THE CONVENTION
The day after he returned home from Belize, Roger spent a rare day with Jeanie and the kids, and he put into effect several of the lessons he’d learned from the people in Belize. He left his notebook in the house and camped out in the back yard, watching Missy and Rook play while he snuggled and talked about little things with his wife.
“You seem different,” Jeanie said after enjoying his newfound pace for a while. “What happened down there?”
Roger smiled and looked into her eyes as he gently stroked her hair.
“Nothing except some things that reminded me that true wealth lies with the people who are dear to you, not the things you have. I have some very rich people working for me in Belize who don’t have a pot to piss in.”
“You mean they spend a lot of time with their families?” she asked sweetly, but Roger heard the iron thrust behind it.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s exactly what I mean. They get to watch their kids grow up.” Roger sighed and watched Missy dangling from the jungle gym, kicking her legs to avoid Rook’s grasp as he stood on the ground trying to grab her. “They get to help their kids grow up.” His mind flashed back to the emotions he felt when he saw Rosa’s parents hovering over her in the field, comforting her in her time of pain and fear. “And they’re there for their kids when their kids need them.”
Jeanie’s eyes narrowed and she sat up.
“It sounds as if you’re thinking of spending more time with your own family,” she said, her face brightening at the thought.
“Shhh,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t ruin my reputation.” She pouted theatrically at his evasion, but her eyes twinkled.
“I’m so happy to hear you’re at least thinking of it.”
“I am, honey,” he admitted, as she snuggled again in his arms and his eyes followed Missy and Rook as they adventured in their back yard. “I really am. I just have a couple of more things to do, and then I promise: No more traveling.”
“Except to Nationals, and Z-Hills, and the Herd Boogie, and…”
“Well, of course…”
“I can live with that.”
“Thank you.”
“Promises are cheap, though, especially when they’re open-ended.”
“But I mean it this time.”
“You meant it last time, too, and the time before that and—”
Roger put his index finger across her lips to shush her, then he looked deep into her eyes, his own eyes as serious as they’d ever been.
“This. Time,” he said, pausing for effect. “I. Mean. It.”
Jeanie looked back at him just as seriously.
“Then. Prove. It.”
“I will, my love,” he said softly. “I will.”
Then he went inside to get his notebook.
The next day, Roger met with Dave and Mike to brief them on his trip and hear about theirs. When he finished, they were all more psyched about the epic gig. Mickey was organizing in Florida, Roger had a great setup visit to Belize, and Dave and Mike had found many great options during their road trip from Oklahoma to Alabama and back.
Mike unfolded several maps on the farmhouse table. The first one showed Oklahoma; the second, the Dallas aviation sectional of the same area; and the third was a hand-drawn map that detailed the features of the clandestine field near Enid.
“The strip’s about half a mile from this gravel road,” Mike said, pointing out two lines on the map. “I’d say it runs seventy-five hundred feet before the land begins to roll.”
“That’s a lot longer than you thought,” Roger said. “Cool.”
“And more open,” Mike went on, pointing to another detail, “but this row of trees along this fence blocks the view from the road. The surrounding hills should block the noise and even on takeoff, the closest house is a few miles away, and it’s buried in the woods.”
“Which approach direction avoids any houses or problems?” Roger asked as he nodded in approval.
“All of them! There’s nothing, man! The place’ll look like a black hole from the air. We sat on the strip all night and never saw a light. Then we drove around the perimeter and other than that one house, the whole area is empty. A night landing should be a piece of cake. I think the pilots’ll like it.”
“Well since it’s gonna be your butts out there,” Roger said, “how comfortable do you feel driving about driving out of there with a hot load?”
“Totally casual, man,” Mike said. Dave nodded his agreement.
“We also found a place in Arkansas that’s worth remembering,” Dave said. “Not nearly as secluded, but I’d feel all right doing ground there.”
“Yeah,” Mike agreed, “not as good as Enid but better than most places we’ve used.”
“Okay, then,” Roger said, “from now on, Oklahoma’s the Ranch and Arkansas is the Corral, and we keep both sites secret from everyone else until they need to know.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Mike said. “Ever since I found the place, I’ve always thought of it as my nest egg.”
Dave cracked a big smile and laid four birth certificates on the table.
“Any problems?”
“Not really, but it sure wasn’t as cool as the first time,” Dave said. “We got paranoid and took your advice and split. We each got one. Now I’m Mike Brown and he’s David Eaton. Some cover, huh? We’re still Dave and Mike!” Roger thanked them as they laughed at their “new” names, then moved on to the next agenda item.
