THE RETIREMENT PARTY
With the acquisition phase complete, Roger shifted gears into Phase Two—what he called “DC-3 school.” He had his work crew arrange bales in a semi-circle of seats around Weed Mountain for a pre-op briefing. He did this before every flight to make sure everyone was on the same page, but he knew from Rudy’s own lack of knowledge about aircraft operations that he could safely assume no one on this crew had done an airplane gig besides Eddie and him, so he wanted to conduct a thorough briefing.
He started with an overall view, sketching a DC-3 diagram in the dirt with a stick, then adding a map of the highway section they would use, complete with the curves for the road blocks. Then he used his stick as a pointer, with Rudy standing next to him to translate, even though most of them spoke at least some English. He wanted to make sure they understood every word.
“The aircraft will land from the north, which is this direction, then slowly taxi up and stop at the quarry road,” he said, then watched their eyes as Rudy translated. When he finished, Roger banged the stick along the forward edge of both wings on the DC-3 drawing.
“The area in front of the wings is the Death Zone. The propellers on the engines will kill you instantly and you cannot see them. So do not go in front of the wings for any reason.” He paused while Rudy translated.
“I will tell the pilot where to stop,” he continued, “and I will park him so the plane door is even with the truck.” While Rudy translated, Roger looked at Eddie. “Your job is to help the co-pilot re-fuel as soon as possible in case they have to make a quick departure. The co-pilot will hand out four containers of oil, and we’ll have one of the fifty-five gallon drums on each side of the pavement to top off the mains. Just do what he tells you and when that’s done, fill in where you’re needed.”
“Got it,” Eddie said, “and if it’s okay with you, I want to hear the rest of this so I know the whole show.”
“That’ll be great, man,” Roger said with a grin. “Sure is nice having a good hand along.”
Roger then assigned each man a position for the loading, with himself inside to handle the stacking and three others inside to pass him the bales in a bucket-brigade system. He delegated Rudy to supervise the men throwing the bales from the truck through the door, and for his cousin Armando to back the truck gently up to the threshold.
“When the plane stops and I open the door, my three assistants board with me,” he said to Rudy, Armando and Junior, “but Armando, you must wait until I signal you to back up because there will be several empty fuel drums we need to throw out before we can load. All right?”
“Yes, Mister Roger, I understand,” Armando said, focusing intently on Roger.
“Now keep in mind,” Roger continued to all of them, “the engines’ll be running the whole time so it’ll be very loud and there’ll be a strong wind, so it will be confusing and hard to communicate. Everything that comes out will blow behind the tail, and I want you guys, Armando and Junior to gather it all up. This is a professional operation—we don’t leave evidence. Pile the trash way off the road and when the truck’s empty, load it in there. All right?”
“Yes, Mister Roger,” said Junior. “No one will even know we were here.”
“All right,” Roger said, “one more time. Rudy, I’ll give you the backup commands. Junior, you sit in the cab and relay your dad’s commands to Armando. Armando, go slow. Take your time and make sure you don’t hit the plane. Say it to me.”
“Go slow, take my time, don’t hit the plane,” Armando repeated.
“One more time the last part.”
“Don’t hit the plane.” Roger grinned and patted Armando on the shoulder.
“Just keep saying that to yourself as you back up and you’ll be fine,” he added. “All right,” after you’re all in place, keep the bales pouring in unless we tell you to slow down. Got it?”
“Got it,” Rudy said.
Roger walked over to the workers he’d assigned to inside duty and shook hands with each of them.
“Hermes,” he said to the biggest one, “since you’re the strongest, I want you to take the bales when they come in the plane and throw them as far forward as you can to your brother.” He looked at the man next to him. “Francisco, when you get them, you do the same. Try to work out a rhythm with each another because it’ll go easier that way. We’ll have to move them sixty feet at first, then less as we fill it up.” He looked at the final man. “Ted, the pilot and I will grab the first few bales and stack them behind the cockpit seats. Then you start carrying them to us so we can arrange things properly. We want to put the heaviest bales and most weight in the front. All right?” The men all nodded soberly. “Final thing. Don’t work too hard, and don’t go too fast. This is a long race not a short one, so pace yourself and let me know if you need a break.”
Roger sent the inside crew off to eat and rest, and turned his attention to the remaining three of his ragged but increasingly well-drilled crew. He went over their instructions with them, and deliberately left Rudy out of the conversation so that they’d pay closer attention, going over each Indian’s duties until he could recite each step back to Roger without hesitation.
When he was satisfied with their answers, he organized a simulated loading and critiqued their work, then had them repeat it until their efforts were almost as coordinated as a Freak Brother 10-way launch. Almost. When he was satisfied, he dismissed his loading crew for the night and turned his attention to the roadblock team: George and Manu, plus two of the sharpest Indians, Jose and Fernando. He picked up his marking stick again and walked with them to his highway map.
“Jose, Fernando, the north will mainly be sympathetic growers,” he said, pointing out the location of their roadblock, “so I want you to pass out cold beers and ten-dollar bills. If they start complaining, give them another ten. We want to make it a big happy party on that side because when we’re finished, we have to leave that way and we need a friendly path to get through. All right?”
“Sí, Mister Roger,” they said together. “We will get it done.” He nodded his approval and turned to George and Manu.
“Our biggest risk is from the south,” he said, “because that’s where the police and army are, and there’s no culvert to keep people from driving around the roadblock. If anyone gets through, they could block the runway and keep the plane from taking off—which means your job is second only to the pilots, all right?” He looked at them sternly. They nodded. “That’s also why I’m putting you two there,” he went on, “and the more vehicles you can pile up, the better the blockade. If the police come, it’s up to you to see they pay more attention to you than getting past you and going up the road.”
George and Manu traded glances, then grinned at Roger.
“We will give them an adventure that will keep them busy all day,” George said confidently. Roger nodded and then they worked out some basic radio codes, and he sent them over to Weed Mountain to get some rest.
Roger found his soft spot on the back side of the mountain and went over his plan again and again, looking for holes, thinking if he’d missed any tricks. He couldn’t think of any, but he realized he was distracted a little by the nearly full moon that brightly lit the jungle. Smuggler’s Moon, it was, and he smiled as he thought of the boys at The Ranch being able to work under that moon when the load arrived tomorrow night. He also remembered that his father had jumped under that same moon the night before D-Day, from a C-47, the military version of the DC-3.
He glanced at his watch. Less than an hour before Sugar Alpha’s planned departure from Ohio, where Jeff and Billy were no doubt freezing their butts off as they got the old girl ready to roll. He walked around the front of the mountain and found Eddie.
“George and I are going to Orange Walk to confirm the launch. Get as much sleep as you can, all right?”
“You woke me up to tell me that?” Eddie joked. Roger chuckled at the jest and climbed into George’s truck, waking the snoring Belizean when he shut the door.
“Let’s roll,” he said. George smiled and started the engine.
In Hamilton, Ohio, Sugar Alpha was fueled and idling on the tarmac when Roger’s confirmation came through on schedule. Jason drove Mickey from the hangar to the plane and Mickey saluted Blind Jeff, who saluted back, then advanced the throttles and taxied to the end of the runway. Moments later, it rolled.
Mickey held his breath as the heavily-laden old airplane slowly gathered speed, then broke free of the ground, both engines humming steadily, and skimmed low over the rest of the runway in ground effect as it accelerated.
“Hell of a pilot,” Jason whispered at Jeff’s airmanship.
“That’s why they call him Blind Jeff,” Mickey said proudly. “He can feel an airplane better than any man alive.” They watched the big bird disappear into the darkness, then Mickey frowned at the dashboard. “Is there something wrong with that fucking heater?”
Inside Sugar Alpha, Jeff puffed away as he held the big wheel between a thumb and forefinger, feeling her for the change that told him to reduce power and trim her for the climb to cruising altitude. A few moments later, Sugar sent her message and he slowly eased the throttles back and adjusted other controls as though they were part of his own body. Then he slapped Billy Bob on the shoulder and grinned around his cigarette.
