SUGAR TIME
Roger and Mickey bought a bottle of Gran Patron Burdeos on the way to Mickey’s hotel to drown their sorrows, but they only got one stiff drink into it before they realized that they needed to mourn their friends later. Right then, they had to figure out their next moves.
First, they needed an untraceable aircraft suitable for a heavy load and a long haul and the cash to buy it. Second, they needed experienced, trustworthy pilots.
“We still have most of the money from the Jamaican gig,” Mickey said. “If we put it all on the table, it should be enough.” Roger nodded without hesitation.
“Deal, partner. Ain’t no turning back now. Let’s figure out what we can get for it.”
“Well, we do have some options. Mr. Douglas is flying, Sugar Alpha’s for sale, or we could buy something else.”
“Forget Mr. D,” Roger said bluntly. “Too close to home, and Mark’s not right for it. Good enough pilot, but he just about went to pieces when he dented it on the trees. Gotta be Sugar or something else.”
“We can’t really get anything but a Queen Air or Twin Beech for one-thirty and still have expense money, and it’ll take at least fifty to get something decent. Anything new would hit triple digits fast.”
“And then we’re only talking fifteen hundred pounds max anyway,” Roger said, and sat back. “Hanoi and I had this same conversation and we decided it’ll take a Three to make a retirement run. We can get Sugar Alpha for sixty, but first let’s see what else is on the market.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a current copy of Trade-A-Plane.
Five minutes later, he shook his head and looked at Mickey.
“Looks like Sugar time.”
“What the hell, man,” Mickey grinned. “It all started with her so it seems proper to end it with her too. Destiny brought her right back to us.”
“Maybe, but who’s gonna fly it? Certainly not Billy Bob.”
“Certainly not left seat, no matter how desperate we are,” Mickey laughed. “No, I was thinking of Jeff.”
“Blind Jeff?” Roger mused. “Yeah, he’d be perfect. He can fly the piss out of a Three and he knows Sugar.”
“Let’s call him and see what he thinks.” They left immediately and headed for a convenience store pay phone a few blocks from the hotel. As they walked, Roger thought about Blind Jeff.
Older guy, tall and slim, very laid back. Balding, with a pointed chin accented by a straggly, leprechaun-like goatee that he constantly stroked with one hand as he squinted at you through thick lenses framed by thin wire rims that he never took off. He looked and acted more like a college professor than a pilot, let alone a smuggler, but he was an ace pilot who had, ironically, flown Sugar Alpha out of Indianapolis with his brother Jack before Paul bought her. Jeff was also a top-notch mechanic, especially with big radials. Where he got his flying chops and wrenching know-how nobody knew, but everyone agreed: he had them in spades.
“Hellooo,” said a soft voice into Mickey’s ear after two rings.
“Yo Jeff,” it’s Mickey. “You got a minute?”
“Where we going?” he asked, getting right to the point. Mickey laughed.
“Want to go sightseeing in Sugar Alpha next month?”
“Love to.”
“Okay, let me get back to you tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it, Mick. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“You bet. See ya.” He put the phone back in its cradle and gave Roger a thumbs up.
“What if we can’t get Sugar?” Roger asked as they walked back to the hotel.
“Then we go smaller and maker more loads,” Mickey shrugged. “From what you say, that should work too, maybe even better than doing one big run.”
“Agreed,” said Roger. “We’ll go with whatever we get and do whatever it takes.”
They walked on in silence for a moment, then Mickey made a face.
“If we do go with Sugar, who’s gonna fly right seat?” Roger winced.
“Hate to say this but Billy Bob may be our guy. Has a lot of Twin Beech time flying jumpers so I know he could handle right seat, especially with Blind Jeff as PIC. All he’ll have to do is throw a few handles, keep Jeff’s cigarettes and matches in reach, and make sure the extra tanks keep feeding into the wings.”
“Yeah, he did great with that part on the Cookie Monster run.”
“Yeah, but this time he’ll be working for Blind Jeff, not sorting it out on his own, so hey, if you got somebody better, great, but he is an option.”
“And he still has potential,” Mickey said. “He really did save our asses on Grand Bahama, and as long as we keep his thinking window small, he should be fine.”
“Plus we don’t have to bring in a new man,” Roger added as they walked into the hotel lobby. Mickey chuckled.
“That’s right,” he concluded. “Better the devil you know than the one you don’t.”
They continued their planning when they got back to the room.
“While you and Jeff check out Sugar, I’ll see if I can get that Trans Van to help you with the load, though I still don’t think that will handle it all.”
“Sounds from what your boys say that we can get a rental truck back in the field as long as it don’t rain,” Mickey said. “I’d feel a lot more secure with an extra vehicle in case one breaks or we can’t fit it all in. I like your idea of getting Mike out quickly in the first pickup just for insurance, even though it’ll leave us short-handed for the rest.”
“And you’ll load the rest before anyone else leaves?”
“Right, plus I’ll stay behind with the pickup to make sure everyone gets out and the Three gets back off. We’ll have to kill the engines on this one, so if it don’t start, we’ll torch it, and I’ll take the pilots in the pickup.”
“And you’ll give the trucks a head start?”
“Yeah, fifteen to thirty minutes, whatever feels right. Then they’re off to Memphis and Sugar will have a new daddy by morning.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Roger said. “Also be nice to have a strong back to help me on my end. Any ideas?”
“What about Kong? Dude’s as solid as they come.”
“That’s for sure, and he’ll do it if I ask, but this may be a little much to lay on him for his first gig—kinda like putting a 100-jump wonder last on a serious ten-way team. I’ll see what I can figure while you’re dealing for Sugar but either way I’ll have the boys and vehicles ready to head out and show you the strips when you get back.”
“Then I think we’re set for now,” Mickey said. Roger nodded and Mickey reached for the Patron. “And now back to our other unfinished business.”
The next day, Roger called George on the ham radio at their regular time. George answered promptly and they each took turns counting to ten as they tuned in crystal-clear reception. Then they worked out the schedule with a goal of getting Roger to the plantation within the week. When they were done, George added another bit of news.
“I ran out of money, so I sold a few hundred pounds to keep things going.” Roger didn’t like hearing this because the money he sent George should have lasted, but he bit his tongue and made light of it.
“Okay, good problem solving, but do me a favor and make sure you save the best for us, all right?” George laughed.
“Whose team do you think I am on? There could be no other way! I sell only what you would not take anyway and it is still the best on the square.”
“Don’t get too proud of it,” Roger cautioned. “It’s important to lie low, especially with the cops going crazy.”
“Of course, my friend, always.”
Roger told Mickey at their next meeting that things were set in Belize. The next order of business was figuring out how to buy Sugar Alpha in a manner that hid its true ownership from both the FAA and Paul.
“He won’t do the deal if he suspects what it’s for,” Roger explained.
“No problem buddy,” Mickey said. “Neither Jeff nor I have never met him plus he’ll never think smugglers would buy a plane painted like that. I mean, that’d be fucking nuts, right?” He grinned wolfishly at Roger, whose eyes twinkled back. “So we can take care of that. Hell, give me his number, and I’ll call him right now.”
When Paul picked up, Mickey winked at Roger.
“Yo, Paul, this is Matt Kempton, I’m a rancher down in Arizona and heard through the skydiving grapevine that you have a nice Three for sale. You still got it? . . . And you’re asking sixty-ish? . . . okay, sounds good… nah, I don’t care about that… it’s just for hauling stuff around my spread… uh uh… . Yeah, I’d like to send my pilot out there tomorrow to check it out if that works for you… okay, good, I’ll have him call and you guys work out the details. You’re on eastern time, right? . . . Okay, thank you, sir. Bye.”
