully as he watched intently out the window at the runway.
A man casually sat down beside Max. Kevin told Max to say the word “shadow” as a way of identifying his contact. He said it softly but clearly. The man next to him didn’t say a word or even glance at Max. He simply placed a small package on the seat between them, which Max discreetly scooped up and stuffed inside his jacket. The man stood up and walked away.
The flight Max needed was due to take off in just over ten minutes. He desperately needed to make contact with the bribed security guard. The two guards who spoke to him as he got off the plane slowly cruised the lounge, looking very official. One of the men constantly played with his wedding ring. That was the signal Kevin told him to look for. He approached him and asked if he could use the toilet. At first, the other guard offered to accompany Max, but the guard with the wedding ring quickly pulled out his wallet and handed the other guard a couple of notes.
“Lunch is on me if you organise it. Make it big, and make it greasy. And don’t forget a soda. I’ll take him to the toilet.”
In the toilets the guard pushed Max hard up against the wall. “Okay, Tanner. What’s in the bag that guy just slipped you?” He pulled the bag from Max’s jacket and began looking through the contents.
“I need that stuff, mate.”
“You’re certainly well prepared. How did you organise all this? It must have cost you a pretty penny.”
“We’re running out of time,” said Max in a panic. “Can we just get on with this?”
“I’m thinking I’ve been well underpaid for my part in this. I want another two grand right now or we don’t proceed. Now cough it up.”
“I don’t have any cash. The FBI took it all.”
“Then it’s game over.” The guard grabbed Max by the wrist and twisted his arm up behind his back. He threw the bag with Max’s new identity and flight ticket into the toilet garbage bin, and pushed Max out through the door. He held him tight as they moved across the lounge area. The other guard came over with lunch.
The guard with the wedding ring pushed Max down into a chair. “Sit down and relax, pal.”
“What’s happening?” said the other guard on arrival.
“This sneaky bastard tried to lift my swipe card. He’s up to something.”
“Should we let the FBI know?”
“No. Let’s just do our job and make sure he gets on that plane to Sydney.”
The guards sat on either side of Max eating their burgers and fries. His heart pounded. Being double crossed hadn’t entered his mind. Flying to Sydney was the last thing he wanted. Too much time and effort had gone into the plan, and as agreed, Kevin had every right to take his payment.
With all the confusion over flight delays, some heated arguments were developing in the queue at the information desk. Max stared through the main viewing window, wondering what his next move would be. To the left of the window was a fire exit door. Behind him he heard the information desk staff trying to calm people down.
With a rush of adrenaline, Max spotted it. The plane he needed to be taken by. The Alaska Air Boeing 737-800 appeared to be taxiing into take-off position. Just then, two African looking men broke into a fist fight. People began yelling and splayed back as if a grenade had been tossed in the middle of them. The two men guarding Max stood up and turned to see what was going on.
That was his chance. Max stood up and ran to the fire door. He pushed through it. An alarm began to scream. He ran down a short staircase and long hallway leading to a second fire door opening onto the tarmac. He crashed through, setting off another alarm, bursting out into the open.
The Alaska Air 737 accelerated down the runway, picking up speed with every second. Max Tanner sprinted across the tarmac. Airport security noticed him. They launched the pursuit, screaming into their radios as they ran. The Boeing 737-800 made a deafening sound as it accelerated along the runway approaching take-off velocity. Max looked over his shoulder making a slight directional adjustment, praying his calculations were correct.
The younger, healthier security staff had almost caught up when an airport police vehicle came up beside him. A man in a grey uniform sat in the passenger seat waving his arms and yelling out the window. Max couldn’t understand a word he said, but knew exactly what he suggested. He continued to run as fast as he could, looking over his shoulder again as the 737 lifted off the ground with a roar. Within the next three seconds he needed to be in the space the police car occupied. With no time left to think, he side-stepped, crashing his body into the police car. The driver swerved hard to the left. Max struggled to stay on his feet, and then the massive shadow of the 737 moved over him.