“She’s purrin’ like a kitten, pardner,” he said. “Tell our buddy on the ground we’ll see him tonight.”
“O-kay!” Mickey exulted when he received the coded message as they sat in the idling car inside the hangar. He pumped his fist and Jason grinned. Mickey checked his watch. “Now, on to the next airport.” Jason drove out of the hangar at headed for Columbus so Mickey could fly to Tulsa and hook up with the ground crew.
At sunrise on Thursday morning, the crew tore down the camp and loaded up the big truck. Roger directed them to load the fluffiest bales first so they’d be the last off the truck and last onto the airplane.
“Harder to drive with the heavy weight in the back,” Rudy protested.
“And impossible to fly that way,” Roger explained. “You want the least weight in the tail or she won’t even get off the ground.” Rudy pondered that for a moment, then nodded his understanding.
Blind Jeff had switched to internal fuel after he’d leveled out at cruising altitude and now, over northern Georgia, the big rubber tank behind the seat was half empty.
“Okay, pardner,” he said to Billy, “time to start cranking the organ grinder.”
“It’s gonna be cold as fucking hell back there,” he complained. “Why can’t we use more from the wing tanks?” Jeff smiled patiently around his cigarette.
“Long trip across the pond and that’s a pretty poor place to learn she ain’t nursin’ off our bottle.” Billy’s eyes bulged with the shock of understanding.
“Fuck,” he said flatly. “If I’d’ve done that when I flew my gig, I wouldn’t have ended being shark bait.”
“Funny how that works, eh, pardner?”
“No shit,” Billy said, and slid between the seats into the cabin, making sure he didn’t bump Jeff’s cigarette as he went. Moments later, Jeff heard fuel pouring into the rubber tank as Billy cranked the hand pump on the first of the 55-gallon fuel drums.
As the last bales were loaded on the big truck, Roger sent scouting vehicles in each direction to report on police activity. Twenty minutes later, both vehicles were back, their spotters waving upraised thumbs out the window, and moments after that the big truck heaved onto the highway and started its seven-mile journey to the gravel quarry.
Roger had already sent some of the crew ahead to set up a defensive perimeter and chop out a cozy spot for the truck. When the truck arrived, he took a few minutes to do one more practice backup with Rudy, Junior and Armando.
It was a good thing they did; with real obstacles around them, Armando was a little twitchy on the controls and skinned some bark off a tree when he stopped an instant too late. Roger went up to the cab and leaned into Armando’s face.
“You do that to the plane and we’re screwed,” he said coldly. He let that sink in to the terrified young man’s brain, then punched him lightly in the shoulder. “So next time…”
“Be more careful,” Armando said. Roger nodded and held up a finger.
“And the way you be more careful is to relax. It’s easy if you relax, all right?”
“All right.”
“Good man,” Roger said. “Now get with Rudy and Junior and put as much of this chop on the truck as possible. Cut more if you have to.”
Next, Roger took Eddie, his roadblock teams and some of the loaders back to the highway, where he had them all watch as he repeated his earlier measurements, pacing the distance to obstacles on each side of the highway, re-figuring all of the dimensions both for his own peace of mind and so that they would all understand better what exactly would be happening—and why. He checked his watch.
“All right,” he said to the loaders, “we have about three hours to get this runway ready, so let’s cut every tree and trim every branch that’s inside the wing clearance area.”
The loaders went to work and Roger took Eddie and the two roadblock teams up the long straightaway and around the large gentle curve to the strategic choke point on the north end, where Roger showed them the best spot to place their vehicles and they reviewed the plan one more time.
On their way back, Roger stopped a thousand feet from the northern bend, where Eddie and he painted several chevrons on the blacktop, then drove a half mile further down the road and painted a three-foot-wide white strip across the highway to mark the touchdown point. There was almost no traffic, so the task went uneventfully, but the few cars that passed streaked the fresh paint with their tires.
They dropped Jose and Fernando off to help the loaders with their tree trimming, then went to the south curve. Roger had just started blocking out their vehicle positions when another Harrier roared down the middle of the highway 25 feet over their heads with an ear-splitting scream. They all ducked and covered their ears and Roger watched the jet bank around the corner and disappear.
“Holy shit,” shouted George. “Are we busted?” Roger stared after the plane, remembering Gillette’s words about the British rules of engagement, and his own aviation experience.
“Pilots,” he muttered. “Always giving me a heart attack one way or the other.”
“Yeah, like you didn’t do the same thing a few months ago,” Eddie said, grinning.
“Huh?” Roger frowned, puzzled.
“I heard about Rosa, man,” Eddie said admiringly. “First thing anybody says about you, man—Señor Huevos Grandes.”
“Except for her family,” George added. “They call him Don Corazon Grandes.”
“Fits even better, man,” Eddie said softly, bowing his head slightly. “Chief Big Heart.”
“Anyway,” Roger said, changing the subject, “I hope that was just another yahoo jet jock scaring the monkeys. At least he was low enough that he probably couldn’t even see into the quarry when he went by.”
“He’ll know what those markings on the road are, though,” said George.
“Don’t remind me,” said Roger, and they went back to work planning their most critical ground operation.
Sugar Alpha had left U.S. soil and crossed into the Gulf of Mexico about 8 a.m., the candy cane-colored plane adorned with eight-foot-high Firestone letters on wings and fuselage gleaming brightly in the warm sun.
“Man, are we lucky to have weather like this,” Billy said as he peered out the window at scattered puffy clouds that accented the deep blue sky. Jeff lit another cigarette and exhaled forcefully. The smoke bounced off the windshield and drifted back into their faces. Billy wrinkled his nose at the smell.
“Well, pardner,” he said, “if we’re really lucky, it’ll turn to crap with lots of thunder and lightning so we ain’t such an easy radar target on the way back.” Billy chuckled and shook his head.
“Man, you think of everything, don’t you?”
“Try to, pardner,” Jeff said. “Easier to stay alive and out of jail that way.”
As Sugar Alpha’s estimated arrival time approached, Roger put everyone in position, still hoping that the latest Harrier episode was as innocent and unconnected to their activities as the first one had been. He tried to soothe his own nerves by repeating to himself what he’d said the day before to Tony.
He stood with Eddie on the side of the quarry road wearing fatigues, dark glasses, and skin-tight black gloves. He noticed that Eddie was bare-handed, so he pulled a pair of batting gloves from his pack and handed them to him.
“No sense leaving your prints all around,” he said. Eddie nodded and put on the gloves without comment.
Then Roger thought he heard the lumbering sound of distant radial engines. He cupped an ear in anticipation. Eddie grinned.
“That’s not it,” he said. A moment later, Roger discovered that the sound he heard was only the rumble of bad tires on an approaching truck. They melted into the bush until it passed, then Roger checked his watch.
“Any time now,” he said. “Any time.”
Blind Jeff had masterfully navigated the Gulf to the Yucatan Peninsula with only a compass. When the shoreline appeared in the distance, he grinned at Billy, who had pumped all the drums dry and now sat again in the right seat.
“Land ho!” he announced, smiling like Columbus discovering America. They hit the peninsula at Cancun and passed over the isle of Cozumel before they received a weak radio signal from Chetumal. Jeff dropped down to 200 feet and flew over the water until he got to Belize, then followed Roger’s directions to the north side of Orange Walk.
“Our pardner sure knows how to lay out a flight plan,” he said admiringly. “I’d say it’s time we give him a call.” Billy nodded and keyed one of the handhelds.
“Someone lookin’ for a date with Sally?” he asked.
“Say again, Southern Star,” said Roger into his radio, thinking it was George who had called.
“I say again, is someone lookin’ for a date with Sally?” said a voice that Roger suddenly and happily realized was not George. He heard the engine noise in the background and adrenaline rushed through his body.
“You betcha!” he said. “The party is rocking!”
“Copy that,” Billy said formally. “We’re ten out of O.W.”