Mickey hung up and the two men laughed at the exchange.
“Sounds like he’s a little sensitive about the paint job,” Roger said.
“Yeah, but he’s really ready to sell his ‘baby,’” Mickey said. “Told me he’ll give Jeff the ol’ VIP treatment.”
“Be sure Blind Jeff wears cowboy boots, though, will ya?” Mickey grinned.
“Yeah, tennies don’t exactly scream Arizona rancher, do they?”
As Roger drove Mickey to the airport for his flight to Indianapolis to meet up with Blind Jeff, he explained to Roger why he’d chosen Arizona for his cover story.
“Last time I was in Phoenix, I wrote down random names and addresses of several ranchers around the area. I mean, there are some big spreads out there run by people you never heard of, so that way I’d have cover for buying planes and if the Feds investigate the ownership, they find real people and real ranches—”
“And then they reach a dead end,” Roger finished, smiling at Mickey’s handiwork. “Definitely a nice touch to keep Paul calm, that’s for sure. All we need to do is add one of the 800 numbers I have to the mix and we’re set.”
“I love it when a plan comes together,” Mickey said.
Blind Jeff greeted Mickey warmly when they met at the Indianapolis airport, and they headed immediately for an off-airport car rental agency, where Mickey rented a car under one of his aliases. They dropped Jeff’s truck off at his house and got on the highway to Ohio. As they drove, Jeff smoked one cigarette after another as Mickey filled him in on the Arizona ranch story, had him memorize some names and details about the place, and gave him the phone numbers and other information.
“I see you got yourself a cowboy hat,” Mickey said, pointing into the back seat.”
“Had that for years, actually,” Jeff replied, then lifted one jean leg a bit to show Mickey the well-worn cowboy boots he was wearing.
“Jeez, man, how long have you had those things?” Mickey asked, incredulous that Jeff actually owned a pair.
“Got ’em yesterday at Goodwill, actually. Don’t usually wear ’em because of the rudder pedals on most planes, but they’re fine for Threes and I didn’t want to traipse in there looking like a dude.” Mickey laughed in satisfaction. That was exactly the kind of foresight and attention to detail that made Blind Jeff such a stellar pilot and mechanic.
Soon, they were talking about Sugar Alpha herself, with Jeff telling jump stories and Mickey telling smuggling stories about the old girl—and about how in 1977 he’d spliced a “T” fitting into the fuel line beneath the floor of the pilot’s seats so the crew could pump additional fuel directly into the system. It had been proven on several Colombia runs and, if it was still there, would be a blessing on the run and save them the prep time of installing and testing another. Jeff added this smuggling setup to his inspection checklist.
Outside Cincinnati they arrived at a small grass strip called “Brownies.” Before Jeff could even identify the airport, he saw Sugar Alpha in all of her red and white Firestone glory and sat up in his seat and took his cigarette from him mouth, laid back no longer.
“My God, Mick, that’s not a DC-3, that’s a neon sign! What did they do to it?!”
“Sorry, I forgot about that,” he laughed as he enjoyed Jeff’s reaction. “Paul used it for an amusement park contract ’til they canceled the show. That’s why he’s selling it.”
“So I’m flying a gig in a candy cane billboard,” Jeff said.
“Well, they do call it Sugar Alpha.”
“Only one DC-3 in the world looks like this,” Jeff said. “I mean how indiscreet can we be?”
“True, but on the other hand, who’d ever believe someone’d be crazy enough to smuggle dope in a candy cane billboard named Sugar Alpha?”
Blind Jeff shook his head, chuckling.
“You got a point there, pardner. Let’s go have a look.”
Mickey drove around the airport perimeter, checking out the layout while Jeff sat silently staring at the plane, then scoping the runway.
“I’d say it’s only two thousand feet,” he said, “and with the power lines on both ends, there’s no way we can get out of there carrying extra fuel.”
“Damn,” Mickey said, “now we don’t a base to prep, fuel, and launch the run without somebody noticing.”
Having seen enough, they drove to a motel and got a room and settled in, then Jeff called Paul and arranged to meet him at the airstrip in 20 minutes.
Paul was waiting for him near the rear door when Jeff walked up and introduced himself as “Tucson John,” and the two did a walk-around while Paul gave his sales pitch. Jeff listened, smoking cigarettes and nodding politely at all the right places while at the same time running his practiced eye over every inch of the plane that he could see from the ground. When they got back to the door, he stepped on the entry ladder.
“Let’s see how she sounds,” he said, and climbed aboard without waiting for Paul’s answer. Jeff checked the fuselage as he walked up the cabin’s tilted floor, hung his hat on the headset cradle, and sat in the pilot’s seat. Paul plopped down in the right seat and settled back to see how well the odd-looking Arizona cowboy knew his way around a DC-3.
Blind Jeff traced his fingers lightly over the instruments, looking over his glasses, then stepped firmly on the brakes, ran the yoke through its range and took a quick look around, above and beside him.
“Boost pump, on,” he said, and flipped on the master switch. “Tickle the prime. Crank the engine,” Jeff whispered as he looked out his pilot window, watched the propeller begin rotating, and nodded as the big radial belched grey smoke and rumbled into life. “Soundin’ good so far.”
“Looks like you’ve done this before,” Paul said approvingly.
“A few times,” chuckled Jeff as he repeated the procedure with the right engine. When both props reached full spin, he turned the magnetos on and listened to the engines as he set the mixture to warm her up. The engines soon hit full DC-3 roar.
“I’d say you’ve done this more than a few times,” Paul said. “You know her well.”
“Finest airplane ever built,” Jeff said smiling as he tinkered with the plane like a long-lost toy. “I learned long ago that they treat you the way you treat them.”
Paul smiled back as the masculine engines warmed up and gently vibrated their seats. The oil temperature gauges reached the green arc and with the wheels still blocked in place, Jeff stepped on the brakes and advanced the throttles to take-off power. The restrained beast roared and shimmied as it tried to fly in place, then he gently brought it back to idle.
Jeff knew the airframe was nearly indestructible, so he focused his attention on the engines, which were not. When the cylinder temperatures cooled down, he leaned out the fuel mixtures until the engine shut down and climbed out, Paul following. Together they removed the engine cowlings and Jeff checked for cracks and excessive oil leaks. He crawled slowly around the vital components and inspected the wiring and the exhaust. Jeff knew full well that his life would depend on these engines, and he left no detail unchecked. Paul was impressed by his thoroughness, then uncomfortable as the sun set and the late fall air turned bitter.
“Hey listen, John, I’m freezing my butt off here, so I’m going inside. I’ll send out a couple of guys to help you re-cowl her and put her to bed. Then come to the hangar and we’ll check the logs over dinner.”
“Thanks, pardner,” Jeff said, and as soon as Paul left, Jeff re-boarded the plane, whipped a beefy Phillips head screwdriver from his jacket pocket and quickly unscrewed the inspection plate on the cockpit floor. He smiled at what he saw: the obvious blue “T” fitting sitting there in clear view and apparently perfect condition.
“Looks like no one ever knew you were there, my little diamond in the rough,” he said softly, as he quickly replaced the cover and stashed his driver.
Later on at a local restaurant, Blind Jeff chuckled when he saw his own signatures from years past in the maintenance logs, but he was also happy to see that Sugar hadn’t been bent or broken or had any serious problems since he last flew her, and that for the last few years she’d been reasonably well kept up by the maintenance arm of Hogan Air.