Time almost stood still. He knew he’d done it. He stood with only the toe of his left shoe touching the ground. His right foot hung awkwardly in the air, with his arms still flung out to the side from his previous attempt to stay balanced. As much as he tried, his legs wouldn’t move. The air was grey and thick, with dust blowing around in a ferocious wind storm.
He glanced up at the 737 overhead. It hovered in the sky, inching forward ever so slowly. The feeling of success was overwhelming. A dull, somewhat evil hum filled the air. The light quickly began to fade. As the heal of his right shoe gently touched the ground, the scene around him collapsed in on itself, leaving only the blackest of darkness, and a haunting silence. Max closed his eyes, smiling.
When he heard noise around him once more, Max opened his eyes. He was in a window seat toward the rear of the plane. Nobody sat next to him. He looked across the aisle. A young woman looked out the window. Next to her was a boy of about eight, staring straight at Max, with a look of astonishment on his face. He began to throw up. The stewardess came to assist the boy and his mother, when she noticed Max. “Sir, you need to put your seat belt on. Are you sure you’re in the right seat?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Max with a smile, trying to catch his breath. “Maybe you can help me find my seat. I seem to have misplaced my boarding pass. I had it a minute ago. My name is Tod Henderson.”
Max sat quietly with all the confidence of a man who’d just defeated a giant. Nothing could stop him now. The stewardess examined her passenger list with a bemused expression.
“I’m sorry, Mr Henderson. I don’t have you on my list. Where are you heading?”
“Anchorage, of course.”
“Mr Henderson, I’m afraid this is not your flight. You’re on the wrong plane.”
“What?”
“This plane’s going to Seattle. We’ll be landing in an hour. I’ll talk to the captain and see what can be done. How did you even get on this plane with the wrong boarding pass?”
Max almost stopped breathing. He shook his head and shrugged at the stewardess, then looked out the window dejectedly. He had about an hour to come up with a logical explanation and a new plan, or he was going to be in a lot of trouble again.
10.
About forty minutes into the flight, Max noticed the plane bank sharply and begin to turn. The plane was heading back in the direction it came from. “Excuse me, miss,” Max said to a stewardess. ‘What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I’ll see if I can find out.”
Then there was an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. Due to a security issue, we have been instructed to return to Vancouver Airport. A replacement flight is being organised as we speak. Alaska Air apologises for any inconvenience this delay will cause. Please be patient with us. Thank you.”
“Jesus!” said Max rather loudly. “Can I get a scotch please?” he yelled to a stewardess a few rows ahead. Two male stewards approached him from behind.
“I’ll get you a drink, sir,” said the larger of the two. They both looked at him suspiciously. “There’s not going to be any trouble is there, Mr Tanner?”
Max saw they were serious. He dropped his head in defeat. “No, no trouble. But I’d really love a drink.”
After landing, all the passengers alighted. As Max walked up the chute, six members of airport security, including the guard with the wedding ring, stood waiting.
“Ah, Mr Tanner,” he said. You seem to have boarded the wrong plane. That would have been a terrible mistake on our behalf. We sent a pretty picture of you to all the flights that took off around the time of your unfortunate disappearance. Luckily for you, we were able to locate you and correct the error.”
“Yes, lucky me,” said Max sarcastically.
“I can assure you, Tanner, we are not in the business of letting the FBI down. Once you arrive in Australia, you’re not our problem anymore. Your flight to Sydney leaves in ten minutes. Let’s go, asshole.”
Vancouver Airport security managed to load Max onto his flight to Sydney just in time. It saved them a lot of embarrassment. They didn’t have to explain to the FBI or the Australian Federal Police just how badly they’d stuffed up. They kept the entire incident under their hats.
11.
When Max arrived in Sydney, he was met by two officers from the Australian Federal Police. They simply needed to confirm his arrival, and report back to the FBI that the deportation was complete.
“Okay, Tanner. You’re a free man. You’re not going to do anything stupid again, are you?”
“No way, fellas. From here on in, I’m a model citizen.”
“Okay. What’s your plan?”