“Copy ten,” Roger said and spoke into his ground radio. “Close the north door. I say again, close the north door.”
“North door closing,” came the prompt and clear reply. “Last car through was two minutes ago, a blue pickup truck with two guys in it.”
“Copy blue pickup,” Roger said. The truck passed him within a minute and he turned to Eddie. “That’s your cue. Good luck, man.” They shook hands and while Eddie directed the loading crew to roll the fuel drums to the highway shoulders, Roger called George.
“Close the south door when the blue pickup goes by,” he said.
“Copy blue pickup,” came George’s quick reply. Roger gestured to Rudy to have Armando move the truck into position.
“South door closed,” George said.
“Copy south door closed,” Roger answered as Armando stopped the truck gently. He searched northward for Sugar Alpha’s familiar outline and found it just above the treeline. He smiled and took a deep breath, reveling in the rush of it all. This was living!
“Okay, we got you,” Billy said. We’re two out lookin’ right down the alley.”
“Copy two out and we have you in sight,” Roger answered. “Be sure to make it a straight-in. No go arounds.”
“Copy straight-in only,” came Billy’s reply as Eddie rejoined Roger.
Time stood still and so did the crew as they all watched in amazement as Blind Jeff wafted the massive machine toward the narrow highway.
“Damn,” said Eddie in wonder. “Doesn’t look nearly that big at the airport.”
Sugar Alpha seemed to hang motionlessly in the air as Billy lowered the flaps and dropped the gear. Jeff lined her up perfectly on the narrow road, and stuck the mains to the new asphalt with a gentle squeak and a puff of white smoke. The tail dropped gracefully and Jeff taxied the proud bird down the road, main wheels tracking perilously close to the soft shoulder on either side.
“Excellent job, man,” Roger said appreciatively on the radio, as he walked onto the highway to guide Jeff to his stopping place.
“Anything less, pardner, and we’d be picking trees out of our teeth,” came the sardonic reply.
Sugar Alpha’s wings barely cleared the nearest trees and dragged through some of the taller bush. The engine roar vibrated everyone’s teeth as Jeff taxied closer and Roger tried to will its wheels away from the shoulders as he guided the plane to a stop. He and Jeff traded big grins, then Roger’s faded as he saw Eddie come toward him so fast he almost forgot about the propellers. Roger frantically gestured him clear of the invisible death and moved toward him.
“The plane scared your inside loaders!” he shouted above the engine roar. “Only the three guys at the truck are left.” Roger glanced under the wing at Rudy, who gestured helplessly. “Want me to go round them up?” Eddie asked. Roger shook his head and ducked under the wing, pulling Eddie along so he stayed a safe distance from the props.
“Screw it! We don’t have time.”
They reached the cargo door as it dropped open. Billy handed out the oil to Eddie, then hopped down.
“Make it like a pit stop,” he shouted to Billy over the prop blast and engine noise. “I need you guys to help inside as soon as you’re done.” Billy saluted, and he disappeared under the belly with Eddie.
Roger jumped aboard and started flinging drums out the door beyond the horizontal stabilizer, trying to make up for the lost help. He grabbed everything that wasn’t fastened down and threw it into the prop blast—the retaining bands that held the barrels in place, the control locks, everything. Jeff walked casually down the sloping cabin, puffing a cigarette, clearly in a relaxed mode after his intense landing.
“You call this a runway, pardner?” he asked, not noticing Roger’s frenzied actions. “I’ve eaten noodles wider than this.” He chuckled and looked out a window at one wing. “The green stains on these white wings are gonna match the brown stains in Billy Bob’s shorts, don’t you think?”
Roger ignored him as he waved the truck back, then signaled Rudy to stop it. Rudy signaled Junior and Armando stopped perfectly within two feet of the fuselage, and Rudy set rocks on either side of one rear tire, the bales started flying. Roger caught the first one and heaved it forward without looking. Unfortunately, Jeff was lighting a fresh cigarette and didn’t see it coming and the 50-pounder hit him square in the face and knocked him flat on his back.
“Get out of the way!” Roger roared as Jeff rolled onto all fours as more bales flew over his head and started groping around on the floor.
“Gotta find my glasses, pardner.”
“Forget your glasses and help me! Sugar scared half our help into the jungle, so we’re short-handed.”
“Can’t fly without ’em, pardner,” Jeff said calmly as he kept looking. Roger froze in his tracks, then gestured for the unloaders to hold up for a moment and scanned the floor for the fragile wire rims, hoping they weren’t buried under the weed. Roger found one shattered lens and mangled frame with the other lens still in it and handed the pieces to Jeff, who got out of the way and put them in his pocket just as Armando climbed inside.
“Rudy said I should help,” he said. Roger glanced at Rudy and gave him a thumbs up, then turned his attention back to Armando.
‘Stand about there,” he directed, pointing out a spot. “When I throw the bales to you, you toss them toward Jeff and he’ll arrange them.” Armando nodded and Roger turned to see that the doorway was full of bales. He tossed them to Armando, then helped him lug the pile to the forward cabin.
“Don’t be steppin’ on my fuel system now, pardner,” Jeff cautioned the young man, “and leave me five feet on either side of it.”
“Sorry, Jeff,” Roger said. “This stuff is too bulky for that. Just show me what you gotta have, and let’s fill ’er up.” Jeff complied by standing over his precious hoses and valves like a mama grizzly protecting her cubs—a mama grizzly that smoked like a chimney.
“This’ll do,” he said. Just fit ’er in around me and we’ll be good.”
With sweat pouring down their faces, Roger and Armando packed bales into every available inch around Jeff. When they finished and turned back to get more, Roger discovered that Billy and Eddie had finished refueling and were now slinging bales deep into the fuselage, Eddie at the door, Billy 20 feet inside. With Armando filling the last link in the chain, Roger resumed his original job of packing the bales together like a puzzle until they had only a narrow aisle down the middle.
Then he started filling the aisle to keep the load from shifting on takeoff and Billy balked.
“Hey, man,” he almost whined, “you gotta leave us an escape path.”
“How much is left?” Roger shouted to Eddie.
“A bunch!” Eddie shouted back.
“Let’s add more on top,” Roger said, deferring to Billy’s concern.
They tired and their pace slowed, but still they worked. Roger saw Jeff lounging in the cockpit, smoking and trying to fix his glasses, but he didn’t even consider asking him for help; Jeff needed to stay as fresh as possible for the long flight home to a nighttime landing in a hayfield with no lights.
The load hit the ceiling on both sides, so they filled in the aisle to chest height.
“Dude, please leave us a crawl space at least, wouldja?” as Roger added more to the aisle pile. Roger glanced at Eddie, who just shook his head and gestured that they had still more to load into the small remaining space.
“Yo Jeff,” Roger shouted up to the front, and his pilot squinted through the tiny tunnel at him. “Ten minutes before liftoff.”
“Okay, pardner,” Jeff said. “Billy, come on up front and let’s get ready.”
“In a minute, I gotta help leave a tunnel.”
“Kid,” Jeff said evenly, “if we go down, our only hope is the ol’ can opener anyway, so come on, let’s go.”
“But shouldn’t I check the CG and—”
“Enough, Billy Bob,” Jeff said sharply, using his co-pilot’s insulting nickname, “get on up here and let ’em do what they gotta do.”
“Thanks for your help back here,” Roger said warmly to soften the blow, “we’ll take care of it from here.” Billy looked at him with fear in his eyes, then climbed through the narrow space into the cockpit, while Roger and Eddie filled the empty gap to the top.
“Man,” Eddie said, “She’s packed so solid that if she crashes, she won’t even bend out of shape.”
“Yeah,” Roger added with a black death grin, “she’ll just burn like one colossal doobie.” They laughed for a moment, then looked out the door and saw ten more bales still on the truck.
“You gotta be kidding,” Roger said, “we still got five hundred pounds left.” He turned and surveyed his remaining space.
“What do you think?” Eddie said, wondering how they could possibly fit that much weed into that little open area left by the door.