“I like her a lot and the logs look very good,” he said to Paul. “Looks like you treated her with respect.” Paul beamed at the compliment.
“I did indeed,” he said, “and I hate to let her go, but, well, life has a way of changing your plans some times.”
“That it can,” Jeff said, lighting another cigarette. When he exhaled, he tapped the logs. “I want to check a few things mentioned in the logs, then do a test flight before I report back to my boss, but I gotta tell you, pardner, so far I’m a lot happier than I thought I’d be.”
“Great to hear,” Paul said. “I told Matt he wouldn’t be disappointed, and we can fly her over to Hamilton tomorrow. Tie-down’s a little pricier so I keep her here but the facilities there are much better.”
Jeff returned to the motel and told Mickey how it went, along with his opinion that he needed to do a test flight, a compression check and peek in the belly to confirm that the fuel system was still plumbed for internal tanks.
“Great!” said Mickey when Jeff finished his report. “And it was Paul who suggested going to Hamilton?” Jeff nodded and lit another cigarette.
“Paul said he’d ferry it over in the morning,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke and wrinkling Mickey’s nose. “Hogan Air has a base there, so I can quiz their guys on the maintenance and use their tools.”
“Perfect,” said Mickey. “I’ve been there before and it’s a much better spot for us. Longer runway, no wires, multiple ramp gates, tower on the opposite side, enough activity to hide ours but not so much we couldn’t take care of business. And it’d be natural to just leave it there after we made the deal, so we could take off from there and then just never come back. Sweet.”
“All right, then,” Jeff said, “I’ll do some snooping tomorrow to make sure all that’s still current.”
Jeff calculated the round trip distance from Cincinnati to Belize and back to Oklahoma at around 2,600 miles. By traveling at a conservative 150 mph and burning 100 gallons per hour, he estimated with reserve that it would take 1,800 gallons or 11,000 pounds of fuel to fly round trip.
“And I’d rather haul gas from the States than gamble my life on Third World fuel,” he said when he finished doing the math, “even at the expense of cargo; less complicated, too.” Mickey nodded his agreement.
“And I know Roger’ll be pleased to only have to top off the auxiliary tanks.”
“Wing tanks hold eight hundred gallons,” Jeff went on, “plus that two-hundred-and-fifty-gallon internal fuel bladder you got. I’ll ask Paul if he knows of any extra wing tanks, and if he wants to know why, I’ll just tell him I want to fly non-stop back to Phoenix.”
“Sounds good,” Mickey said, and rubbed his tiring eyes. “I’ll look around tomorrow too and see I can find something for the last seven-fifty.” Blind Jeff yawned and they turned in for the night.
Paul woke up the next morning worried that Jeff might find some fault with the plane, so he left his apartment early and flew with his pilot over to Hamilton and met up with some Hogan Air mechanics who had been working all night on their own DC-3s. Together, they removed the engine cowlings and wiped off the ever-present oil, and checked for any other maintenance issues they could find.
With the inspection well underway, Paul borrowed a car and drove to the motel to pick up “Tucson John.” Unfortunately, Jeff had already left to get breakfast, and Mickey got an unnerving wake-up knock on his door. He jumped from bed wearing only his underwear and carefully peeked out the curtained window at a stranger who looked like a pilot and maybe was Paul but Mickey wasn’t sure because he’d never met him. Fortunately, Jeff pulled into the parking lot as Mickey fretted. The stranger waved to Jeff, got back into his own car and drove off with Jeff following.
“Give me a fucking heart attack,” Mickey muttered as he climbed back into bed.
Paul pulled into the Hogan Air ramp on the south side of the long east-west runway. Sugar Alpha sat parked in a row with two other DC-3s that had come in from their nightly cargo runs. Paul introduced Jeff to the mechanics, who were dressed in a mechanic’s standard cold weather uniform, grimy insulated coveralls. The men shared a love for the legendary bird, and they quickly established a friendly rapport. They spent the morning crawling over the plane, breaking only to eat lunch together.
That afternoon, Jeff flew a few circles around the airport and satisfied himself that everything was in order. By then, he had a better feel for the movements of aircraft on the field, so he ended the day by parking Sugar Alpha back among the other DC-3s to blend in as well as she could given her candy cane color scheme.
As he sat in the left seat, shutting the aircraft down, one of the Hogan mechanics climbed aboard and joined him in the cockpit.
“I’m Jason,” he said, and showed him a mechanic’s dirty hand instead of offering it for a handshake.
“Tucson John,” said Jeff, eyeing the mechanic curiously, noting that something was clearly on his mind.
“Just checking to make sure you know what you’re getting into,” he said. “Most DC-3 sales go to long-established organizations with experience handling these birds and, well, I haven’t heard of you or your rancher boss so, you know, like I said, I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into with this bird.”
Jeff’s skin prickled with sweat even as frost glinted on the windshield. He didn’t need an overly curious mechanic watching his plane’s movements. Jason noted his reaction and let him off the hook with an easy smile.
“Look,” he said, “All I’m saying is if you need any extra help with her, or need to know anything about how things work around here, you know who to ask.”
“Thanks, pardner,” Jeff said, and fished a twenty from his pocket. “I appreciate your help today and I’ll definitely come to you if I need anything.”
Jason took the money with a smile, then winked as he walked out of the cockpit. Jeff grabbed his hat from the headset cradle and followed him.
A few minutes later, Jeff peeled off $1,000 from his wad and handed it to Paul along with his “company” 800 number.
“Earnest money,” he said. “I’ll get with you within the week to finalize it.”
“Thanks, John,” said Paul, thumbing through the bills. “Appreciate the cash, I hate waiting for checks to clear, and I can tell by the quality of the pilot he sent that your boss is a savvy buyer. I look forward to doing business with you and seeing Sugar go to someone who’ll take care of her.”
On the ride back to Indianapolis that night, Jeff told Mickey he felt comfortable with the DC-3 and the activity coming in and out of the airport. He also revealed that he lined up a 200-gallon wing tank and fuel through his new mechanic friend.
“Great,” said Mickey. “With the ten fifty-five gallon drums I found today, we’re set on fuel capacity.”
“Okay, and who’re we gonna get for the right seat?” Jeff asked.
“Guy who’s done a couple of gigs for Roger,” Mickey said off-handedly.
“Does the poor son of a bitch know he’ll be spending most of the trip hand cranking drums?” Jeff said, laughing.
“He can count his money while he’s cranking,” Mickey replied.
“Okay, we got the plane, the tanks, and the fuel. Do we have a place to put her when we’re done?”
“Broker in Memphis. He’ll take any DC-3 I can fly in for thirty-five.”
Jeff nodded. The less time they held the plane, the better. Good cover stories take a lot of effort to maintain and, in the end, if the plane was long out of their hands, anyone trying to trace Sugar Alpha’s short-term owners would find themselves at a dead-end in Arizona, talking to a clueless rancher with whom they had no connection.
“Okay,” Jeff continued. We want to load in daylight and unload at night, so figuring nine hours each way, we need to leave Hamilton about six in the morning, right?”
“Yeah, that’ll put you into Belize around two local time. Figure an hour or so on the ground and you can be at the unload point around midnight. Will that work for you?”
“I think so,” said Jeff, as he lit another cigarette.
