REGROUP
Roger pulled up to the O’Hare airport terminal tired but content after Sugar Alpha’s successful first weekend. Plane, pilots and team had all performed flawlessly and, as he’d predicted, the Mr. D crash had in fact brought them all closer and imparted more focus and urgency to their training. As he watched Mickey and Billy walk up to the van, he figured that if the other crash on his plate worked out even a fourth as well, everything would be fine. They got inside wearing stocking caps and sheepish grins.
“Welcome back, road warriors,” Roger said warmly.
“Thanks, man,” said Mickey as they shook hands. “It was close. If you saw the plane you wouldn’t believe we lived.” Then he removed his hat and exposed his singed hair and a large bald spot. “Doc cut it off to dress a wound.”
“Must’ve turned some heads coming through Customs,” Roger said as he pulled away from the terminal. “Did you pick up any weird feelings?”
“You think that’s bad, check this out,” Billy piped in, pulling up his shirt to expose his bandaged abdomen.
“Took his shirt off before take-off because it was hot,” explained Mickey.
“I didn’t know what hot was until we had to jump through fire to get out! I’ll never do that again.”
“Well, I’m happy I can still give you guys some grief,” Roger said as they left the airport grounds. “Sounds like one for the movies. Now back to my question—do you think you picked up any heat?”
“No, at least, not coming back,” Mickey answered carefully.
Roger’s head snapped around. He knew Mickey well enough to know that when he chose his words carefully, there was a big “but” on the way.
“But, I have some good and bad news,” Mickey went on.
Roger flipped on the radar detector and headed west toward the suburbs, taking a moment to center himself for Mickey’s big but, then he gave his companion a “go ahead” glance.
“Cops got there before the guys could get the plane off the road,” Mickey said. “Only recognizable part was the tail, and they dragged it into the woods, but they didn’t have time to bury it so the cops found it.”
Roger clenched his teeth but said nothing. This was not starting out well. Mickey saw Roger’s jaw muscles twitch and tried to build up some sympathy.
“I’m sorry man, but we almost got killed.” Then he patted Billy on the shoulder. “Woulda died for sure without the job Billy did salvaging that mess. He saved us.”
Mickey’s gambit worked—Roger relaxed and nodded his approval at Billy, who smiled proudly.
“Wouldn’t have happened if Stumpy had done his job,” Mickey added.
“Stumpy?” asked Roger.
“The Bushman’s new name.” Roger’s mouth dropped open as he attempted to talk, but Mickey interjected, “I know, I know, we can talk about it later.”
“Jerk left the runway half full of trees,” Billy snarled. “No way we could take off, especially after the mains sank into the road.”
“What do you—” Roger started to ask.
“Had to use a different road,” Mickey interjected.
“Any other bad news like this?” Roger asked sarcastically.
“We bought the police report,” Mickey said. “It was no problem.”
“What did they have?”
“The ‘N’ number, data plates, the incident report… that sort of stuff. Nothing they can trace back to us.”
“Any other good news?” Roger asked stonily.
Mickey sighed and sat back, chastised.
“I knew he’d be pissed off,” Billy whispered to him, but Roger heard.
“Yeah, you know everything, don’t you, Billy?” he snapped, then turned on the radio and looked straight down the dark road.
Silence reigned until Roger dropped Billy off at his home a few miles from the airport. Then Roger told Mickey about Mr. Douglas and Sugar Alpha as he drove another 20 minutes to a motel. Roger registered under a new alias, and the clerk gave him a key for a third floor room. Needing an escape route from fire or feds, Roger asked for and received a second floor room. The “fire” excuse satisfied the clerk.
When they went inside, Mickey turned on the TV and set the volume slightly louder than normal. Roger checked the window behind the drapes and pulled them shut, then they each flopped on a separate bed and propped themselves up with pillows.
“I’m sorry man,” Mickey started, “but—”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s get past that.” Roger interrupted. “I don’t want to talk any more about all the bad luck I’ve been having.”
“We’ve been having.”
“We’ve! Man, two hundred grand!” Roger paused, “Oh well, what can we do? The good news is you made it back, and I’m glad to see you again.” Mickey sat up and held out his hand. Roger slapped his into it, and they shook. Mickey yelped.