“There’s gonna be some free time, at least a month or two before harvest, so if you guys wanna take a break, it’s cool with me. I’ve got the Freak Brother Convention coming up in a few weeks so I’m gonna be jammed.”
“Sounds good to me,” Dave said. “I’ve got some things in Florida I need to do, but I’ll definitely be back for the Convention to get my knees in the breeze. My Nationals burn-out is definitely over!”
I think I’ll just kinda veg until then,” added Mike, “but some hard-core fun jumping will be just what the doctor ordered.”
“Outstanding,” Roger said. “Thanks so much for your great work. Stay in touch the usual way in case something comes up. Otherwise, I’ll see you at the Convention.”
Later that day, Roger went to the parachute center to catch up on business and the first thing he saw was Mr. Douglas climbing to jump altitude. Roger smiled and took a deep breath. One less thing to think about, he thought.
He walked through the hangar, soaking up the vibes of the familiar surroundings, feeling the customary smoothness of the operation and the overall good mood and relaxed focus of his staff and customers. He walked into the main office and Kimmers gave him a back-slapping hug.
“Good to see you again, man,” he said happily. “You haven’t been away from the DZ so long since we started training!” He pointed toward a stack of messages stuffed into Roger’s mailbox. “As you can see.”
“I also see Mr. Douglas is back up,” Roger said.
“First load two days ago,” Kimmers said. “Nice to have Mark smiling again, that’s for sure.”
“Any other good news?”
“It’s all good, Roger. Students are up about fifteen percent over last year to date, and we settled up with Paul and he took Sugar Alpha home, but he said he’s good to go for the Convention if you want him.”
“Good,” Roger said as he grabbed his messages and he retired to his office to sort through them. Most of them were routine DZ business that he set aside for Kimmers to deal with. One was from Tony, who said he’d be at the Freak Brother Convention. Another was from Mickey, who’d called that morning. He went out and rang Mickey from a pay phone and discovered he was 20 miles away at a Holiday Inn. A half hour later, Roger walked into Mickey’s room.
“Crop’s looking fine and will be ready to go in five or six weeks,” Roger said as soon as they finished their hellos, “so I figure sometime in November. It’ll be worth the wait though—prettiest plants I’ve ever seen.”
“Everybody says that.”
“Yeah, but this is a fact. People’ll be beating our door down for this product.”
“Okay, fine. How about transport?” Roger laughed.
“Old blacktop airfield a mile long nine miles from the farm. Three-foot-high grass in the cracks. No one knows why it’s there, but no one’s used it for years. It’s just waiting for us.”
“Sounds like the country hasn’t been abused or even discovered with something like that sitting around,” Mickey said, his face brightening.
“We’re way ahead of the crowd,” Roger said. “The whole scene’s ripe for the picking.”
Roger pulled out a map and showed Mickey the lay of the land.
“The strip here near Tres Leguas. I did an aerial recon and Helen Keller could find it. They can pick up both the Chetumal and Belize VORs, then I can talk them in after they drop down.”
“Where’s the heat?”
“Closest police station is ten miles by bad roads between the hills near San Felipe—and even if they got tipped that something big was going down, they’d probably head south first to Carvers Ranch, which is a huge cattle farm in the flatlands with a long grass strip next to the house. Other than the Mennonites and the ground crew, though, nobody should even know we’re working.”
“Great! What about fuel?”
“I’ll take care of that next trip. Shouldn’t be any problem, though, because several people want the business. It’ll cost us five dollars a gallon so we want to make sure we bring all we can.”
“How about Oklahoma?”
“Boys found a strip in Oklahoma we’re calling the Ranch and one in Arkansas that’s the Corral. Not sure if Ron’s got a place, but we’ll be ready either way.”
“If they got the preliminary work done, it shouldn’t take me more than a couple days to scope them out after you find out if the horses have a place of their own,” Mickey said, grinning at the code. Then he grabbed his briefcase and dumped ten bundles of bills on the bed.
“Believe it or not, the Cookie Monster paid us off,” he said. “The figures look good, too. Minus expenses and what we sent to Belize, we’ll clear one-thirty. Not bad huh?”
He made three stacks with the bundles, one a little smaller than the other two.
“Fifty for you, fifty for me, thirty for the next gig’s expenses. With all the gear we have between us, that should be plenty.”