While Jeff and Mickey were busy with Sugar, Roger had inspected a four-wheel drive Trans Van his boys had custom-built for hauling weed. The oversized vehicle had a heavy-duty suspension and a 100-gallon fuel tank. It had windows painted on the side in black that looked real from a short distance, and the hollowed-out cabin was heavily reinforced. Dave and Mike had readied the van along with their two pickup trucks for immediate use. When Roger got the late-night call from Mickey confirming their acquisition of Sugar, Roger immediately dispatched the boys to the Corral with one pickup truck and the van, then went back to sleep, knowing that would probably be his last good night’s rest for at least the next week.
The next morning, Roger drove out to his DZ to recruit Kong’s help, but when he pulled into the parking lot, he saw Kimmers anxiously flagging him down. Kimmers jumped onto the truck’s running board before Roger even stopped.
“Kong got arrested last night for shooting his machine gun off at the end of the runway. A few squad cars dragged him away in handcuffs real serious-like.”
Roger rolled his eyes and wondered how much heat this would bring. He went into the office to find out more, but no one had any details. To his surprise, Kong walked in a moment later, looking more mad than sheepish.
“Man, I had permission from the farmer!” he protested to Roger. “He was cool. The police had to trespass to arrest me.”
“What tipped them off?” Roger asked sarcastically.
“Someone in the forest preserve reported gunfire, and both the local and county cops came out,” Kong lamented.
“You knew you were only two miles from the police station. How cool did you think it was?”
“I was on private property,” Kong pouted. “Anyway, my attorney friend got me out on bail, but he said they had a good case.” He sighed, “I might have to do some time.”
“We’ll see if we can find a way around that,” Roger said, thumping Kong on one massive shoulder, concerned for his wild friend and thinking at the same time that he’d have to recruit someone else for the gig. “Keep me posted, all right? You know I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“You got it, buddy,” Kong growled. “Thanks.”
“That sucks,” said Mickey when Roger picked him up at O’Hare and told him the news. As they drove over to Billy’s house, “but if that’s the worst thing that goes wrong, we’re are still looking damn good.”
“Still sucks for Kong,” Roger said sadly. “Baddest dude and best friend you could ever have when things get gnarly, but, man, everyday life is still a puzzle he hasn’t figured out.”
“Unlike us, right?” Mickey said, more gently than sarcastically. Roger sighed.
“Jeanie’s not happy we’re doing this one so close to Christmas,” he said, “and she still doesn’t believe I’m gonna retire after this one. Told me she’ll believe it when I’ve been—quote—clean for a year, and that I’ll be a recovering smuggler the rest of my life.”
Mickey snorted at her description and they both laughed out loud.
“She’s got a point about Christmas, though,” Mickey said after the laughing faded back into silence. “It’s already the seventeenth, we’re running out of cash fast, you don’t have an extra hand, and we haven’t even left yet.” Roger flashed his famous grin.
“Only thing that’ll keep me from my kids at Christmas is you slowing me down!”
“Not a chance, buddy. How’s the twenty-second sound?”
“That’ll do,” Roger said, and they shook hands to seal the deal. “The extra holiday traffic’ll help provide a cover for the trucks, too.” Roger sighed. “And now to tie down our loose cannon.”
They met Billy for lunch at a restaurant several miles from his house. He greeted them like a lost dog who’d just been found by his master.
“We got some work for you if you’re interested,” Roger said as soon as the waitress left with their orders.
“Of course I’m interested, man,” he said eagerly. “Thanks for thinking of me.”
“But there’s one condition, Billy Bob.”
“What’s that?” Billy asked, frowning at his insulting nickname.
“That you never do something on your own again.”
“Absolutely!” Billy said without hesitation. “I mean, I agree. It was too much for me alone, and you guys are the pros. Like you said, Roger, I get thinking about the money, and I don’t think clearly. I really want to work for you guys. Believe me, I learned my lesson. Floating our there with sharks all—”
“If the load gets in, you get fifty grand,” Roger interrupted, not wanting to hear Billy’s tale of woe again, “and if all the money comes back, we’ll bonus you up another twenty-five for retiring.” Roger gave Billy a hard look. “Now listen, man, that’ll make one-hundred-and-seventy-five grand for three gigs. Nobody makes that kinda money when they first start out, you understand? That’s big bucks even for this biz, so do us all a favor and keep your word. We don’t need any trouble!”
Billy’s eyes turned into dollar signs, and Roger could see him spending the money in his head. He and Mickey waited patient for the young pilot to finish his monetary masturbation and focus his eyes on them again.
“Sure, man,” Billy said. “I get it. I totally get it. You guys are the pros, and I’ll do whatever you say is best.”
That’ll be the day, Roger thought, as they shook hands over it. Then their drinks arrived, but Roger didn’t even take a sip from his; he went to a pay phone and made reservations to New Orleans for himself and to Little Rock for Mickey and Billy. While Roger did that, Mickey thumbed through the OAG airline guide and found a flight for Jeff from Indianapolis, and when Roger returned to the table, he took his turn on the phone.
After lunch, they followed Billy to his house to drop off his car, then drove to O’Hare’s long-term lot, went into the Hilton Hotel in the center of the airport and took the underground tunnel to the terminal. Roger and Billy went to different ticket counters while Mickey stood at a phone and briefed Jeff on their schedule and his itinerary. The three men regrouped briefly to go over their plans one more time, then shook hands and said goodbye.
“Glad it’s you going down, buddy,” said Mickey, “because I know I won’t have to worry about that end.”
“Ditto, brother.” Roger replied. “Just don’t forget, communication is everything. I want a daily message, all right?” Mickey nodded. Roger looked at Billy. “And you listen to Mickey, right?” Billy nodded. “He’s the pro, remember?” Billy nodded. “All right,” Roger grinned, giving him a thumbs up. “See you soon.”
Dave picked up Mickey and Billy at the Little Rock airport early that evening and drove them to a motel. Mickey called their service and retrieved two messages: the Bushman was en route to Ohio with the fuel bladder, radios, and fuel rigging parts for the DC-3; and Jeff confirmed his arrival for the following morning.
While Mickey dealt with his messages, Dave and Billy stayed in the room and went over maps of the stateside landing fields. When Mickey returned, they made plans to inspect the landing area at dawn, and the men called it a night.
When they arrived at the Corral just after sunrise, Mickey had Billy lead the hike through the field so that Billy would focus his full attention on the task. An hour later, Billy pronounced the field good to go, and Mickey trusted his judgment—he knew that, after their almost-fatal adventure on Grand Bahama, Billy would always make sure they had plenty of margin for error and the unexpected.
They returned to Little Rock to hook up with Blind Jeff. When Dave dropped them off at the terminal, Mickey sent him back to the Corral to monitor the radio while they flew over.
Jeff was waiting inside the terminal, sitting casually next to a line of phones, wearing tennis shoes with his cowboy hat and the thin wire rim glasses with the thick lenses. He was smoking a cigarette and reading a book, and didn’t see them approaching. Billy stopped and glared at Mickey.
“Seriously?” he hissed. “How can you think this fucking redneck could possibly be a better pilot than me?”
“You forget already, Billy Bob?” said Mickey. “This is our gig, not yours, and we make the decisions. Hell, you don’t even know what kind of airplane we’re flying.”
“But look at those fucking glasses he’s—”
“You haven’t even flown with him and you’re making assumptions?” Mickey snorted. “Blind Jeff’s a better pilot than you’ll be in ten years—if you live that fucking long—and he’s a first-class wrench too, so he’s the chief pilot and that is final.”
A weird vibe hung in the air between Mickey and Billy as they walked up to Jeff, who got to his feet and shook hands with Mickey.