“Not so hard. I’m still messed up!” Both men started laughing. The heavy mood dissipated quickly.
“OK, so where do we go from here?” Roger asked.
“Glad you asked,” Mickey replied, grinning. Roger rolled his eyes.
“Should have known you had something worked out.”
“I told Jamaica Winston what happened, and he said he’d forget the debt if I did another run.”
“Thought it was all gone,” Roger said as Mickey grinned.
“You’re smarter than that. You know how it works. They’ll tell you anything to get you down. Besides, I don’t think he has anyone else.”
“Well, that’s sure nice of him, huh?”
“I do feel we owe him something for being so understanding, don’t you?”
Roger shrugged and readjusted his pillows so he could lay back against the headboard and stretch out his legs.
“So you want to try it again.”
“Been thinking about it. When I got back to Florida, I met the Cookie Monster since he was going to unload us, and he’s still into it—says he’s got it all set, with buyers waiting. Then I called a plane broker and he had a Twin Bonanza for twenty grand, so I bought it with the expense money and sent Billy up to get it. I felt I owed you that, and Billy told me he could handle the trip alone.”
“You believe that?” Roger asked. Mickey nodded emphatically.
“He did do a good job on the last one—and not just flying. He did some good thinking too, some deliberate, some on the fly. I don’t know what went down when he as with you, but the guy I saw is ready to solo. So basically, I have the whole deal regrouped without you having to do a thing.”
Roger stared at the TV without seeing it, then sat up and swung his feet off the bed onto the floor. He looked intently at Mickey.
“Right now, my priority is taking the team to Nationals and winning 10-way. We’re leaving in two days. After all that’s been happening, I don’t want anything to screw it up. It’s been a real bitch keepin’ it together, and the team deserves it.” Mickey sat up on his bed and looked just as intently at Roger.
“So do you, man,” he said, “so cool, no problem. Like I said, I got it together. Go ahead and go, just keep in touch with your service in case I need you, but as far as you’re concerned, this whole deal is on autopilot.”
“So was the last one,” Roger shot back. Mickey hung his head. Roger put a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Listen, I’m not trying to discourage you, but losing the Titan hurt and with Nationals starting this week, I can’t properly do a trip or even help much.” Roger stood and walked over to a chair. He pulled it out and put one foot on it. “I can’t understand why I’m letting you drag this one through the islands with all the heat down there. There are some weird omens about that. I think it’s the ‘Triangle’ or something.” They both laughed.
“I got it all set,” Mickey assured him. “Let me turn this luck around while you go and kick ass skydiving. I’ll bang it out this weekend, so don’t worry. It’ll go sweet!”
Roger gave Mickey a startled look and then sat down in the chair.
“That’s the same thing Hanoi said to me the last time we spoke, two days before he crashed. Then Billy got his job, the trip grew a tail, we met the sheriff, and I’ve had two planes crash on me in the last week! It makes way more sense to run up the Gulf or bust through Mexico.”
Roger flopped back onto the bed. Mickey got up and leaned against the wall.
“Well, then you have to put it together, and it can’t wait until the Nationals are over,” Mickey said. Roger pulled the pillow around his head and moaned. “So it’s better to stick with the plan we have. You go skydive, I’ll handle the run. The momentum’s there and you know as well as I do that the chances they’ll pick us up are one in a thousand—maybe even more now because rumor has it the DEA bent its King Air.”
Roger didn’t confirm the rumor; he wanted to stay on task.
“It’s just that, lately, I’ve been making some piss-poor decisions on the spur of the moment, and those are the ones I usually make best!”
“That’s right and from what you told me about the Sugar Alpha deal, it seems to me that you’re back on track. Plus, we just made it up to Grand Bahama without any heat, and—”
“All right, man,” Roger interrupted. “Enough with the sales pitch. Go ahead and go for it!” They shook hands, sealing the deal.
“And hey,” Mickey added, “we won’t recover everything on this one, but we’ll get all the debts paid off and have the cash to finance the next one—you know, like using Sugar Alpha to do that DC-3 trip you and Hanoi were planning.”