Max told them he’d be having a couple of quiet beers at the airport bar while waiting for a friend to pick him up. He’d stay in a hotel for a few days before heading north, to see where life took him. Satisfied with his answer, they left him to it.
He had two beers, a long overdue steak meal, and another two beers while waiting for darkness to fall. He hired a car and took off in a north-westerly direction, desperate to get away from the coast. After the long flight to Sydney, and three and a half hours driving, he needed to rest. He took a room at the Orange Motor Lodge, within spitting range of a McDonald’s an a KFC. Max was in heaven.
He’d forgotten what it was like to shower in private. The bed was not exactly soft, but felt luxurious in comparison to his prison bed. In the morning, bright sunlight poured through his window, waking him at 11.30. Going outside wasn’t an option. Wishing he’d picked up supplies before taking the room, he spent the day watching TV, drinking instant coffee and taking long hot showers.
After dark, he drove south-west on the main road and found an ATM. To his relief, his account balance was exactly where it should’ve been. Kevin had taken his payment without getting greedy. He stopped again a little further down the road at a used car lot called The Orange Motor Group and took a look through the fence. After stocking up on beer and food, he returned to the motel.
The following day was cloudless again. The sun shone brightly in the sky and shadows moved across the car park outside his window. He wasn’t going to risk being taken again. Another day of beer and TV followed.
Late on the third day, clouds finally began to form. About an hour after dark, a ferocious storm drenched the town. The following morning, grey clouds blanketed the sky and rain continued to tumble. Time to move. He borrowed an umbrella from reception, walked the three quarters of a mile to the used car lot and picked out a nine-year-old Toyota Corolla.
“It’s a little beauty, this one. You’re making a good choice,” said the salesman.
“I’ll be pissed off if I have to bring it back,” said Max.
“No, no. Trust me on this one, mate. It’s a winner.”
Max drove it back to the motel. He lifted the bonnet of the hire car and made a few clever alterations to the motor, rendering it undriveable. Arranging a tow truck to take it back to Sydney Airport wasn’t cheap, but saved him taking it back himself, and he certainly didn’t need a warrant out on him for stealing a car. He grabbed more supplies from town and hit the road.
12.
The plan was to get to a place called Menindee, about seventy miles from Broken Hill. That’s where Max’s father was born. He talked about it a lot when Max was young. To get there, he need to pass through Hillston, less than forty miles from his home town of Goolgowi. Being spotted there was not an option. That journey would need to be taken in the dead of night.
Max left Orange at around 2.30 in the afternoon. Rain continued to fall. He wanted to get past Condobolin to the sleepy town of Tullibigeal, where he’d stay the night, and the following day, in preparation for the final overnight drive to Menindee.
Just past Condobolin, the rain stopped and the clouds started to clear. Max began to panic. He was still half an hour away from Tullibigeal, and needed to get there fast. He put his foot down a little harder before hearing a load bang.
“No, no. Not now.”
Steam poured from under the bonnet and the sound of metal grinding against metal filled his ears. He pulled to the side of the road. The sky was half clear. The remaining clouds raced across the sky, as if desperate to get away from him. He popped the bonnet and nervously got out of the car. It was a mess in the engine compartment. He had no tools and no time. He’d have to hitch a ride.
The sun began to shine brightly. Max crouched in the shadow of his car for a few moments before hearing a car approach. He moved out of the shade and stood by the road with his thumb out. The car slowed and pulled over about thirty yards ahead of him. As he jogged toward it, he heard the sound – the last sound he wanted to hear. He looked over his shoulder and saw the grey, twin propeller plane low in the sky, heading straight for him. He tried to sprint back to the shade of his own car, but time ran out. The shadow of the plane passed over him.
It was a Leonardo C-27 Spartan, a medium-lift tactical transport aircraft flying an exercise mission from the RAAF Base Richmond, forty miles north-west of Sydney. It carried thirty-two airborne troopers heading to Wallanthery, on the outskirts of the Nombinnie Nature Reserve, to complete bush survival training. Experienced pilot and training commander, Captain Sean O’Malley, flew the plane. Sergent Robert Nesmith kept the troops in line in the back.