They shook hands to seal another successful venture and Roger piled his cash in a brown shopping bag, satisfied but feeling kind of empty. He liked the adventure and satisfaction of pulling it off much more than he did counting the money afterward. Mickey picked up his mood and waved a scolding finger at him.
“Don’t dis the dough, man,” he said, smiling. “Just consider it evidence of a job well done. Besides, it sure feels good to get something back for a change. I was starting to think we were jinxed or something.”
“You’re right,” Roger conceded. “Better to be in the black than swimming in red.”
Mickey dumped his cash and the expense money back in his briefcase and snapped it shut.
“Hey, I found out why Tony got axed from the Colombian gigs.” Roger arched his eyebrows in invitation to hear more.
“Colombian Joe and him were free basing at Norman’s Cay right before a run, and when they sent him back to Tampa for the plane they were using, he made love to his pipe instead of doing the pickup! The Colombians wanted to kill him, but unfortunately, he talked his way out of it.” Roger nodded at the unsurprising news.
“He broke the immortal rules of old Joseph Kennedy—‘If you’re gonna run rum, don’t drink it!’ What do you wanna bet Tony gets busted within a year.” Mickey laughed and shook his head.
“May as well just pay you now.” Roger turned serious.
“He’s such a tool. Dumped five keys on me when he visited last month and tried to pressure me to sell it by saying he couldn’t take it back to Florida.”
“So you sent him back with it, right?” Roger shook his head ruefully.
“Said I’d hold it until he found his own buyer.” Mickey shook his head in disgust.
“Tony the Snake strikes again.” Mickey picked up his briefcase. “Anyway, we’ve got a few weeks so I’m heading to the island. Got a barge of diesel fuel coming for the generators, and I need to be there when it arrives.”
With the gig planning under control, Roger buried his head in the Freak Brother Convention, a major project in itself. It was a large gathering of skydivers and jump planes at a big airport outside a small western Illinois town that happened every year Wednesday through Sunday during the second week of August. The Convention began as an informal gathering of the Freak Brothers skydiving fraternity, an inclusive group of skydivers dedicated to promoting fun and innovation in the sport. Success built upon success, though, and turned the informal gathering into a full-scale official “boogie” with a permissive atmosphere and multiple aircraft that drew jumpers from all over the U.S. and several other countries to jump hard and party harder with old and new friends.
The Convention had outgrown Roger’s DZ, so he’d found Albertus Airport in Freeport, 100 miles away from Sandwich. It had 300 acres of open land, supportive townspeople, and no major commercial air traffic overhead. It was perfect for what had become the world’s largest skydiving event. Roger oversaw the operation and brought in most of the aircraft, but Kimmers and Jeanie were his chief lieutenants and plotted out and staffed all the support operations. They needed a public announcement system that could reach every area of the airport, a radio system for staff communications, a grounds crew, Freak Police for security, and the procedures for all operations from registration to check-in to gear checks, manifesting and aircraft rotation. And of course, they needed staff for all of this and it had to run like a military operation to make sure everyone was happy and very few ended up hurt or in jail.
The Tuesday before the Convention started, a caravan of trucks and vans left the DZ and journeyed to Freeport. Within hours of their arrival, they’d staked out the barren open grounds into an outline for tents, campers, vendors, traffic lanes, a party tent, and aircraft loading areas, complete with “street” signs with names like “Flamingo Way,” “Ripcord Drive,” and “Propeller Street.” That evening, Roger assembled the more than 50 staffers. Looking out across the group of sweaty, smiling faces, Roger spread his arms like a revival tent preacher.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to host another Freak Brother Convention!”
“Praise the Lord and all Freak Brothers!” everyone shouted in reply.
“This year promises to be the biggest non-competitive skydiving event in the history of skydiving,” Roger went on after the cheering died down, “so be proud that you are a part of it!” More cheers, shouts and applause.
“I really want to thank everyone for being here,” he said when the noise had once again died down. “It’s a really special event and I want to make sure everything goes smoothly, and I want to give a special shout out to the one person most responsible for making it all go right, my wife Jeanie. She’s the heart and soul of the Freak Brother Convention, and we couldn’t do it without her. Thank you, Jeanie.”
“Yeah, Jeanie!” shouted everyone, as she beamed in their appreciation, and the loudest roar of the night went up from the staffers, most of whom had worked previous Conventions and knew from their own experience how vital the sweet, unassuming but hard-as-nails Jeanie was to its success.