“Hey man, nice to see you,” Mickey said, and gestured. “This is Billy. Billy, Jeff.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jeff said, exhaling a cloud of smoke in Billy’s direction as they shook. “Heard a lot about you from Mick.”
“All good, I hope,” said Billy, grimacing at the smell.
“Mostly,” said Jeff, then looked back to Mickey. “We ready?”
Twenty minutes later, they walked into a plane rental office and Jeff handed the agent his fat and heavily-credentialed logbook.
“Like to rent a one-seventy-two,” he said.
“Quite the impressive list of ratings, sir,” said the agent respectfully. “Did you need to upgrade to a twin or something bigger?”
“Nah, the one-seventy-two’s fine, thanks.”
“Well, sir, you’re more than qualified, but it’s protocol to do a check out flight.”
“I understand.”
“Seeing this,” the agent said, sliding Jeff’s logbook back to him, “it’ll go real quick.”
The two walked out to the small plane and Jeff pre-flighted it, cigarette dangling from his lips, as Mickey and Billy watched.
“He always smoke like that?” Billy asked.
“Nah,” said Mickey. “Usually more.” Billy gave Mickey a panic-stricken glance.
“You gotta be fucking kidding.” Mickey smiled.
Twenty minutes later, Jeff slicked the Cessna 172 onto the runway, the rental agent deplaned, Mickey and Billy boarded and they were airborne again. As Jeff climbed out, Mickey and Billy worked to get the navigational fixes for the Corral. The cabin filled with cigarette smoke and, combined with sitting in the back with his eyes focused on the charts, Billy started sweating and feeling queasy.
“Open your windows, wouldja?” he pleaded. “I’m about to fucking barf back here with all this fucking smoke.”
Both men complied and the rush of fresh air cured Billy almost instantly. His sweat disappeared and his pale face regained its color. Jeff leaned over to Mickey.
“I see you got me a co-pilot who gets air sick.” Mickey just shrugged.
Jeff spotted the open grassy pasture of the Corral long before Mickey and Billy could pick it out, then did a couple of scoping passes over the isolated field surrounded by solid blocks of trees.
“Better drop in and see how it looks up close and personal,” he said to Mickey. “You checked it?” he asked Billy.
“Course I did,” Billy said. “It’s fine.” Jeff nodded at Mickey, who keyed the radio.
“Corral cowboy, are we clear?”
“You’re clear,” came the immediate reply.
Jeff lined up with the runway and descended to treetop height to keep anyone from seeing his actions. They swooped down into the clearing, then bounced over the rough terrain. Jeff had slowed almost to a stop when they hit a hidden rut. The nose dipped sharply and the prop hit the dirt as they jolted to a stop. Jeff quickly killed the engine.
“Thought you said you checked it, pardner,” Jeff said quietly, but there was steel in his voice. Billy looked like he wanted to scramble over Mickey and run away. Jeff climbed out and examined the spot where the prop hit the dirt, then eyeballed the prop and ran his fingers over the leading edge. Mickey joined him; Billy walked away toward Dave’s approaching pickup.
“What do you think?” Mickey asked anxiously.
“Sand her a little and she’ll be fine,” Jeff said, petting the prop gently. Then he looked down at the nose wheel. Its shroud was splintered and the strut was noticeably bent. “Your boy better have some tools for this one, though,” he said as Dave backed up the truck and stopped a few yards from the Cessna’s tail. While Billy hid out in the cab, Dave hopped out and got a chain from the bed, looped one end around the trailer hitch and hooked the other end into the tie-down under the plane’s tail.
“I like this guy already,” Jeff said to Mickey with a smile. They walked under the wing and leaned on the horizontal stabilizer to lift its nose in the air as Dave jumped back into the truck and pulled the plane back onto level ground. When he got out again, Jeff was already inspecting the toolbox in the bed.
“Nice collection,” Jeff said to Dave. “Looks like you have everything I need.”
Dave beamed at Jeff’s compliments, Mickey laughed.
“You got a friend for life now, Jeff. Dave’s very proud of his tools.”
“As well he should be,” Jeff said, shaking hands with Dave. “Nice to meet you, pardner.”
“Fuck!” they heard Billy say behind them. They turned to see him squatting near the nose wheel. “There’s no way we can get off here with that kinda bend. I don’t know what we’re gonna do.” Jeff looked at Dave, his eyes twinkling.
“A pilot who gets air sick and he’s a defeatist too,” he said just loud enough for Dave and Mickey to hear him. Then he grabbed some tools and joined Billy at the strut. “Guess that’s another reason why I’m here, eh, pardner?” Billy backed away without a word.
Jeff worked on the nose strut for a few minutes, then stood up and surveyed his work. Dave and Mickey looked too.
“Looks fine to me,” said Dave. Jeff chuckled.
“Not exactly fine, but good enough to get out of here,” he said. “Mick?” Mickey leaned down and checked it out more closely than Dave had.
“Better than you think, not as good as Dave thinks.” Jeff nodded.
“Okay, we’re good to go.” He looked at Dave. “If we make it, pass on our departure time to your pardner in Oklahoma.”
Five minutes later, they made it off the grass with no problems other than the dripping palms Billy tried to hide by wiping them constantly on his pants. He failed.
“And he sweats on takeoff,” Jeff said softly to Mickey as they banked away from the Corral and headed for the Ranch. Mickey glared playfully at Jeff.
Blind Jeff fell in love with the Ranch as soon as he saw it from the air but after the mishap at the Corral, he decided not risk the weakened strut on a field landing. He radioed for Mike to meet them at a nearby airfield. From there, Mike drove them back to the clandestine location, and they walked the ground together. Unlike Billy, who had led the walkaround at the Corral without saying much, Jeff knew exactly what he was looking at—and exactly what he wanted.
“I want six flares,” he said, “two on each end to mark the length and width and two in the middle so I know how much runway’s left. Get some five-gallon jerry cans. Cut one side open, and use the flap to shield the view from the top. I only want the flares visible from the approaching direction just in case there’s any air traffic close by. I’ll make my final from that way, and I want the first set right here. What are you gonna use to signal me in?”
“A one-hundred-thousand candlepower spot light that plugs into a cigarette lighter,” Mickey said. “You should be able to pick it up a long ways out.”
“Good. Once we establish radio comm, I’ll ask for three flashes. I don’t want you to overdo it. Just give me a reference. If we lose comm, I’ll make a pass as close to the top as I can. When you hear me coming back, give me three sets of three flashes and light ’er up. Then make sure you’re clear ’cause I don’t wanna do no go around!”
“Yeah, we don’t need no stinking go arounds!” Mike said in his best Treasure of the Sierra Madre voice. “We’ll be clear and we’ll have the trucks and gear where they’re supposed to be.”
“And you shut off the motors as quick as possible” Mickey said. Jeff smiled.
“Pardner, I’ll have the props stopped before the wheels and parked right here.” Now it was Mickey’s turn to smile. He much preferred Jeff’s cool, calm confidence to Billy’s hyper bravado.
“Final thing,” he said. “We’ll have a flare gun at each end of the strip. If for any reason you see one, it means we’re hot, so abort the landing and put down at Muskogee.”
“Okay,” Jeff drawled, “but I’ll tell you now; I don’t want to see no flares.”
They ate dinner that night at a western-style café and nailed down the fine details of their plan. Mickey noticed that Billy was not only asking Jeff flying questions, he was extending an almost idol-like respect to the older pilot. Jeff noticed too, and when he and Mickey went outside for a private talk, that was the first subject on the agenda.