Only Sergent Nesmith knew exactly how the exercise would unfold. Nesmith discovered a week earlier that Captain O’Malley had been having an affair with his wife for nearly a year. He was a shattered man, hell-bent on revenge. He planned to render the captain unconscious, then suggest engine problems to the men. The crew, lead by Nesmith, would all parachute to safety, leaving the captain to crash and burn. He’d tell a story of courage and determination in the face of adversity, claiming glory as the hero who got everyone off the plane, except for the unfortunate Captain O’Malley, of course.
Nesmith moved to the cockpit and looked at the back of O’Malley’s head.
“Are you guys prepared back there, Sergent?” asked O’Malley.
“More than you could imagine, Captain,” said Nesmith confidently. He pulled a heavy spanner from inside his jacket. “I just came to say goodbye.”
“What?”
As the captain turned, Nesmith hit him in the face with the spanner as hard as he could, twice. The plane lunged up and down as O’Malley let go of the controls. Nesmith pulled O’Malley away from the rudder and steadied it, before running back to the troops.
“Okay, men. We’ve got engine trouble. Everybody, chutes on and out the door, now! GO, GO, GO, GO, GO!”
Within ten seconds soldiers were leaping out the door to safety. As Nesmith watched the last man jumped, Max appeared on the floor a short distance from the open door.
“Crikey! Who the hell are you?” yelled Nesmith.”
“It’s a long story,” said Max.
Nesmith wasn’t about to let this strange arrival mess up his plans. “Come over here,” he said, taking the last parachute off the wall.” You can wear the captains chute. He won’t be needing it.”
As Max moved to the open door, Nesmith threw the chute out. “Oops! Sorry about that. You better go after it.” He grabbed Max and pushed him out the door, before launching out himself.”
A split second after Max left the plane, falling below the fuselage, the shadow of the plane passed over him again. Hovering in the air motionless while looking toward the ground was his most bazaar sensation yet. After the grey storm had passed, he found himself in the cockpit of the Spartan.
Blood covered the face of Captain O’Malley. His eyes were open. He was dead. The plane was veering left and losing altitude fast. Max unstrapped and pulled the lifeless body of O’Malley out of his seat. He sat down and grabbed the stick, looking in amazement at all the dials and switches.
Memories of old Steve Barton came flooding back. “When are you going to learn to fly? If you get your licence, I’ll let you take it up for a whirl.” He was beginning to wish he’d listened to Barton. “I see you still haven’t got your bloody pilot’s licence, boy,” he remembered Barton saying back on the farm when he was eighteen.
Max did his best to keep the plane straight. It was less than a thousand feet off the ground. He strapped himself in tight. He could see endless wheat fields on the ground below. The scene looked strangely familiar, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of the sensation. Like it or not, he was going down.
At two hundred feet, he pulled back on the throttles, figuring he was probably going too fast. He pulled back a little too much and the engines stalled, coming to a quiet halt. At about a hundred feet he glided just a few inches over the top of a crop duster. It was a single engine, 2-seater M-18 Dromader.
“Christ, what the bloody hell was that?” said old Steve Barton in the Dromader.
The last thing Max saw before plowing the Spartan into a wheat field was the house he grew up in. He was crash-landing on his old property at Goolgowi.
The plane hit the ground hard. The left wing dug into the soft ground and ripped clean off, tossing the plane into the air. It came down hard again. This time, the back half of the fuselage tore off. What was left of the plane came to rest about twenty yards ahead of it.
Old Steve Barton landed the Dromader nearby. He raced to the wreckage and climbed in through the gaping hole in the fuselage. He entered the cockpit and saw a man on the ground, and another man slumped over the controls. Pulling back the head of the man in the pilot seat, he saw a semi-conscious Max Tanner.
“Christ, Tanner. What the hell are you doing flying this thing?”
Max looked up at old Steve Barton in a daze, and smiled.
“Seriously, mate. You wouldn’t believe me if I told ya!”