Roger then introduced Kimmers and the rest of the staff to each other, then broke them down into working groups, each of which went its separate way to take care of its business.
In one room, Jeanie and Kimmers met with the registration and manifest staff to discuss office operations. Roger held a separate meeting with the pilots and ramp agents responsible for fueling and loading.
When the meetings ended, Roger and Jeanie left for their hotel, Roger already a little giddy as he rode the high of the event.
“I’m glad we have such a great staff this year,” he said. “It really looks like it’s going to be a bigger turn out than last year.”
“Yeah, that would be nice,” said Jeanie distantly. Roger frowned at her obvious lack of enthusiasm.
“What’s up Jeanie? Aren’t you excited?”
“No, that’s all great. I’m just exhausted already and I just… well, I’d like some of your undivided attention soon, where you’re not thinking about your runs or skydiving.”
“Jeanie,” Roger sighed. “We just went over that. I told you things’ll change soon, but right now we’re about to start the biggest Convention ever, and I can’t have you weighing me down with this now. You’re the best, babe, and I really need you.”
“Roger, I’m just saying you’re—”
“Please, honey,” Roger pleaded, “can’t this wait until after the Convention? I already told you, one more run and I’m done.”
“And then there will be one more,” Jeanie said bitterly. “You’re addicted to it, Roger. You can’t stop. I know it and you know it.”
“Yeah, I do know it,” Roger said softly, “but I swear this time will be different. I know I can’t prove it, that I have to actually do it, but for now could you please just take my promise at face value and let’s just enjoy the Convention, okay?”
“Okay,” Jeanie said. She smiled as they pulled up to the hotel, but she got out of the car and walked inside without another word, and without looking back. Roger thumped the steering wheel and gritted his teeth.
“You gotta quit, man,” he said out loud. “You really gotta do it this time.”
The next day, the Convention grounds swelled with jumpers as they turned the airport into a huge tent and motor home city named “Bagland” in honor of the infamous ghetto behind the Sandwich hangar. After they had set up their camps, the jumpers dutifully lined up at the registration tables and sifted through pages of waivers, insurance forms and, event schedules and camping information handouts. Next came a gear check from a parachute rigger to make sure their equipment was airworthy. When they had passed through the administrative gauntlet, they received an event bracelet that entitled them to manifest for skydives, attend parties on-site, and guzzle all the free beer they could drink. The bracelet also alerted local business owners that their surge in business came courtesy of the Convention.
This year there were three DC-3s, a Twin Otter, a Twin Beech, and several Cessnas to haul jumpers; as Wednesday wore on, each plane made more and faster “turns” and more parachutes cracked open overhead like colorful aerial popcorn.
The event quickly blossomed into a high-energy festival of hot skydives, contagious smiles and continuous parties. Roger had rented a motor home for his office and set up a communication center for the operation with several chairs on the roof. There he mingled with his friends and was showered with compliments for hosting such a fine event.
Behind the scenes, Jeanie ran a of dedicated crew of “manifest girls” who worked non-stop from sunup to sundown keeping the planes in the air as much as possible and on the ground as little as possible.
It was a tricky and demanding job, as the jumpers manifested in groups ranging from two to 20 and the girls had to find the right airplane with the right number of “slots” leaving at the right time to get every jumper and plane up with a minimum of ground time.
The PA system was constantly squawking with “calls” that ranged from five to 15 minutes, each specifying an aircraft type and load number. It was a complex carnival of people and planes in constant motion, all trying to maximize the fun and minimize the danger that came with spinning propellers, fast-moving planes and human bodies plummeting through the air at 120 miles per hour.
Roger used his abundant energy, enthusiasm, and grins to keep people happy and motivated to jump. He remained in constant motion, not just checking on the operations but doing the “customer service” of organizing and jumping with novice and intermediate groups of skydivers to help them build their RW skills, and help them have fun.
Whenever Roger was in the air, Kimmers would replace Roger atop the motor home and direct the staff, including a contingent of workers who maintained the grounds and kept order. When Roger landed, Chris would meet him with another rig and quickly repack the one Roger had just jumped.
When the traditional “sunset loads” took off, the manifest team breathed a sigh of relief and spooled down for the day. Jeanie smiled and grabbed the PA microphone.
“Green light!” she announced. “Let the party begin!”