Roger shook his head at his friend’s never-say-die enthusiasm.
“Yeah, you already know what I’m thinking, but let’s do this one at a time.”
“Yeah, right,” Mickey said sarcastically. “You’ve never ever scammed anything one at a time.”
“What I’m saying is let’s wait to see how it goes for you.”
“Goes for us, partner.”
“Goes for us. Then we’ll take it from there. But you’re right. It’s crazy how Sugar’s fallen back into our hands, and she’ll be flying at Nationals, so I’ll get an even better idea of how she’s flying.”
“I’ll betcha she’s still plumbed for the extra fuel tanks,” Mickey said, his mind jumping. “If that ‘T’ fitting’s still on the fuel line, no more dragging them through the Bahamas. She’ll go anywhere non-stop! The pieces are really falling together for us.”
“Seems that way,” Roger said, “but let’s just see how the next one goes. We’re down to the last of our cash. We might be more strapped than we’d like, if you know what I mean.” Mickey grinned slyly at his partner.
“Hey man, remember your own rule—don’t you be thinking anything but positive. Let’s get this one done and then do the Belize trip. You pitch, I catch. We put the two groups together and won’t need anyone else except a pilot.” He paused, “And I’ll make you a promise. When it’s done, I’ll retire with you!”
Roger again stared at the TV, again seeing nothing on the screen, until a smile spread slowly across his face. He turned to Mickey.
“Okay, but we gotta make one rule. No more Bahamas, for anything. We keep that as our retirement playground paradise. Deal?” Mickey nodded solemnly and they shook hands again. “Everything else, I’m behind you all the way. I’ve been hesitating since Hanoi went in, but I’ll start poking the stick in the fire and see what’s happening down there. Then we can make the run and retire this year, again.”
“All right bro,” Mickey said, smiling broadly. “Don’t worry about me, you just blow their socks off at the Nationals, and I’ll hit your phone service when we get back. Now let’s see if I can get a flight out tonight. I’ve got a lot to do.”
Roger’s mind raced as he lay in bed after taking Mickey back to O’Hare and driving home late that night. Every time he started to doze off, he thought of another piece for his Belize puzzle and wrote it down in a notepad on a table next to the bed. Finally, with the sky outside showing the first hint of dawn, he gave up and climbed out of bed.
Less than an hour later, he was inside Chicago’s 312 area code with his sack of rolled quarters and direct-dialed Belize. A sleepy voice answered, a voice Roger recognized as that of his lieutenant, George.
“Hey George, what’s happenin’?”
“Roger boy, how are you?”
“Real good, my friend,” Roger answered sincerely. “I appreciate you asking. How are you and the family?”
“My wife and I are very well, and the girls, you wouldn’t believe how big they’ve gotten. They are even more beautiful than their mother. Time is passing so quickly. It won’t be long before they’ll be leaving us, so I been spending a more time with them. They’re getting to that age where I gotta keep an eye on those Latin males. Can you believe my oldest will be graduating this fall?”
“Amazing! I hope I’m still invited to the graduation party.”
“Oh Roger, it would be such a pleasure to have you. It would mean much to us all.”
“Well then, you can count on me being there.”
“Our home is always open to you. Please plan to spend some time. I’d like to take you diving. The water is so clear and beautiful.”
Roger smiled into the phone. Everything was on track. The “girls” would be ready for harvest on schedule.
“My friend, I got to get going. Call me at the duplex at midnight my time.”
“No problem. Extension six?”
“Or three if six is busy. Talk to you tonight.” Roger hung up and wrote the numbers in his note pad. They represented pre-arranged radio frequencies.
He visited several more phones and spoke to the necessary people for a Belize run. He needed to put a plan in place before his midnight ham radio call to George. The calls confirmed everything. The crop was in fact doing well, the buyers were clamoring for a quality product, and combining Roger’s group with Mickey’s covered all the personnel slots except for pilots. And Sugar Alpha had flown back into her rightful place for the run.
That fact, however, set a warning bell clanging in Roger’s head. Using Sugar right after it had flown at his own airport violated all the other precautions he’d taken to cover his tracks. Still, it felt right to go forward. Everything was coming together so smoothly.