“I wanted to keep this area clear for CG purposes,” Roger said, talking more to himself than Eddie, “but like Jeff said, we gotta do what we gotta do.”
“Good thing Billy’s not back here,” Eddie grinned, then gestured for Armando to toss them the next bale.
At the north roadblock, Jose and Fernando presided over a party. The score of drivers stopped there had left their vehicles and were drinking beer together, laughing and telling stories. Each new arrival received a $10 bill and a beer, and most joined the party.
Things were not so friendly on the southern end. There, George and Manu faced several furious businessmen that he knew from Orange Walk and who weren’t interested in beer or money but in getting through. He would placate one with his story of a terrible accident ahead, and of officials flying out the dead in helicopters, but as soon as a new person showed up, they would all get agitated again.
“The hell with you!” one said finally. “I will just go around you. You can’t stop me.” He got in his car and started the engine. George and Manu traded glances and knew they had to act quickly. Manu jumped into the passenger seat, turned off the engine, yanked the keys from the ignition and jumped out of the car.
His action prevented the car from going around, but it was still too late. The driver of an olive drab, military-looking bus right behind him saw his opening and gunned his vehicle around the roadblock onto the grass. It tipped high up on two wheels as the downhill side sank into the road berm, but it miraculously stayed upright and the driver steered it back onto the highway and all four wheels and disappeared around the corner. George jumped into his own truck and started the engine, then shook his fist at the assembled drivers.
“I will ram the next man who tries to go past me, so just stay put! It will only be a little longer.” His threat, along with the near-crash of the bus, settled down the crowd enough that no one else tried to run the roadblock.
“Man,” said Manu, “now I know how those cops feel when we run their checkpoints!” George smiled grimly but he kept his eyes on the crowd.
Roger had filled every nook and cranny with the remaining half ton. The size of the load amazed him. It even filled the bathroom and cargo space in the tail. Never had he seen a DC-3 stuffed to capacity; he couldn’t even stand inside—and he still had one bale left.
“Can she still take off?” Eddie asked as he marveled alongside Roger.
“Oh yeah,” Roger said. “We’re still way under gross. It’s a matter of space, not weight because there are no seeds or dirt weighing down the bales.” He studied the situation, then grinned at Eddie.
“Not leaving it behind,” he said, “so move the truck, then we’ll shove it in.” Rudy and Junior stood on one side of the air stairs, Eddie and Armando on the other. Roger placed the bale on the door and grabbed hold of the door edge.
“All right,” he said, flashing his famous grin, “on the count of three. One… two… three . . .” they all pushed together and, like shutting an overstuffed suitcase, they held the door closed long enough for Roger to throw the latch. They took a brief moment to admire their work, then Roger pointed to the clutter around the door.
“Load that stuff in the truck and get it clear of the plane,” he ordered and everyone jumped into action. Satisfied, he ran around the wing into Jeff’s field of vision feeling completely exhausted, but he felt better the instant he saw him slouching nonchalantly in the cockpit, elbow sticking out the window, mangled glasses perched precariously on his face, one finger of his right hand holding them in place. Roger gave him a smart salute, which Jeff returned with a smirk—but rather than running up the engines, he calmly pointed his cigarette down the road.
Roger followed his point and his mouth fell open as he spied the approaching bus. He thought about driving the truck ahead of Sugar to clear the way, but he knew he’d never get around the wing—so instead he calculated the distance to the bus and deemed it enough to try, and waved Jeff onward. His pilot stayed put, so Roger gestured more emphatically down the road, this time adding a one-finger salute for Jeff.
Jeff grinned broadly at that, tossed his cigarette out the window and slid it shut. Roger ducked back under the wing and out of the way.
Inside the cockpit, Jeff grinned at Billy, who sat rigidly in his seat.
“I don’t want to crash again, man,” Billy wailed. “Twice is more than enough!”
“Relax, pardner,” Jeff chuckled. “We’re a hell of a lot bigger than they are. Now hold my glasses in place, wouldja?”
Billy reached across the cockpit and awkwardly held Jeff’s broken glasses in place. Jeff’s freed right hand eased forward on the throttles and Sugar Alpha’s big radial engines thundered into full roar, kicking up a blinding storm of dust and debris, peppering the ground crew with stinging particles. They shielded their eyes from the gale as Sugar reached full power and Jeff released her brakes.
Roger knew Jeff would lift the tail level with the nose as soon as he could to lessen the aerodynamic drag and, right on cue, he did. He hoped they would clear the bus as he saw Sugar Alpha pass the abort point and he saw her wheels lighten. Roger saw the bus screech to a stop and its occupants pile out of the doors. They ran off the road into the bush just as Sugar lifted off and her gear retracted—and then stopped climbing three feet off the ground. Roger felt sick and unconsciously started running towards the impending wreck—then stopped short and smiled grimly.
“Ground effect,” he said out loud and waited to see if Jeff could pull it off.
Inside Sugar, Jeff looked past Billy’s arm at the looming bus, feeling his co-pilot’s rising tension.
“Relax, pardner,” he said, “just keeping her on the cushion to build speed faster.”
Billy didn’t respond; he sat frozen, one hand on Jeff’s glasses, the other helping Jeff keep the throttles maxed out. Then Jeff chuckled.
“Guess those bastards didn’t wanna play chicken after all. Look at ’em scatter!”
The bus loomed larger in the windscreen, and at the last moment Blind Jeff pushed slightly down on the wheel and then back up a little more and used the air cushion to bounce the plane up and over the bus.
“See how I did that, pardner?” Jeff said as if he’d just demonstrated a loop to a private pilot student. Billy sagged in his seat and his arm fell limply to his side. Jeff grabbed his mangled glasses before they fell off his nose.
“You crazy motherfucker,” Billy muttered.
“Most likely,” said Jeff, “now I gotta set my glasses down for a piece here while I trim her up, so make sure I don’t fly into any hillsides for a couple of minutes, will ya?”
Billy sat up abruptly and started watching out the windows.
Down below, Roger shook his head in joy as Sugar Alpha blasted down the road and then climbed clear of the jungle. He keyed his radio.
“Dude, did you really have to cut it that close?”
“Just thought I’d teach ’em a lesson about driving on a runway,” came the laconic reply. “Figured it’d help slow ’em down from comin’ your way too.”
“True enough,” Roger said. “Thanks and bon voyage.”
Roger quickly forgot about the airplane whose fate was now out of his hands and turned his attention to the end game on the ground. He saw his crew finishing the site cleanup and getting aboard their vehicles, so he keyed his radio again.
North gate, south gate, let them through. I say again, north and south, let ’em through.” Then he jumped aboard the truck and they headed north, refreshed by the cooling breeze of their passage but still dead tired and dirty, hungry and thirsty.
Roger and Eddie looked at each other soberly, then grinned, then laughed out loud and slapped hands to celebrate as a line of cars flowing south passed on their left. At the site of the former roadblock, they found a group of peasants still partying. They happily waved bottles of beer and cheered them on as they passed.
“One step closer to freedom,” Roger said, as they turned into their camp to hide the truck until things cooled off. Roger and Eddie climbed into Rudy’s station wagon and drove to Orange Walk, where Roger stopped at a phone.
“I left Sally at the party at one-fifteen and she was looking good,” he said to Mickey’s message machine. Then they went to Rudy’s house to guzzle water, shower and change while Junior burned all of their loading clothes.
“Thanks for everything, Rudy,” Roger said as they embraced. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I look forward to our next adventure together,” Rudy said, holding him at arm’s length.
Then Roger embraced Junior.
“You became a man in the last three days, son,” he said, looking him in the eyes. “I’m proud of you and I know your dad is too. Remember all that you have learned.”
“Thank you, Mister Roger,” Junior whispered, and his eyes grew moist. He wiped them quickly, but Roger smiled.
“It is a mark of manhood when you can cry at such things,” Roger said, and smacked him hard enough in the shoulder to stagger him slightly. “See you around.”