Immediately, the hundreds of jumpers who were not on the sunset loads spooled up their partying. The beer wagons that sported multiple taps became the primary destination, followed by the various food concession tents and the campfires and barbecues of the various jumper campsites. Hundreds more flowed out of the airport and invaded the town, filling the local stores, restaurants, and hotels.
The Freak Police started canvassing the area, checking for boogie wristbands to make sure there were no freeloaders or “outsiders” at the boogie, while other grounds crew prepped the stage under the large, yellow and white circus tent for the headlining bands. Meanwhile, many jumpers rotated in and out of the shower house to wash off the dirt and sweat of the day and to get ready to party. The air was filled with campfire and BBQ grilled smoke and an exciting vibe about the day’s jumps.
Dusk fell over Bagland but the canopies that cracked open above them still glowed in the golden hour light that still shone at 2,000 feet. Whoops and yells wafted down as the jumpers descended toward the landing area just as the Booze Brother Revue took the stage, surrounded by a crowd quaffing free beer from overflowing red plastic beer cups.
“Testing, testing,” said the lead singer. “Is this thing on?” The skydivers gave a quick cheer and raised their cups. “How was it out there today? Did you guys have fun?”
“Woohoo!!”
“Then let’s get ready to rock!”
As the jumpers mingled and danced under the circus tent, Jeanie packed up and headed back to the hotel for a relatively early evening. Roger stayed behind to put in an appearance, and to make sure the beer was flowing, the band was dialed in, the Freak Police were on patrol, and all the offices were properly secured. Then he left with a smuggler named Ted who took him out to eat at a “cook your own” steak house.
The last Roger had heard, Ted was smuggling electronics into Mexico out of McAllen, Texas, and sometimes flying for a company named Trans America Airlines that was rumored to be a CIA front operation. A former naval aviator, Ted was a wild and crazy ace pilot who, after years of putting down jets on pitching aircraft carrier decks, could land anything anywhere without breaking anything.
“You know the Mexican border’s been real quiet,” Ted said after they started eating. “The old timers tell me they’ve never seen it so open. I know of four groups punching ’em back through and everybody’s making it. Just one bust that I know of, and they were snitched out before they left the ground. The only thing active against a run is all the lies about drug interdiction. Do you remember the DC-6 trip where I got stuck in Colombia behind an Aero Commander that wouldn’t start? The one I had to fix just so I could get out?” Roger nodded. “Well, I was ferrying a plane to Texas from L.A. and ran into the same pilot at Southern Air. We got to talking and he offered me a job flying to Nicaragua with government stuff. Small world, huh? I did a couple of runs for him, and he wants me to do another.”
“What are you hauling?” Roger asked.
“We call it the Boomer Bonanza Run,” Ted smirked.
“Boomer Bonanza?”
“You know, things that go boom!” Roger chuckled.
“Are they payin’?”
“Not so much,” Ted shrugged, “but it’s better than the nine hundred bucks I get for T.V. runs, plus there’s no heat. We have special clearance to get back in and nobody messes with us. The shame of it is I have deadhead back.”
“Who are you delivering to?”
“Guys who want to create havoc for the Sandinista government. That’s supposed to be a big secret, but it’s clear we’re arming rebels. They call ’em contras, you know, counter-revolutionaries.”
“Sounds like that could get hot in its own way.”
“Already is, actually. Last run I did we took some rounds in the fuselage. Kinda like it was in the islands when the natives would try to knock you out of the sky if you were flying low just to see what you’re carrying, except heavier artillery—the damn Cubans got the Sandinistas armed to the hilt, so landing’s not so cool anymore. So I opened my mouth and suggested kickouts instead, and they liked it, so they gave me some specs and now I’m in a pinch and was hoping you could help me.”
Roger smiled and shook his head. When would people learn that opening your mouth almost always caused trouble?
“Well, thanks for the thought, buddy, but no thanks,” Roger said. “I want nothing to do with any government stuff. Besides, the military invented kickouts. They don’t need your help or mine. I mean, what’s up with that anyway? Kickouts are easy.”
“More to it than that,” Ted said, and his voice went serious. “I can’t get into it, but it’s not what you think.”
“Doesn’t matter. If you’re coming in with special clearance and flying for the government, I’m not touching it.”
“The specs I got aren’t for heading down. It’s for the ride back.”
“Well, how are you gonna do that if—”
“Don’t ask, man. Just let me know if you can help.”
“I might consider it if you can make a stop in a friendly little country on the way back,” Roger said, opening his own mouth when he should have kept it shut.