Roger drove to another phone and called an Arizona-based group he knew to find a pilot and from the tone of their cryptic conversation, he thought he’d found the solution so he arranged to meet them in two days in Muskogee, Oklahoma, when he and the team arrived for the Nationals.
Content with the day’s progress, he headed back to the peaceful farmlands and the farmhouse where he stashed his loads. There he found Dave and Mike in the barn building a dividing wall between the driver’s compartment and the cargo space of a van.
“Where you thinkin’ of landing it?” Mike asked after they’d gone into the house for a break and Roger briefed them on Belize and using Sugar Alpha for a run that would go through Mexico or the Gulf, not through Florida.
“Not sure yet,” Roger said, “but if we can find a place west of Texas, we can make a land crossing in Mexico. Otherwise, we’ll run it through the Gulf. Either way, it’ll be ten times safer than Florida, and I’d rather not use an airport since we can stuff Threes into a lot of fields and dirt strips. And how about you guys—any locations you can think of to scope out?”
“The Edna field outside Tulsa might work,” said Mike. “Can’t say for sure if it’s big enough because I never worked a Three, but it’s certainly out in the middle of nowhere!”
“Okay, we can check it out during Nationals,” said Roger. “In fact, if you guys are caught up with the checklist, I’d like you to get going tonight and start checking out some sites around the Texas, Arkansas, and Missouri borders, then meet Friday in Muskogee.”
“How about Muskogee?” Dave asked. Roger laughed.
“Been used too many times. This is gonna be a special, custom run, so let’s be original.”
“How soon do you think this will come together?” Dave asked.
“Couple of months. We got a lot to scope out and put together yet. Mickey’s doing a run with Billy flying that’ll give us the money we need to buy Sugar Alpha.”
“What the hell is Billy doing flying another load?” Mike asked.
“Mickey liked how Billy handled himself on the last one.”
“He crashed!” Mike exclaimed.
“That was the Bushman’s fault,” Roger said. “Besides, Mickey made the call and he’s doing the whole run, so put that out of your mind. Right now, our priority is winning 10-way at the Nationals, right?”
“Right!” said Dave and Mike together.
“Let Mickey do his job while we do ours and then we’ll think about Belize,” Roger said as he unrolled several aviation charts and spread them out on the floor. “Until then, limit yourselves to a little scouting and a lot of skydiving.”
Then the three men got down on the floor and hunched over the maps like kids checking out letters to Santa.
Down in Florida, Mickey was conducting his final preparation for the Jamaican run—confirming there were no “bugs” on the airplane. The day before, he’d scheduled a tour through the radar room in the Federal Aviation Administration’s Miami Center facility, telling the operator he was a skydiver pilot who worked with Miami center and wanted to see how things looked from their point of view. With professional courtesy, they accepted. Then Mickey arranged to have Billy fly circles around a VOR while he was there.
Now Mickey strolled through the dark rows of radar screens, glancing at his watch to confirm his timing. Mickey had done this drill with other planes previously so he knew the facility. He looked around, drifting toward the controller working the screen that covered Billy’s pre-arranged flight path. When he reached it, he introduced himself to the controller, a friendly man who was proud that a pilot was interested in his work. He returned Mickey’s interest by asking about jump operations as he monitored the planes in his coverage area.
“How do you distinguish the commercial traffic from the recreational?” Mickey asked.
“By the squawk and data strip. The commercials are handed to me before they come into the scope, so I know they’re coming. When they enter my coverage, the guy next to me has them give me a call, and I confirm their position, altitude and airspeed.” He struck a key on the keyboard and isolated one “blip” with an enlarged rectangle near it. “That’s the data block.”
“Where’s the VOR on the scope?” Mickey asked.
The controller punched another key and pointed it out. Mickey acted impressed.
“Wow, that’s pretty cool,” he said as the controller paused to speak to a series of aircraft and he watched a blip on the screen flashing the ID “1201”—Billy, flying the pattern as planned.
“Looks like one of yours,” the controller said, catching Mickey off guard.
“Whaddaya mean?” he asked, alum rising in his throat.