George then drove Roger and Eddie south and by late afternoon they were sitting in George’s truck near the airport, waiting for their final flight to the States.
“I want to make sure you understand,” Roger said to George. “I don’t have any hard feelings. In fact, after dealing with Rudy, I realize how good a man and manager you really are and I look forward to seeing you again. You really know your business, but when the first gig went bad, Rudy was there for me and I gave him my word, so things worked out the way they did. Always remember, one man doesn’t make it alone; it takes a team that can work together. If you always treat your people right, you’ll never regret it.”
“Roger, why do you speak like this?” George asked, frowning. “It sounds like you’re dying.” Roger put his hand on George’s shoulder and smiled sadly.
“Not dying, just getting to the end of this business.”
“No, you’re just tired,” George protested. “You have a great thing going here. You had to work day and night to put this load together. You wait. You will feel differently with a good rest, my friend. You will see.”
“Maybe,” Roger said, “but nothing lasts forever, and a wise man gets out when times are good. Someone I respect very much once said we can go until we get caught, or pick a point and quit. I like the last option best, and when I do quit, everything I leave behind becomes yours. The trade is coming to Belize. If you keep your group together, you’ll have the best operation in the country.”
“I appreciate all that,” George said, humbled, “but without a connection like you, one I can trust, it’ll never be the same.”
“Well, I haven’t finished yet. I still have at least one more commitment to honor.”
“Another big one like this?” George asked, his eyes shining at the prospect.
“No, the logistics are too complicated for that,” Roger said, shaking his head. “No. It’ll be something we can do out of Progresso, fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds.”
“Is that ours?” Eddie asked, pointing to an inbound jumbo jet. Roger checked his watch and nodded. George drove them to their usual dropoff point at the terminal traffic circle and they climbed out of the truck. After Roger shut the door, he leaned through the window and smiled at his long-time business partner.
“Always remember, my friend, never let money interfere with your morals or forget how humble it was before we met.”
“I will remember, Roger,” George said, and they shook hands again. Then the two Americans entered the terminal and George drove back to Orange Walk.
Sugar Alpha had angled across the Yucatan Peninsula after leaving Belize and hit the Gulf near the Bay of Campeche, then crossed the 500 miles of water between them and landfall somewhere near the Texas-Louisiana border.
About two and a half hours after last seeing land, they approached the ADIZ boundary and, instead of identifying themselves, Blind Jeff gave Billy an advanced lesson in evasion. He dropped below the tops of the off-shore oil rigs and skimmed the waves, cruising under the radar. As the sun touched the horizon, they dodged occasional obstacles and spotted the scattered lights of civilization right on schedule. A dark band of rain clouds along the coast helped cover their entry and, as rain spattered the windscreen, they zoomed over a line of trees. They were back in the States.
“Man, are we lucky to have weather like this,” Billy said, recalling his words on the flight out. He grinned at Jeff, who now looked kind of silly with his broken glasses duct-taped to his nose. Jeff lit another cigarette and exhaled forcefully. The smoke bounced off the windshield and drifted back into their faces. Billy wrinkled his nose at the smell.
“So far, so good, pardner,” he said, “and if we’re really lucky, we’ll lose these squall lines and have CAVU all the way to the Ranch.” And with that, he pulled back a bit on the wheel and climbed to a less stressful cruising altitude and grinned at Billy. “No sense playing tag with the trees any more. If we show up on anybody’s radar now, we’re just ordinary domestic traffic.”
When Mickey got to the Ranch around sunset, he’d left the Bushman by the entrance as lookout, then discovered to his satisfaction that Mike and Dave had already scouted the area again on foot, looking for any changes or unusual activity. He placed them at opposite ends of the field to operate the runway flares, supervised the placement of the lights, reminded them to keep one eye shut when they lit them to save half of their night vision, then parked at the anticipated stopping point.
They waited at their leisure in eerie silence. Even the moonlit night seemed to hold its breath, the stillness broken only by Mickey’s occasional radio checks. Mickey stayed alert, but Dave and Mike rested as much as they could, dozing between radio calls.
“Sally… party… minutes,” said a faint voice on Mickey’s radio speaker. He checked his watch; it was 9:30 p.m., right on time for their scheduled 10 p.m. arrival.
“Copy Sally’s coming to the party,” he replied. He keyed his other radio.
“Nap time’s over, boys,” he said, and started going over his pre-landing checklist in his mind.
At one end of the field, Dave ripped loose the velcro of his black gloves and refastened them as tightly as possible, then smeared streaks of camouflage paint on his face and tightened his butt pack. On the opposite end, Mike readied his flares and flashed a red beam to confirm that he was set. Dave mirrored the signal a moment later. Mickey saw them and keyed his radio twice in quick succession. They were ready.
“Ten minutes out,” came Billy’s call after they’d waited for what seemed to be an hour. Mickey made sure his 100,000-candlepower spotlight was near at hand and its cigarette lighter plug in clear sight. Dave took a deep breath and peered around him at the black and white moonscape, searching for enemies he wouldn’t see until it was too late anyway but doing it because at least it gave him something to do while he was waiting. At the other end, Mike took a deep breath too and resumed his semi-napping state, building up his energy for the whirlwind of action that would commence in a few minutes.
“Five minutes out,” came Jeff’s voice over the radio, the change from Billy signaling that the wild ride was about to begin.
Mickey’s adrenaline surged as he heard Sugar Alpha in the distance and estimated her location.
“You’re about two miles east,” he radioed.
“Copy two miles,” answered Blind Jeff.
Mickey listened to the radial rumble fade back to silence as Sugar continued on without changing course. Much to Mickey’s relief, the silence lingered; no one was following her. He keyed his radio.
“Sally’s coming to the party alone, see you soon.”
“Copy,” came the clipped reply.
Mickey plugged the spotlight into the cigarette lighter as soon as he heard Sugar rumbling again and peered into the moonlit sky trying to see her. He thought he saw blue exhaust flame but when he blinked and looked again, it was gone.
“Hit me one time,” Jeff’s voice drawled over the radio and Mickey flicked on the 100,000-candle power light.
“How ’bout that,” Jeff chuckled. “Right on line.”
Mickey stared above the treeline two fields downrange of the landing area and saw Sugar Alpha’s whiteness shining grey in the moonlight, two points of blue exhaust flame flickering on each engine.
“Come to Daddy, Sugar,” he whispered to himself. “Come to Daddy.”
Inside Sugar Alpha, Blind Jeff pulled back the power a bit and keyed his radio as they descended toward the barely visible ground.
“Let me have another blast.” A moment later, a point of light flared from the middle of their target field. “Give me a notch of flaps,” he said without looking at Billy.
Billy reached between the seats and held down the lever until it read ten degrees. Jeff bled off more airspeed by holding their altitude.
“Gimme another notch,” he told his co-pilot and as Billy again held down the lever, Jeff keyed his radio. “Okay, man, light ’er up!”
Down below, Mickey felt his heart race as he keyed his ground radio.
“Light ’em up now. Light ’em up now!”
Dave and Mike fired their flares and tossed them inside their jerry cans, Mike carefully keeping one eye closed as the burning magnesium cast out great pools of light, exposing their outlaw operation to any passersby. Dave forgot until he looked away from the flares and saw nothing but spots and darkness.
“Dammit!” he hissed.
Mickey’s temples throbbed as he watched Sugar Alpha grow bigger in his field of view, oddly silent as it wafted in on idling engines.
“Lookie there!” said Jeff as he saw how perfectly they were lined up. “Now ain’t that pretty.” He reached up with one hand and pressed the duct tape holding his mangled glasses in place to make sure it would hold if he landed hard.
Billy remained silent, staring at the ground that filled the windscreen from the steep, gliding approach, hand poised near the flap lever.
“Full flaps,” Jeff said. Billy instantly toggled the lever and Sugar slowed and pitched down even more steeply as the fully-dropped flaps bit into the air. “Okay, pardner,” Jeff said with a warrior’s smile. “Here we go.”