“No way, man. This is some weird stuff. Always somebody watching everyone and everything that goes near the plane. I’m only getting a little piece of the action. The gig’s for the guys putting the run together. What’s really happening I don’t want to know and neither do you. I’m only telling you this because it sounds like you’re considering it.”
There I go again, Roger thought, running my mouth about another gig when I promised I wouldn’t. Roger looked at Ted and smile.
“Listen my, friend, I appreciate your faith in me, and I’d love to hear you out, but I’m getting out.”
“Have you gone straight?”
“Yeah, pretty much. I have a family now, and a great skydiving business and that’s enough on my plate. Much as I love the thrill, it’s just time to be done and move on.”
“Wow, never thought I’d hear that from you.”
“Never hear that from anyone, really, do we?” Ted laughed and nodded. “But I’m gonna be an exception to the rule.” Ted laughed and held up his glass.
“To retirement then.”
“To retirement,” Roger said, smiling, but his brain still resisted. Francis is a prophet, he thought, and I knew the U.S. was running guns south, just didn’t know anyone doing it. I wonder who’s behind the return run, and how can someone always be watching when they load?
The next three days merged together into one big continuum of jumping from sunup to sundown and partying from sundown to sunup. It had been a great boogie so far, with no broken planes and only a few broken bones among the hundreds of loads flown and the thousands of jumps made.
Now it was Saturday sunset and Roger sat atop the motorhome half drunk on strawberry margaritas watching a sunset load board Sugar Alpha when saw Tony climbing up the ladder with a big grin on his face.
“Hey man, what’s up?” he said as he reached the roof and shook Roger’s hand.
“Great Convention is what’s up, Roger said happily, as he pointed Tony to the margarita cooler just as a seriously hot young woman joined them.
“This is Tiffany Mae,” Tony said proudly as they joined Roger in low-slung fabric chairs and poured themselves some margaritas. Roger noted that while Tony was smiling and Tiffany Mae was hot, both sported pale, unhealthy skin and eyes sunk deep into their faces. Too much coke, for sure, Roger thought, and probably the pipe.
They watched the jumpers and small-talked about the Convention until they finished their margaritas, then Tony sent Tiffany Mae back to their motorhome and the two men escaped into Roger’s air conditioning.
“Hey, want to get high?” he asked, tapping a pocket as they sat down inside. Roger shook his head.
“She does it too, right?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “She was a freebase whore when I met her. Fucking fell in love and married her and here we fucking are. Have a lot of great times with her and the pipe. You really should try it. It’s the best.”
“Really,” Roger challenged him. “You look like death warmed over and I heard you blew a run because of it.”
“I don’t know where they got any room to talk,” he said defensively. “Did three trips for them while they sat around and got high. Loosest fucking operator I ever saw. He’s into that macho shit and thinks he’s bulletproof. You would’ve thought he’d clean up his act after they raided the place and kicked him out of the country and based police on his island. ’Course, nothing changed ’cause the cops are on the take, and he bought himself another couple years from the Prime Minister, so he says, but his days are numbered ’cause he draws too much heat, and the big guns in Colombia are rethinking the route. One of the main men has some serious connections in the Mexican government, and they’re starting to move that way. And to top it off,” Tony said, flashing his devilish smile, “the yahoo they got to take my place missed the runway on his first run and stuffed it in the ocean. Fucking losers.”
And you’re one of them, Roger thought.
“So have you set up the deal in New Jersey for the coke yet?” he asked. Tony snorted.
“Nah, I’m just gonna keep it for stash.” Roger laughed. Not even the most flagrant coke head keeps five kilos for personal use. Dude is out of control. He glanced theatrically at his watch.
“Sorry to cut this short, but I have to wrap things up before the party picnic tonight,” he said and headed for the door, tired of listening to coke-speed conversation. “You kiss that girl once for me, would you,” he concluded with a smile.
“Kiss her for you?” Hell, you can do her yourself if you want to. She loves to have me watch.”
“Very generous of you, but no thanks,” Roger said, and they went their separate ways.
Second source this week to tell me smuggling routes are switching back to Mexico, he thought as he walked toward the office. Certainly, the winding border provided better cover; 1,500 miles of mountains, hidden valleys and rugged terrain and border towns that planes regularly visited without crossing the border. In contrast, there was no cover through the Bahamas, and any plane there flying low at night without a flight plan could have only one purpose, and the increased pressure the U.S. was placing on the Bahamas would eventually shut down that approach, leaving the “back door” through Mexico. The changing tides would drag enforcement there, too, but he wondered how many holes there would be because of the U.S. government’s covert actions. Roger hoped his final run would beat the rush west.