“Seems like Billy lost something today,” he said as he lighted a cigarette.
“You mean that chip on his shoulder?”
“I do.”
“Bending the plane on a field he okayed probably helped him see the light—well, that, and watching you fix it with no drama or finger pointing.” Jeff nodded slowly.
“Had my doubts about him when I met him—”
“Everybody does.”
“—but I think he’ll work out. Talks before he thinks but he seems to sort things out once he stops talking.”
“Well, good, makes me feel a lot better,” Mickey said. “Sure didn’t need him pissing you off for twenty hours without a break.”
“So is that how it’ll go?” Jeff said, moving the conversation along.
“Should be. I got the map and the frequencies Roger’ll be monitoring, and he wants to be done before Christmas. He’ll have the load plus four hundred gallons of green ready and waiting. He’ll have that end real tight, I can assure you.”
Jeff dropped his cigarette butt and stomped it dead.
“Sounds like a plan, pardner.”
“Hit a damn pothole in a taxiway,” Jeff said to the rental company manager as they inspected the bent Cessna upon their return. “I’m deeply embarrassed.”
“Coulda been worse,” said the manager. “At least you weren’t stuck out there.” They walked back into the office. “I need you to fill out an incident report for our insurance, and then you can go your way.” Overhearing them, Mickey jumped to his feet from the waiting area couch and leaned on the counter.
“Would you consider just letting us pay for the damage instead? No need to put this on anybody’s record.”
“I appreciate the thought,” said the manager, his brow furrowing in thought, “but it’s too late to get your check approved, and I’d have to confirm the funds.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” said Mickey, playing out the conversation, “and we’re flying out of here tonight so that wouldn’t work for us either. We could pay you in cash—I mean, if it’s okay with you.”
The manager’s eyebrows raised.
“Give me a minute.” He went into his office and they could hear bits and pieces of conversation as he talked with someone on the phone. He came back smiling.
Fifteen minutes later, Mickey, Jeff and Billy stepped off an airport shuttle and walked back into the terminal to catch their flight back to Cincinnati.
“Cash sure is king,” Mickey said. “Dude was delighted: no paper, no adjusters, no waiting for the check.”
“No taxes,” added Jeff, “and a fair deal so he didn’t lose his chance.”
“Another paper trail evaded—for all of us!” added Mickey.
“And my fault that it happened,” Billy added humbly. “Sorry, guys. Promise I’ll be more thorough next time.”
“Can’t ask for more than that… pardner,” Jeff said. Mickey smiled inwardly. What a gem he had in Blind Jeff, who seemed to see everything and take exactly the right action.
After the Cessna left, Dave joined Mike at the Oklahoma campground where’d been staying with the Trans Van and they went through their To-Do list. First, they needed another load vehicle. They looked up equipment rental agencies listed in the yellow pages and found one open. They drove out and found a perfect-sized truck. Mickey had placed Mike in charge of the ground crew, so he took care of the paperwork using his new ID and arranged to pick it up the following day. Then they headed to Tulsa, where Mike rented a motel room to serve as their communications center.
While killing time before the Bushman’s late night flight, Mike and Dave charged the radios and inventoried the landing equipment. With everything in order, Mike unsheathed his Buck knife and cut up the five-gallon cans to house the flares. Dave mixed up a concoction of black pepper and gunpowder in his own special blend to destroy the tracking ability of police dogs. He poured the grainy black mixture into a plastic bag and packed it into his butt pack along with a compass, some beef jerky, and similar survival items in the event things went sour and they had to “beat feet.”
After Mike finished with the cans, they drove to the country to test the runway markers and the spotlights in the dark. The demonstration went well. The two returned to Tulsa, picked up the Bushman from the airport, and updated Mickey. Now the men only needed to wait as the countdown continued to close in on zero.
Back in Ohio, Jeff, Mickey and Billy drove to a motel in Jeff’s truck, the passenger window rolled partly down so Billy could have some fresh air. Unfortunately for him, the draft sucked all of Jeff’s smoke right past his nose before it went out the door. Jeff noted with satisfaction that Billy held both his tongue and his facial expressions all the way to the motel.
After the men paid cash for two rooms, Jeff gave Paul a late call and told him that they were ready to conclude the deal the next morning.
“Why not tonight?” Paul asked. Jeff glanced at Mickey, who gave him a thumbs up.
“That’ll be fine, pardner. See you in thirty minutes.” Jeff hung up and surveyed his companions: Billy, the hyper and obnoxious kid pilot, and Mickey, with his gold chains and drug dealer demeanor. As he kicked off his tennis shoes and put his cowboy boots back on, he wondered why they couldn’t blend in more like he did. “You guys take your stuff and go to the other room. Better that I do this solo.” Billy started to say something, then thought the better of it and just grabbed his bag instead.
“Good idea,” laughed Mickey, diddling his gold chain. I don’t exactly scream Arizona, do I?” He picked up one bag and left another with Jeff.
“Try to save some of it,” he said. “We’re getting a little tight.”
After they left, Jeff straightened the room a little, then stacked $55,000 on the table, put the rest back in the bag and put it under the bed, then threw his jacket over the cash pile and kicked back on one bed to watch TV until Paul came.
Paul’s knock came soon after and Jeff went casually to the door, looked through the peephole to confirm, then opened the door with a smile.
“Howdy pardner,” he said. “Get your butt inside so I can close the door. Can’t believe how damn cold it is up here.”
“Cold?” he laughed. “This is just a brisk in Ohio.”
“Then God save me from real cold,” Jeff said. “Glad to live where it’s warm.”
“Thanks for doing this tonight, man,” Paul said. “I hate long goodbyes.”
Jeff smiled sympathetically.
“Yeah, she’s a sweet old girl. Sorry you’re losing her, but happier to get her.” He flipped the jacket off the cash. “My boss too. He says fifty-five’s fair so that’s what’s on the table.”
“Fair enough,” Paul said, his eyes glittering as he stared at the money, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. He sat down at the table and thumbed through one bound stack.
“Mind if I count it?” he asked.
“I insist that you do,” Jeff said graciously, and produced a motel notepad and pencil. Paul counted each stack, then put it into a small canvas bag he’d brought along and made a notation on the notepad. When he finished, he grinned at Jeff.
“All present and accounted for,” he said, “and now for the rest of the paperwork.”
He wrote out a receipt, then pulled some official Federal Aviation Administration bill of sale and registration forms with “Tucson John’s” company information already filled in. He signed his name to both documents, then handed them to Jeff.
“Hope you don’t mind me being formal,” he said, “but I have to protect myself. Too many horror stories about new owners using planes under the former owner’s name for illegal shit.”
“No problem, pardner,” Jeff said as Paul handed him the receipt and he added his “name” to the documents. “I suspect you’ll also want to mail those yourself in the morning to make sure it gets done.” Paul grinned.
“Thanks, man,” he said, relieved. “I appreciate it.”
Paul stood and they shook hands again.
“How soon before you fly here out of here?” he asked.
“Day or two at the most,” Jeff said. “I’m already sick of this weather.”
“Sure am gonna miss the old bird,” Paul said wistfully. “Have a lot of good memories. If you ever need a mechanic, I know her well and could use the work.”
“Yes sir,” Jeff said, feeling Paul’s sadness. “We’ll keep you in mind and give you a holler if anything comes along. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you too,” Paul said as he left. Jeff shut the door behind him and immediately pulled off his cowboy boots, then rang Mickey’s room.