Dave stood at the runway threshold night blinking into the sky, willing his eyes to recover from the flare when Sugar Alpha appeared right in front, so low he was sure she’d hit him. He dove to the ground but still felt the wind of her passing ruffle his hair and clothes.
“Fuckin’ A!” he exclaimed joyfully as he remembered to close one eye and turned to watch the big black silhouette merge with the ground. He jumped to his feet and, still keeping one eye closed, dumped the flares out of the can and buried them in the dirt. When he opened his closed eye, he saw Sugar’s tail settle onto the ground, her white skin shining brightly in the moonlight.
“Sure didn’t need to put cammo on my face, that’s for sure,” he said out loud to himself as he grabbed his jerry cans and climbed into his pickup.
Mickey had marked the unload point with a flashlight. Jeff parked Sugar’s nose right over it and shut down.
Mike heard the rumble cease. A dog wildly barked somewhere nearby as he threw his jerry cans in the truck and drove to the offload point, where Mickey guided him back into position near the door, then grabbed the latch. It wouldn’t budge.
“What the fuck?” Mickey muttered, and tried again. No luck. “Mike!” he hissed. “Gimme a hand.”
Mike joined him and pushed on the door while Mickey yanked on the latch. Still no luck.
“Great,” said Mike as Dave stopped and climbed from his pickup.
“Help us push on the door!” Mickey whispered urgently. Dave instantly complied and with the added muscle, they relieved enough pressure on the latch for Mickey to turn it.
The door exploded outward and buried them in sweet-smelling bales.
“Holy fucking shit!” Mickey whispered triumphantly as they crawled free of the weed avalanche and stood up. They pumped vigorous double thumbs-up at each other for a brief celebratory moment, then got to work.
They filled the pickup in less than three minutes and Dave hopped in the driver’s seat so they wouldn’t have all of their weed eggs in one transportation basket.
“Don’t forget to give the Bushman updates until you’re out of range,” Mickey reminded him as he cranked the engine.
“Will do, he grinned. “See you tomorrow.” Then he bounced slowly across the field without headlights, happy for the Smuggler’s Moon light that made it easy to see where he was going. He even spotted the Bushman as he reached the road and accelerated smoothly away from the landing area, turning on his lights and flipping a toggle switch under the dash to reactivate his brake lights.
“Well, let’s hope no uninvited guests come to the party,” he said to himself as he scanned the road ahead and checked his rearview mirror for any sign of DEA or local cops racing to the scene. A few minutes later, he radioed the Bushman.
“So far, so good,” he said.
“Cool,” said the Bushman, not one for standard radio protocol.
Back at the landing field, Mike had backed the rented box truck up to the door under Mickey’s direction and they quickly hurled bales into it, starting first with the central aisle. Billy and Jeff waited in the cockpit until Mickey had cleared a tunnel big enough for them to wriggle out, Billy came first, rushing out of Sugar to relieve himself near the tail. Then he stood and watched Mickey and Mike until Jeff emerged, the ever-present cigarette missing.
“Let’s go, pardner,” he said, nodding to the truck as he too peed into the grass by the tail. “Quicker we’re unloaded, the quicker we quit being sittin’ ducks.”
“You got it… pardner,” Billy said, grinning, and jumped into the truck to catch bales so Mike could stack. When Mickey cleared out enough space to start a line, Jeff climbed aboard and started pitching bales to Billy as Mickey passed them to him.
“This is the fullest load I ever saw,” he said to Jeff. “How much is here?”
“Looks like as much as would fit,” Jeff chuckled.
“Hell of a landing as heavy as she was. Quiet, smooth, no lights. Fucking slick, man.”
“Only way to go if you want to stay alive and out of jail,” Jeff said as Mickey passed him another bale.
The four men emptied Sugar Alpha in less than half an hour. First they filled the box truck and Mike left immediately with it. Then they loaded up the other pickup, and Mickey called the Bushman in to drive it away. The moment they closed the door on the van, Billy jumped aboard Sugar and waved for Jeff to follow him.
“Let’s go, man!” We don’t want to wait another minute!” When Jeff just stood there in the moonlight with Mickey, Billy gestured in disbelief. “What the fuck, man? What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”
Jeff winked at Mickey and looked into the door at his frantic co-pilot.
“Don’t you think you ought to oil up them engines before we go, pardner?” Billy froze as he realized that he’d forgotten that all-important step. He disappeared into the fuselage and Jeff grinned at Mickey. “That’ll keep him quiet for a few more minutes.”
“You tell him you need to sit until the boys get clear before you make noise?”
“Sure did,” Jeff said, still wearing his duct-taped glasses, still not smoking, “but he tends to fergit things he don’t want to deal with.” Mickey chuckled and shook his head, as they watched Billy climb from one fuselage window onto the port wing with two oil containers and tend to the engine.
“How’d he work out for you?” Mickey asked.
“’Cept for the whining, couldn’t ask for any better. He’ll be a good stick if he ever grows up.”
“That’s pretty much everybody’s verdict,” Mickey said as he grabbed a vacuum cleaner from the van. “And when he’s done with the oil, this’ll keep him from talking too much until you’re ready to roll.”
They climbed aboard and Mickey vacuumed while Jeff unhooked the remaining tanks and fuel rigging and loaded it into the van. Mickey followed him out with the vacuum and the remaining fuel system parts. When they entered Sugar again, Billy was already sitting in his seat as Jeff and Mickey walked up to the cockpit on the sloping cabin floor.
“Okay, we’re done,” Billy sniveled as Jeff slid into his own seat, “now let’s go!”
Jeff ignored him and lit up a cigarette. Billy turned to Mickey just as Mickey pulled a .357 magnum revolver from his jacket and pointed it at Billy’s head. Billy froze and turned white.
“Sorry buddy, but Roger told me if we’re going to retire after this run, I had to shoot the pilots and burn the plane.”
“Oh God, oh God, no, please no, please,” he begged, staring at the nightmare hole in the chrome-plated barrel. “Please, I’ll be cool. I’ll forget I ever knew you, I’ll forget everything”—he glanced at Jeff—“we’ll forget everything, right, pardner?”
Jeff just stared at him as he puffed away, then he cracked a grin. Then he started laughing. Mickey laughed too and put away his weapon.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Billy snarled as his companions whooped at his expense. He stared at them in disbelief. “That is not funny, you fuckers.”
“Neither is your whining, asshole,” Mickey said. “We figured that’d shut you up for a minute at least.”
“No such luck, though,” Jeff said as he got himself under control again. He looked at his watch, then glanced at Mickey. “However, it did use up the time. Been about long enough, don’t you think?”
Mickey looked at his own watch and nodded, then shook hands with both of them. Jeff was relaxed and low-key as always; Billy was still keyed-up from his apparent near-death experience.
“Thanks for your fucking excellent work,” Mickey said intently. “See you guys in a while.”
Mickey was still closing up the cargo door when Jeff started up Sugar Alpha for the last time on his watch. Mickey drove to Mike’s end of the runway and parked facing into the field as Sugar taxied back along her landing tracks to Dave’s end and swung around.
“Okay, pardner,” Mickey heard Jeff say on the radio and he turned on the van’s headlights. A moment later, he heard Sugar Alpha roar as she rolled and, with no cargo and light fuel, she was airborne before the unload point and 500 feet above the ground when she passed over his head.
With the engine sounds still rumbling around him, Mickey drove across the field, onto the road, and headed for Tulsa to catch an early morning flight.
About two hours later, Sugar Alpha touched down in Memphis. After her 3,000-mile, 18-hour odyssey, she still had more than 200 gallons of fuel in her tanks. Jeff taxied her to the broker’s office on the general aviation side of the field and shut her down for the last time. When they climbed out and shut the door, Jeff slapped Sugar Alpha’s snow-white flank and smiled lovingly at her.
“She’s a good old girl,” he said to his co-pilot. “Hope she ends up in good hands. She sure as hell deserves that.”