“A jump ship by the way it’s circling, or else a student pilot. You know, that’s a VFR code we use for you guys.”
Mickey breathed a sigh of relief and, with his mission accomplished, he turned the conversation casual again.
“Amazing. I guess you get a real feeling for the traffic rhythm from where you sit.”
“Yeah, you get used to it.”
“Bet you’re good at video games,” Mickey laughed.
“Not a chance! Last thing I want to do after a full shift here is stare at another screen.”
“Makes sense. Well, thanks for your time. Hey, ya know if you ever want to come out and make a jump with us…”
“No thanks!” the controller laughed. “This is close enough right here.”
Back at the airport, Mickey found Billy inside a small hangar talking to the “Cookie Monster,” a bulky man with shaggy hair who rarely shaved, and who got his name from always sniveling, stealing, or bargaining for every dollar he could get. He was constantly jumping connections and trying to maneuver himself into deals—kind of like Billy, Mickey thought. The word “money” quickened their pulses but froze their brains.
Mickey had deliberately kept them apart, but they had inevitably met when the Cookie Monster arrived at the hangar with fuel barrels for the run and the two of them unloaded them. The way their heads snapped around when they saw him coming, Mickey figured they had not only spilled their guts to each other, but probably started plotting a run of their own using everyone else’s assets.
“Tail check went fine,” Mickey told Billy. “No worries there. Cookie, why don’t you run Billy over to the store so he can fill his cooler, then drop him at his motel and we’ll see you on the flip side.”
“Will do,” the unkempt man said. Mickey watched them saunter over to the Cookie Monster’s equally unkempt car, knowing that their association would probably bear bad fruit at some point. But there was nothing he could do about it. Billy was his only pilot at the moment, and Cookie his only unloader.
At the grocery store, Billy shopped while the Cookie Monster trailed behind, scheming.
“You’re flying, I’m unloading,” he grumbled. “Seems we’re doing the whole run.”
“Yeah, and Mickey and Roger are making all the money,” Billy agreed. Cookie grinned as he heard the resentment in the pilot’s voice.
“All we need is a connection, and we’re in business,” he continued.
“I got a lot of them,” Billy boasted. “I’ve been runnin’ trips to Colombia and Jamaica, you know. Got phone numbers and everything.” The Cookie Monster grinned wider.
“Why don’t we just tell Mickey we want more bucks? What’s he gonna do? He can’t do it without us!”
“Not on this one, man,” Billy cautioned, knowing he couldn’t yet back up his talk. “It’s too late for that, but when we finish this one, let’s see what we can do.”
“Sure, okay. The next run then,” Cookie agreed.
When Cookie dropped Billy off at the motel, they exchanged phone numbers and shook hands on their new partnership, then went their separate ways, each harboring schemes for the future.
Mickey picked Billy up just before sunrise the next morning and reviewed the plans one final time, then Billy climbed into the plane and put on a heavy old flight jacket he wore up north during the winter. Before Mickey closed the cabin door, he saw Billy shudder, so he smacked him collegially on the shoulder.
“You’ve done this trip before so nothing’s new except that this time you’ll have a decent landing area for your refuel,” Mickey chuckled. “So don’t worry, buddy. You’re a great pilot. Remember, radio contact ten minutes out.” Mickey shook Billy’s hand, shut the cabin door and walked away, hoping things would go better than last time.
Billy recited the pre-flight checklist out loud, palms sweating, heart pounding. “Relax, man,” he also said out loud. “It’s all good. You can do this.”
He taxied tensely and felt his heart wind up as he powered up the engines, then let out a deep breath and released the brakes. The plane rose effortlessly into the sky and with it rose Billy’s spirits. He hooted and hollered, thankful that nothing horrible had happened on takeoff, confident again now that he was back in the saddle.
Billy arrived at the same Jamaican strip at almost the same time before noon and, just as before, the Jamaicans quickly loaded 1,300 pounds of cargo aboard the plane while he and Winston refueled it.
“Have Mickey call when you make it, monn,” Winston said, flashing a bright smile as he swapped out an empty fuel container for a full one, “and I bet you have no more trouble this trip!”