“Hey man, I understand that I’m a glorified stewardess on this flight,” Billy said to Mickey the next morning in their motel room, “and I don’t have a problem with that. Like you said, Jeff’s a hell of a pilot, but his smoking is really getting to me. Hell, even you had to bail on rooming with him and come to this room. It also doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out we’re going to be sitting inside a flying fuel tank on this mission, so with Jeff always flickin’ his Bic, all I can picture is turning into another Hindenburg!”
Mickey laughed at loud at the imagery and the expression on Billy’s face.
“No man, I’m serious,” Billy went on. “You want your gig ending in flames fallin’ to earth? The whole cabin’s gonna be fumes!”
“Listen, buddy,” Mickey said sternly, “if you want back out, let me know now and I’ll hop in your place. We can do this without you. Like you said, you’re his hostess, so I guess it’s your job to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“You know I don’t back out,” Billy said, pouting. “If anything, my problem’s getting into things I shouldn’t, but c’mon, man, you gotta admit the dude’s a walking, flying fire hazard.”
“Might seem that way,” Mickey said more gently, “but unless Jeff’s kept it from me, none of his trips have ever gone up or down in flames—and he’s done a lot of trips, blowing smoke like a Three with a busted oil line on every one of them. So just relax, you’ll get it through.”
Billy pondered his defeat for a moment, then rubbed his hair with his hands and sniffed them and made a face.
“I’m gonna take a shower, man, see if I can get some of the smell off me.”
When Billy shut the bathroom door, Mickey grabbed his briefcase and went to Jeff’s room, where he found the pilot smoking a cigarette as he studied several maps spread across every flat surface.
“Just lookin’ at these,” Jeff said, “it should be easy enough to find. Let’s see the one Roger made for us.”
Mickey opened his briefcase and took out a hand-drawn page and laid it over one of the other maps. Jeff leaned close over it, nodding approval.
“Roger wants you to swing over the water around Chetumal,” Mickey said, “then turn south-west just south of the city. He said you can use the VOR but to remember they have radar. When you enter Belize, you’ll see two rivers north of several lagoons that dump into the bay. Just stay between them. The bigger one to the north is on the Mexican border, and it’ll almost lead you right to the place. With Roger down there, we won’t be using the ham radio, so you’ll need to get close.”
“What kind of approach does he want?”
“Land to the west, take off to the east. That’s the fastest, but if the winds change you can take off west, but east is more likely.” Jeff gave a confirming nod and put Roger’s map in his flight case. “You already know the way home,’ Mickey continued. “Without a radio, we’ll have to do a tail check in Ohio. We’ll let them know your departure time via the message service, and they can do the same for the boys at the Ranch.”
There was a coded knock on the door and Mickey opened it to let in Billy. He saw the maps and smiled.
“Looks like we’re getting closer to the fun part,” he said.
“Then the work,” Mickey said. “Roger wants you to refuel the wings while they’re loading. You’ll have one man to help and you need to do it fast, before you do anything else.”
“And when you finish that, dump ten gallons of oil in each engine.”
“How can I check the level when the engines are running?” Billy asked.
“Never did a radial gig before, have you?” Jeff asked kindly.
“Just jumpers in a Twin Beech, and other people did the wrenching then.”
“With radials, it’s always better we have too much than not enough,” Jeff explained. “Them puppies’ll be working hard when we leave here, and coming off that strip, if she doesn’t have enough, ooh doggies, gonna be a short trip, but if she has too much, she’ll just spit it out the overflow. A little messy but it won’t hurt anything.” Billy nodded and smiled at the lesson.
“Thanks, man,” he said. “That’s something I’ll never forget.”
“My pleasure, pardner,” Jeff said, and pointed to a box full of rubber hoses and clamps.
“And now for the next lesson,” he said. “Turning those parts into fuel lines.”
After they built the fuel line, they went shopping. Mickey bought two large coolers at a liquor store while Jeff and Billy went to a grocery store to buy food. Jeff grabbed coffee, water, pre-made sandwiches, beef jerky and other snacks. Billy loaded up on chocolate cakes and cream pies.
“We’re not going on a picnic, pardner,” Jeff said. Billy frowned, then put the sugary stuff back and picked up trail mix, crackers, sliced cheese and a few apples instead. Jeff added two cartons of cigarettes at the checkout counter, prompting Billy to smirk.
“You think that’ll get you through the trip?” he asked.
“On top of what I already got, probably,” Jeff replied seriously. Billy rolled his eyes in wonderment at the news.
The men went outside and found Mickey dropping a $20 bill into the Salvation Army pot for luck. Jeff nodded approvingly.
“Always good to make a deposit in the karma bank,” he said.
Back at the motel, the pilots packed their coolers with ice, drinks, and food, and lounged around watching the Weather Channel, waiting for Mickey to finish his final calls at a nearby pay phone.
When he walked in the door a while later, he watched with them for a few moments, then took a deep breath.
“This is it, guys,” he said, “Sugar Time. Let’s make a final call to Flight Service and get going.”
As Billy and Jeff climbed off the beds, Jeff cocked an eyebrow at Mickey.
“One thing, Santa,” he said. “Lose those chains before we get to the airport, and be sure to smear some grease on your jeans or something, okay, pardner?”
“Good idea,” Mickey said, lifting the gold from around his neck, chastened. “Sorry about that.” Nearby, Billy smiled when he saw that he wasn’t the only one getting instructed by Blind Jeff who seemed to see everything.
It was sunset when they drove in the back gate at the airport in the truck with Mickey’s 55-gallon drums covered by a tarp. Jason was waiting as they rolled up to Sugar Alpha in its spot between two other DC-3s.
Mickey and Jason started loading the drums into the plane, wincing at the occasional metallic “boing” when they bumped an empty barrel against the door frame. At this end of the airport, they risked discovery only by airport workers, but any airport worker would instantly know what they were up to, so they worked as fast as they could without making too much noise.
Meanwhile, Jeff and Billy inspected Sugar one more time before the light faded to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. Jeff checked the oil levels and, as he expected, found each side about ten gallons low.
“Want me to fill them now?’ Billy asked from the ground. Jeff shook his head.
“Not yet, pardner,” he said, his breath puffing blue in the frigid air. “Oil’s still in the room, staying warm. We’ll pour it in when we’re ready to crank.”
“And make the start easier on the engines,” Billy finished, nodding in admiration at Jeff’s savvy procedures. “Dude, you think of everything.”
“Try to,” Jeff said, and winked at Billy.
Next, the four of them worked together to move the external wing tank from Jason’s truck through the cargo door, then Jason drove and Jeff pulled the aircraft door shut.
“So far, so good,” Mickey said, puffing a blue breath of relief into the cold cabin.
“Okay,” Jeff said as he surveyed the tank, barrels and fuel lines. “We use the wing tank as the primary container, and as it drains, Billy will pump the drum fuel into it.”
Billy frowned at the stewardess station built against the cockpit bulkhead.
“You said you wanted it right behind the seats,” he said to Jeff, “but this stuff’s blocking it. What are we gonna do about that?”
“Nothing,” said Mickey. “Just butt it up against there. It’s not that much farther. It’ll be fine.”
“Says the guy who’ll be sitting on the ground,” said Jeff with a smile. “Nah, it needs to be as close as possible to the fuel splice because the fuck-up factor increases geometrically every inch farther away it is, right, pardner?” he said, shooting a knowing glance at Billy, who had direct experience with the concept.
“Fuckin’ A,” he said. “If that’s what Jeff wants, that’s what we’re going to do.” Mickey laughed and slapped Billy on the shoulder.