The final night bash before the skydivers returned to their regular lives was always the biggest party by far and Roger always paid extra attention to making it memorable. He’d adopted most his ideas from the block parties his parents held when he was a kid, remembering how he felt sitting and eating with neighbors, and it created a family out of friends. The evening entertainment included the bands Rare Earth, Survivor, and the Booze Brothers. Registration covered the bands, beer, and meal, so no jumper was left out. During Roger’s remarks to the crowd, the Freeport mayor surprised Roger with the key to the city to show his appreciation for the commerce the Convention had brought his community.
The Convention ended the following day, a great success in every respect, though as it turned out, it was only the third largest skydiving event in history in terms of participants. It had, however, flown more loads and more jumps had been made than ever before at a skydiving event and the staff was stoked by that accomplishment, though they were all exhausted.
Roger and Jeanie had both lost their voices, so Sunday night they croaked their way through the staff appreciation dinner but, once again, Roger’s organizational and people skills, combined with his wife’s solid if sometimes grumpy support, had resulted in another great event and set the standard for everyone else to follow.
A few weeks after the Convention, Roger was surprised when Billy Bob walked onto the drop zone and into Roger’s office. After the debacle with the Cookie Monster, Roger figured that he’d never see Billy Bob again, but time and need assuaged Billy’s ego, and he was back. Before Billy could say a word, Roger reached behind him and turned on a radio to make some background noise.
“I came to apologize for what happened,” Billy Bob said. “I was stupid and I know I let you down. I shouldn’t have let the Cookie Monster talk me into it.”
“Billy Bob, are you wearing a wire or working for the Feds?” Roger said, looking coldly into the young pilot’s eyes.
“N-n-no man,” Billy Bob stuttered. “I screwed up but I would never, ever betray you. I understand the risks to make this kinda money, and if I ever get busted I’m ready to sit in jail. I just want to do something. I need some work.”
Roger knew Billy Bob was telling the truth because there was no way he could wear a wire and maintain his composure under Roger’s pressure.
“I know you won’t believe me, but there’s absolutely nothing going on,” Roger said, still cold.
“What about that Belize gig?”
“You of all people know that I want to get out of the business and raise a family, and your little fiasco gave me the perfect reason to do it. I just want to live a normal life.”
“Man, I’ll do anything, it don’t have to be flyin’. I’ll unload, do errands, anything.”
“There’s nothing here for you. You’ve come to the wrong place.”
“Well, I’ll just have to put something together on my own.”
The words went through Roger like someone scratching a blackboard, but he laughed it off while calling Billy Bob’s bluff.
“Listen man, don’t threaten me! I’ve told you more than once what will happen if you start trying to think. You’ve proven my point already. I just wonder what would have happened if the Feds put the bright lights on.”
“I could handle that, no problem.” Roger laughed.
“You’ve lied to me once already, and you freak out under pressure, so don’t insult my intelligence.”
“Please keep me in mind if something comes along, okay?” Billy Bob said, eyes downcast, trying the humble route. “I’ve been followed once and crashed twice. Believe me, I know this business is no cakewalk. I’m here talking to you because if I can’t work with you, there’s nobody else who’ll have me. I need another chance. You can count on me one hundred percent, even if you only need a jump pilot. Just keep me in mind, all right?”
Roger felt sorry for him and his two-edged personality trait of giving people a chance to prove themselves, even though they might not be up to it, flared up again as he heard Billy Bob’s apparent sincerity. Despite everything, he liked the awkward flake, and he didn’t enjoy hammering him. Plus, he didn’t want to send a loose cannon like Billy Bob away in a hostile mood.
“Okay, Billy,” he said in a kinder tone. “I’ll see if I can get you some Cessna loads or right seat time with Mark, but don’t count on anything else because there just isn’t anything.” Billy Bob beamed happily and pumped Roger’s hand.
“Thanks, man,” he said. “Thanks. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
Roger smiled and watched Billy Bob leave, then started at the ceiling.
Smuggler promises, he thought. What an oxymoron.