“Hope you’re right, man. I don’t need any more adventures like that one.”
“How soon can you get back to do another one?” Winston asked. Billy frowned at the unexpected query.
“How many more can you do?”
“As long as you keep on jammin’ monn,” he said, dreadlocks flying in the prop blast. Billy hesitated for a moment, then seized the moment.
“If Mickey can’t get back down, would you load me?”
“Mickey’s good people. If you’re working with him, I’m sure to work with you. You get my number from Mickey and give me a call.”
“Already got it.”
“Then get yourself back down here, monn. It’ll be gone soon!”
“Deal!” Billy said as they finished filling the last wing and jumped off.
With a big smile, Billy shook Winston’s hand and zipped up his heavy leather jacket, which elicited another laugh from Winston. He climbed into the plane, and the crew pushed the door closed. His hands and face started sweating as soon as he sat in the cockpit, and his knees shook as he reached the end of the runway and advanced the throttles. The plane lunged forward down the strip and the moment it leaped into the sky Billy’s stopped sweating and shaking.
“Fuck man!” he scolded himself, laughing. “You gotta get over the takeoff!”
The trip went fast as Billy thought about running his own operation. He figured out how much he would make on the first trip, then a second and third. Before he’d made the turn around Cuba through the Windward Passage, he was an imaginary millionaire, a smuggling mastermind with the Cookie Monster as his right-hand man and his Illinois friends on his payroll. His remembered the movie Scarface and pictured his own South Florida mansion with servants and fancy cars. It didn’t occur to him that the Cookie Monster had the same kind of dream, but with their profit positions reversed.
Billy crossed the Florida shoreline and made a climbing turn to make his plane appear on radar as a southbound target. Then he flew towards the Vero Beach airport and did a touch-and-go landing to break out of radar coverage again and checked his tail.
Soon after, he landed in a grass field alongside a highway obscured by a tree line near Christmas, Florida. He shut off the engines and before the propellers had stopped turning, Mickey and the Cookie Monster were unloading the plane while the Bushman sat lookout in the bushes. Nine minutes later, Mickey followed the Cookie Monster off the field on a 50-mile journey to the stash house in a quiet Florida sub-division. Billy gave them a 15-minute head start, then fired up the engines and took off back to the hangar. He still sweated the takeoff, but at this time his knees didn’t shake.
They unloaded the Jamaican weed at the stash house, then Mickey nodded to the Cookie Monster.
“Let’s make sure now that we got our terms straight,” he said. “Look over each bale, and make sure you like it.”
The Cookie Monster did just that, first cutting the burlap on some, then feeling the firmness on others, and filtering through the contents on still others. One by one, he accepted each bale and set it in a separate pile. Then he went Cookie Monster on them.
“How about three pounds per bale for paper weight?”
“We just weighed them out at one and a half!” Mickey protested.
“Hey, I’m gonna have weight loss and spillage, and I’m sure I’ll find a rock or two.”
“I got the time,” Mickey riposted, knowing his unloader-buyer’s modus operandi. “We’ll go through each one and make sure there’s no rocks, and if you wish, we can weigh the paper on each one.”
Seeing that his tactic wasn’t going to work, Cookie tacked another direction.
“C’mon, man. Give me a little slack so when my people come back to me with weight discrepancy, I can give them a fair deal.”
‘Okay, three pounds for paper and that’s it.”
“But what if—”
“Enough, goddammit,” Mickey said testily. “I just took twenty bucks a bale off the price for nothing, so be happy and shut the fuck up, all right?”
“Hey man, no need to get intense,” Cookie said soothingly. “Just trying to look out for my customers.” He held out a hand to Mickey and they shook. “Deal.”
“Deal,” Mickey confirmed. “Thanks for your help. See you next time around.”
“Sure thing,” said the Cookie Monster, grinning as they said their goodbyes and shut the door behind them as they left. The smile evaporated.
“Not if I can help it, he said out loud. “Who needs you when I have my own pilot?” he said as he pulled out a humidifier out of a closet and turned it on. He laughed out loud as he poured each bale onto a large plastic sheet and misted them with a spray bottle to increase the dope’s weight and cheat his buyers.