“Can we go now?” Billy whined, looking over at the main terminal. “I don’t want to miss my flight.” Jeff paused to light another cigarette, then looked evenly at Billy.
“Not exactly the sentimental type, are you, pardner?” Billy snorted.
“Dude, I’m in it for the money. A plane’s a plane.”
Jeff shook his head as they walked away from the proud old bird to the broker’s office. Jeff stopped at the entrance and looked one last time at Sugar Alpha.
“A plane’s a plane, all right,” he said without looking at Billy, “except when she’s not.” He saluted crisply and went inside. Half an hour later, Sugar Alpha had a new owner and Jeff and Billy were each $17,500 richer. The broker drove them over to the terminal and within two hours both men had boarded different commercial jets, Jeff for Indianapolis, Billy for Chicago.
Four days later, Roger put together three briefcases full of cash and chartered a Lear Jet. On the way to the airport, he stopped at Billy’s house. They sat at the kitchen table and he listened carefully to the parts of Billy’s Sugar Alpha tale that he didn’t know about yet, then cut him off when he started complaining about Mickey’s .357 prank.
“That ought to be a hint to quit sniveling so much,” Roger said soberly. Then he flashed his famous grin and set a briefcase on the table. He popped that latches and showed him big load of Franklins. Billy gasped involuntarily at the sight of it.
“Eighty-two-five,” Roger said. “That’s your fifty for the gig, plus thirty-two-five for a bonus, plus you can keep the seventeen-five you split with Jeff for Sugar Alpha. One hundred grand total.”
“Wow, thanks, Roger,” Billy said, his eyes glittering greedily. “A couple more of these and I’ll be set for life.” Roger slammed the briefcase shut and glared at Billy.
“You said you’d quit when I did. You break your word to me again, and I’ll let your imagination figure out what will happen. A hundred grand, tax-free. Most people’ll work ten years to clear that much so just chill out and be thankful for what you got.”
“But I’m too young to call it quits, man,” Billy persisted. “We’re on a roll! Why do you want to stop now just when things are getting really good? Hell, I’m ready to get back in the left seat and make some real dough next time. Man, if you coulda seen how Jeff rode the brakes to keep Sugar on the road down there, you’d agree I’m a better pilot.”
That assertion needed an hour’s answer or none so Roger let it slide and just stared coldly at him. Billy got the message and shut up. Roger knew it wouldn’t end there, and he was afraid Billy would become an even worse liability. Like a bad dream, every time Billy did a gig, every time his pile of cash grew, so did his desires—and, worse, his opinion of himself and his skillset. It was probably never going to end, but Roger knew he had to try or have Billy come back and bite him hard later on down the road. He drummed his fingers on the briefcase.
“You keep your word, and you know I’ll call you first if something comes up, right?”
Billy nodded appreciatively. Roger held out his hand and they shook.
“All right, then,” Roger concluded. “Stay cool, don’t flash the cash, get some good investment advice and leave this business alone unless I call you.”
“You got it, man,” Billy said, and clicked open the briefcase and grabbed a pair of $10,000 bundles in each hand. Roger let himself out as Billy smelled his cash and wondered with revulsion if his idiot pilot would roll naked in it after the he left.
Roger got aboard the Lear and flew to Indianapolis, where he met Jeff in a motel overlooking Weir Cook International Airport. He paid off his pilot the same way he had his co-pilot; fee plus bonus, plus he kept his half of the Sugar Alpha money.
“Thanks, pardner,” Jeff said appreciatively. “Mighty generous of you.” With business concluded, they went to a nearby restaurant for drinks and dinner and when their drinks arrived, they clinked their glasses together.
“To Sugar Alpha,” Jeff said.
“Sugar Alpha,” Roger said, and they drank. Roger wiped his mouth and grinned at his pilot. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you could do it.”
“It was a pretty narrow runway,” Jeff said. Roger finished his drink in one long swig.
“No, I mean doing the whole gig without killing Billy Bob.” Jeff grinned back.
“Well, I gotta tell you, pardner, it sure helped my mood when Mickey played his joke.” They chuckled at the memory, then Jeff winked. “On the other hand, Billy wasn’t nothin’ when I consider that you gave me an airplane painted like a neon sign, knocked me half-unconscious after I stuffed ’er on a sliver of road, then ordered me to leapfrog a bus to get home.”
“True enough,” Roger said, “but I knew you could handle all that—I just wasn’t sure about Billy Bob.”
“Gotta admit, he did try my patience a few times, but all told, he graded out okay. Like I said to Mickey, kid’ll be a good stick if he ever grows up.”
“Too bad that’s such a big if,” Roger grouched.
Their food arrived then, and Jeff lit up a cigarette.
“You remember my buddy Jimmy in L.A. I was tellin’ you about?” he asked as smoke wreathed his head.
“Vaguely. What about him?”
“Well, he’s been doing a Mexican thing but he’s having trouble with quality, so he’s not getting much back and what does come back takes a long time. Anyway, I’m finally in a position to invest, and they’re short on cash, so I been thinking pretty serious about getting in.”
“In how?”
“Now, I’m smart enough to know my skills are driving, not putting projects together, so I wondered if you’d consider helping us pull out of Belize. Sure felt comfortable not worrying about Mexican federales and the quality’s top-notch. And, of course, it’d be a single tripper. I just want to roll my money big enough to start that aviation company I’ve been thinking about.”
Roger turned to his food as he mulled Jeff’s proposal. He already had one commitment to keep, and it might be easy to punch Jeff’s gig out along with Tony’s—if he actually went through with Tony’s. He hadn’t made up his mind yet, even if he had given Tony his word. Jeff ate too, waiting patiently for Roger’s reply.
“The thing is,” Roger said after a few bites, “is that I’m not really looking for work.”
“I know, pardner, and I hate asking, especially with all those retirement rumors swirling around.”
“Billy never knows when to shut up, does he?”
“No, he don’t,” Jeff said, “so I know you’re looking for an exit and the last thing you need to hear about is a sweet run, but you got a class act going down there so I gotta ask.”
The waitress brought Roger his next drink and he stirred it until she walked away.
“The biggest problem I have with doing one more is that it’s never just one more. You know how many times I’ve done ‘just one more’? Sugar Alpha was supposed to be the last one—but guess what?” Jeff grinned knowingly. “That’s right,” Roger said in response, “there’s a chance I have some other business to take care of, so if you have your ducks in a row in about a month, it’s a definite maybe.” Elated, Jeff blew smoke at the ceiling.
“Then let’s make it a date, pardner,” he said, and extended his hand. They shook.
“So, what’ve you got going?” Roger asked.
“Jimmy’s talking about a Panther Navajo right now and we’ve got this strip in the Ozarks in the middle of nowhere. I checked it out and it’s nice—similar setup to the Ranch, actually. I mean, if you can put it together, great. If not, we can always do a Mexican. I’d just prefer to a friendlier place and avoid investing in a garbage load if I can.”
“Well, it seems as if you’re thinking about the right things, so I think you’ll come out okay no matter what.”
“Thanks, pardner,” Jeff said, visibly relaxing. “Means a lot coming from you.”
Roger’s next stop was Tampa and Tony, who met him at the general aviation terminal in a snow-white Lamborghini Diablo. When he got in the car, he instantly noticed Tony’s hypnotic stare and grayish-white complexion and knew he was lost in the “world of the pipe.” Tony drove him at high speed to his house, where Roger laid out almost a half million dollars worth of Franklins on the living room table.
“Happy?” Roger asked after Tony had counted the bundles.
“In more ways than one,” Tony mumbled and nodded over toward the steaming cooker on the kitchen stove. “I got a sweet little run in from Grand Bahama. Good quality, too. That place is just loaded with coke.” Roger listened out of habit; new information about traffic or interdiction efforts never hurt—and, as he expected, Tony rambled on. “The run went smooth, and I should get a call for another when word gets back. I’m also expecting a load in Belize.” Roger’s eyebrows arched. “Oh yeah, and I got you a Titan.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that!”