Roger enjoyed the rest of the parachuting season, especially jumping with low-timers and watching them get better. He especially enjoyed watching Patrick turn into a conscientious and skilled campy pilot who was already passing on his knowledge to others. That was the part Roger liked best of all; sharing the joy of jumping with people, then watching them do the same.
Roger had also kept in touch with George because the harvest in Belize would come in just as the weather turned cold and jumping wound down in Illinois. They had recently talked by ham radio, as George had moved up to the plantation to coordinate the baling.
“Well partner,” he said during one mid-October call, “things are really starting to get busy here with the cooler weather. I’ll tell you what, good things are worth waiting for. You’re going to love what you see.”
“Hey, if you need me to help, let me know,” Roger replied. “My schedule’s opening up enough to give you a hand.”
“I appreciate that my friend, but not necessary,” George assured him. “We’ve got the whole family busy, everything’s taken care of, so just come as scheduled. The cops are getting worse with the people, though. They’ve been violent with some of the locals, and they’re even talking shit to the Mennonites. We keep the crews clear so we have no problems there, but it is tense just driving through the area with supplies.”
“That’s not good, but don’t get involved. We need to lay low no matter how tough it gets in town, and please make sure the men know that. They can’t react or it will be worse.”
“Good advice, man. I will tell them.”
“When do you think you’ll be ready?”
“About two weeks.”
“Good. Then I’ll be there soon. If we miss our regular chat next week, I’ll use a landline to get you a message.”
Roger called Mickey to tell him they needed to start the active planning phase. Mickey came up the next day to finish the final details and begin implementing the plan.
“Those idiot cops worry me a little,” Mickey said as they drove away from O’Hare, “but otherwise it sounds like everything’s going great.”
“So far,” Roger said, “so I think we should call Ron and tell him to start pushing buttons.”
“Yeah, time to get them spooled up.”
They stopped at a convenience store and went to a pay phone hung on the outside wall. Roger dialed Ron’s office. His secretary answered.
“Could I speak to Ron please?” Roger asked. There was a long pause.
“Uhhh, I’m sorry, sir. He’s uhh, he’s not here,” she said haltingly. Roger frowned at her odd demeanor.
“I’m a personal friend. When do you expect him in?”
“We’re not,” she said. “Uhhh, do you—do you have his home number?”
“Yeah, I do,” Roger said, now worried. He glanced at Mickey, who was also frowning at the exchange.
“Then please call there,” she said. “Goodbye.” She hung up abruptly.
“Damn,” said Mickey, his mood turning dark. Roger quickly dialed Ron’s home.
“Hello,” said a weary voice. Roger recognized it as Ron’s wife.
“Hi June,” Roger said cautiously. “Is Ron in?” Another long silence, and then a sob.
“Ron’s dead,” she said. “So is Jim.”
“Oh my God,” Roger whispered. “I’m so sorry.” He glanced at Mickey and slashed his fingers across his throat. Mickey understood the gesture and rolled his eyes in despair. “June, can I do anything to help?”
“Thanks for the offer, Roger, but everything is taken care of, and I’m surrounded by family.”
“Well know you can call me if you need anything later or would just like to talk.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate it. Bye.” Roger hung up and stared at Mickey.
“Jesus, she just had their second kid.”
“If they both bought it,” Mickey surmised, “they must’ve been doing a run. Wonder if they left any secrets lying around.”
“Let’s see what happened first,” Roger said, and dialed another number. A gruff voice answered, one Roger knew as a friend of Ron’s that he’d worked with too.
“Hey man, what’s up with Ron?”
Roger listened for a minute before he spoke.
“Okay, thanks,” he said, “Appreciate it.” He hung up and turned to Mickey, face grim, and nodded him into the truck and they stayed silent until they were rolling.
“Happened on the 18th,” Roger said dully as he watched the road. “They were trying to kick out a ton and a half over Mississippi from a Lockheed 18 along a pipeline. No lights, no moon, hit some trees, killed all three.”
“Three? Who else was on board?”
“Ron, Jim, and Sky.”
“Ahhh fuck me,” said Mickey and his face fell. “Sky and me been jumping buddies for years. He was good people.”
They drove on in silence for a while, then Mickey glanced at Roger, his eyes moist.
“Well buddy, are we dead too, or are we gonna try and put something else together?”
“Stuff like this is why we need to retire,” Roger said quietly.
“You sure that shit like this isn’t what keeps you doing it?”
Roger glanced sharply at Mickey, then aimed his eyes back at the road.
“I don’t know, man. I honestly don’t know.”