“Spoken like a true co-pilot,” he said. “We’re going to make a fucking team player out of you yet.”
“Hey, fuck you,” Billy said, but he smiled proudly at the praise.
Jeff inspected the cabin side of the wall, then abruptly tore the thin paneling off to expose the aluminum framing. He sized up the tank and marked out a section of the wall three feet from the floor, his cigarette tip casting an orange glow on his face every time he took a drag. He pointed his flashlight beam at the marks.
“Cut it on those marks,” he said to Billy. Billy stared at him blankly.
“With what?” Jeff handed Billy a hatchet.
“Here ya go, pardner. Get a little practice with the ol’ can opener in case we stuff ’er in the trees and gotta use it.”
“You got to be kidding.”
“Thought you told me you knew about fire. Unless you’d like to be toasted, you better be able to use one of these things. In most crashes, you’re too messed up to pull yourself through the roof hatch, the access door behind the seats is next to the props, and this here tank’ll be blocking the back door.”
“Damn,” said Billy, holding the hatchet limply in his hand. “That’s a fucked up thought.”
Jeff took back the hatchet, touched it to the top right corner of the mark and sliced through it with a short quick chop, then used a hacksaw to cut through the rest of the wall, sending sparks flying in all directions. Soon he made a crude but substantial opening, and they slid the tank through. Jeff then went to work building a cradle for the tank from 2x4s and secured the rig using cargo straps.
Mickey and Billy went back and moved the empty drums forward against Jeff’s customized bulkhead and fastened them together with steel bands. They anchored the system to structural attachment points on the wall and floor while Jeff rigged up the fuel lines. Then they tidied up the plane, Jeff re-locked the aircraft door, and they left to have the customary “last supper.”
After they finished eating, Mickey dropped the pilots off at the motel, then drove to a pay phone and left a “waiting for your invite” message on Roger’s service. Now everything was done, so he returned the truck to the rental place, then took a taxi back to the motel, wound up like a tight spring. Billy was already asleep. Mickey hoped he could get a few winks too.
At 4 A.M. on December 22, the three smugglers arrived at Hogan Air, the rental car packed with the pilot coolers and bags, and 20 gallons of warm oil. Jason greeted them as he unlocked the company gate, then went back into the hangar. They proceeded to Sugar Alpha and Jeff began his preflight routine while Mickey and Billy put the gear in the plane, then removed the wheel chalks, added the warm oil to each engine and rotated the propellers to coat the oil on the frozen cylinders. Jeff did a final walkaround, then signaled Jason with his flashlight as Mickey climbed up on the right wing.
Moments later, the fuel truck slowly rolled towards Sugar Alpha and stopped behind the right wing. Jeff handed the hose up to Mickey, who quickly topped off the tank, handed the hose back to Jeff, surveyed the airport and hopped down.
At the same time, Jason moved the truck around behind the left wing, near the cargo door, and Jeff handed the hose to Billy. At Jeff’s signal, Jason increased the tanker’s idle speed so Billy could more quickly fill the wing tank and 55-gallon drums. As Billy closed the last fuel cap, Mickey climbed onto the left wing. Jeff took the hose from Billy and handed it to Mickey, who quickly topped off the left wing too. He handed the hose back to Jeff, surveyed the airport again—and gritted his teeth.
“Fuck!” he muttered, staring at the airport security car that was driving their way. “We got company.”
Mickey hopped down from the wing and helped Jeff quietly pull the cargo door shut, then waited tensely as Jason reeled the fuel hose back onto its spool. One glance inside by the security officer would expose them and the whole operation just moments before takeoff. Mickey waited tensely, but somewhat confidently, glad that Jeff had told him to remove his telltale drug dealer gold.
Jason saw Mickey’s tension and laughed.
“Chill, dude,” he said. Mickey laughed.
“Chill? I’m fucking freezing.”
“Exactly, man,” Jason said. “It’s too fucking cold for him to go snooping around. Betcha twenty he doesn’t even get out of the fucking car.”
“You’re on,” Mickey said.
Sure enough, the security officer stopped next to Jason and Mickey at the side of the fuel truck and rolled down his window.
“Hello Jason,” greeted the officer. “Good thing you fixed the heater.”
“No shit, Harry,” Jason said. “Hate these early fuelings but hey, that’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
“Yeah, right,” laughed Harry. He glanced at Mickey. “You got a heater in that thing?”
“Sure do. We’d be ice cubes in an hour if we didn’t.”
“Good thing. Well, stay warm and have a good flight, sir,” said as he rolled up his window and drove away.
“Fuck me,” said Mickey as he handed Jason a twenty and rapped on Sugar’s cargo door. “All clear.” The door opened and Jeff peered out, eyes alert.
“No worries, man,” he said. “Totally casual. Dude even called me ‘sir.’ Grab my briefcase, will ya?”
Jeff handed the briefcase over as he and Billy climbed out and all of them joined Jason in the warmth of the fuel truck’s heated cab, and drove back to the hangar.
“How do you want this billed?” Jason after they’d piled out of the truck and went into the hangar office.
“Make it out to cash,” Mickey said.
“That’ll be one thousand, nine hundred seventy nine, and we can forget the cents.”
“Here you go,” said Mickey as he laid four $1,000 dollar stacks of twenties on the counter.
Jason’s eyes bulged as he picked up one stack and thumbed quickly through it, then glanced sharply at Mickey.
“This is a lot more than two grand,” he said quietly.
“Wish it could be more, pardner,” said Jeff, as Mickey walked over to a pay phone in the hangar waiting area. “You’ve been a big help.”
“Wow,” said Jason, still in shock at the size his payday. “Thanks, man.”
“Just remember one thing, pardner,” Jeff said, then took a drag on his cigarette. “Don’t flash the cash.” Jason nodded vigorously.
“No problem, man. I’ll be cool.”
Over at the pay phone, Mickey dialed their message service and picked up a positive message from Mike and the final confirmation from Roger, and hung up with a smile.
“Wendy’s expecting you for lunch,” he said to Jeff as he rejoined the pilots.
“Okay,” Jeff said, turning to Billy, “take a final pee and let’s go.”
“Thanks again,” Mickey said to Jason as they shook hands. “Maybe we’ll see you again some time.”
“Hope so,” said the mechanic. “You guys are real gentlemen.” Mickey grinned.
“Well, I don’t know about that. We just try to be fair.”
When they got back to Sugar, Mickey watched from behind the pilot seats as Billy held a flashlight so Jeff could see while he purged the air from the lines. In a series of spurts, the aviation fuel bubbled out and then flowed in a steady stream. Jeff accidentally splashed some on his arms when he replaced the connection.
“Want me to light you a smoke?” Billy asked, smirking.
“I’ll take a rain check until this evaporates,” Jeff said, smirking right back. “But thanks for asking, pardner.”
Satisfied that everything was ready, Jeff moved forward and arranged the pilot’s station with maps and a blanket for his legs, then poured himself a cup of steaming coffee from their large thermos. Billy followed Jeff’s cue, placing his sleeping bag so he could lean on it, and pouring himself a cup of coffee too.
Mickey watched Jeff start his pre-start checklist and knew it was time to go. He stuck his hand between the two pilots.
“All right, gentlemen,” he said, recalling Jason’s words, “it’s Sugar Time!”
Jeff and Billy both clasped their inboard hands over Mickey’s and grinned at him.
“It’s Sugar Time!”
And with that, Mickey walked through the sloping cabin and out the cargo door. He latched it securely, then looked at his watch. It was five minutes after five.