“Yeah, I know,” Tony shrugged, “but I couldn’t let it get away. It’s at the shop right now waiting for the H.F.”
“What do you want for it?
“Well, I was going to use it,” Tony said with a knowing, devilish smile, “but I found another one, an Ambassador really decked out—LORAN, H.F., nose tank, the works. If you take it, I’ll make you the same offer as before. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll deliver it and check out a pilot for you—and you don’t need to pay me until you get the first one in. I’ve got a mechanic looking them over real good; they’ll be ready in about a month.”
Roger pondered Tony’s offer. It was extremely attractive considering that Roger needed a plane to do the load for Tony that he’d promised.
“All right, here’s what we’ll do. I’m not sure I can use it, but one way or the other I can get rid of it for you. Just call when it’s ready and we’ll go from there.”
As Roger winged his way home from Tampa, he felt himself physically deflate. Now that all the Sugar Alpha accounts were settled, he realized how bone tired his brain was, and his body—and his soul. He dozed off for a while, relaxed for the first time in months, maybe even years.
He slept until his aviator’s sense felt the plane start descending, and he awoke with his mind racing. Retirement beckoned, but the promise he’d made to Tony stood in his way. He’d made a deal, and he’d honored every deal he’d ever made. That was the way you got ahead in this business, how you attracted honest, loyal people to work with you, how you lessened your chances of getting busted.
Except none of that mattered anymore because he was quitting. Yeah, he’d made a deal with Tony, but The Snake had burned so many people so many times—especially his long-time friend, Mickey—that maybe it would be poetic justice to blow him off. He knew for sure that Mickey would love it and, besides, Tony had already cleared almost a quarter mil on his investment for doing little more than flying to Belize and back.
Roger had an even better reason to renege on his deal with Tony. He knew Jeanie was truly at the end of her rope and the whole decision really did come down to answering a simple question—Tony or Jeanie?—and that answer was a no-brainer.
Except it was more complicated than that. There was Tony’s offer on the Titan. There was the enthusiasm of his crew to bang out more runs. He hated to admit it but he knew Billy pretty much spoke for all of his guys in not wanting to quit yet. From the growers in Belize to the buyers in the U.S., everyone was ready to scam and the insatiable U.S. market would suck up every last cola.
Then again, Roger knew in his heart that he didn’t really want to do these deals; they were more of a convenient opportunity that he pondered out of habit, not desire or necessity. The lonely motels, the secret meetings, the clandestine communications—none of it excited or even appealed to him any more. In fact, he wasn’t that happy now, even though he’d just pulled off the biggest, most audacious, most lucrative venture of his career—except for the thought that Sugar Alpha really was the last one, that now he really could spend more time with both his long-suffering wife and his too-often disappointed children, all of whom were no doubt asleep as he pulled into the driveway of his darkened home. He turned off the key and looked at the staring windows.
“I want to come home when the lights are on,” he said out loud, and thumped the steering wheel with the heel of one hand. He thumped the steering wheel again. “I want to come home while the sun is still up.” He thumped the steering wheel again. “And I want to come home every… single… day.”
He took a deep breath and went in the house, shutting the door quietly behind him so he didn’t wake up his family.
Jeanie stirred but didn’t waken when he climbed into bed, but tired as he was Roger didn’t sleep. He laid awake weighing his promise to Jeanie and himself against the word he’d given Tony, against the obligation he still felt to his incredibly loyal and capable crew, against the help he’d love to offer Jeff for making his retirement dream a reality—and yeah, even against the challenge of doing what he knew no one had ever done before: a multi-ship extravaganza, one plane after another, all coming from and going back to different places like an airline company, the kind of over-the-top gig that would make Señor Huevos Grandes not only more famous but absolutely legendary. The kind of scam—
Jeanie rolled over and bumped against him, breaking his train of thought. He shook off his musings like a bad dream and delicately slid out of bed. Jeanie didn’t waken. He padded in his pajamas and bare feet first into Missy’s room and watched her even breathing for several long minutes, taking in the lines of her smooth face, smiling at the ringlets falling across her forehead. He stroked her hair and planted a light kiss on that dear little forehead, then went to Rook’s room, where his toddler son slept on his chest, his arms tucked under him, his little rump sticking up in the air, one cherubic cheek smushed again the mattress of his crib, sleeping so heavily he snored slightly. Roger flashed his famous grin at the incongruous sound coming from the tiny body and watched him sleep for several minutes too before patting him gently on the back and walking back to his own bedroom.
He pulled aside the curtain and stared out the window at the moonlit snow sparkling serenely in the yards and rooftops around his cozy little home, the sight and ambiance of it so alien from the jungles and airports and supercharged atmosphere of smuggling. He sighed and, once more, he climbed into bed without waking his wife.
This time, though, he was ready to sleep because he was all done thinking. He knew exactly what he was going to do. The last thing he heard before he drifted off was the sound of a winter breeze whispering around the corner of his house.
Early the next afternoon, Roger, Mickey, Dave and Mike gathered at Café le Cave for their traditional celebration brunch. This time, though, the meeting held much more significance. This time would be the last time. Gus greeted them at the door and offered them their choice of tables. Roger chose one in the corner of the dark, cave-shaped lounge. After the wine steward filled their champagne flutes with Dom Perignon, Roger held up his until everyone at the table grew silent.
“To Hanoi,” he said simply.
“To Hanoi,” the rest of them intoned, and they all downed their glasses in one swig.
Then the appetizers arrived and the feast began, with more toasts, much merriment, and many secret smiles because they couldn’t talk much about the reason for their party in such a public place. But they talked endlessly about everything else, and they feasted like kings, and when the four young smugglers had downed more than $500 worth of food, $1,000 worth of Dom, and a decadently delightful dessert, Roger tapped a fork against his champagne flute until they quieted and turned their full attention to him, both happy and sad to hear what they knew what was coming.
“Sugar Alpha was the biggest, best and absolutely most outrageous gig we ever did,” he said, and held up his glass. “To Sugar Alpha.”
“To Sugar Alpha,” they all intoned raising their glasses with his. He waited until they had once again drained their flutes and refilled them before going on.
“You all share the credit for working like a team and never getting lazy or sloppy, never getting down when things got sticky, never giving up no matter what. It was a first-class operation run by first-class people and we should all be proud of ourselves.”
“Hear, hear,” said Mickey, raising his own glass. “To us!”
“To us!” they chanted and drank again. Roger flashed his famous grin, then turned deadly serious.
“There’s no doubt we did a first-class job, but believe me, a lot of luck went our way, not just with Sugar Alpha but with every gig we’ve ever done and we better be honest enough to admit it.” He paused and watched that sink into the souls of the men around him and he was happy to see from their nods and expressions that it did. “And now it’s time to remember that wise old saying. You have two choices in this business: You can pick a point and quit, or you can keep going until you die or go to jail. I suggest that we all take the wiser of the two. I owe you guys a lot for your loyalty and skill but right now I feel you owe it me to exercise it one more time: Show me your loyalty by giving me your word that you’ll retire with me—and then show your skill by keeping it.”
There was a long moment where no one moved. Then Mickey slowly raised his still-empty flute.
“Deal,” he said forcefully. Mike and Dave raised their empty flutes too.
“Deal,” they said in unison. Roger raised his to join theirs.
“Deal,” he said. “And if you ever feel tempted to go back, come find me at the DZ so I can remind you of the deal we just made.”
They all laughed and pushed away from the table, then walked out the front door of the Cave and said their goodbyes while the valets got their vehicles. Then Dave and Mike left together in Mike’s car. Roger and Mickey lingered for a moment while their valets waited nearby.
“What about that load you were gonna do for Tony?” Mickey asked.
Roger flashed his famous grin for the last time as a member of the smuggling club.
“I decided that it was time The Snake got a taste of his own venom.”
Mickey looked stunned for a heartbeat, then grinned and slapped his partner on the back so hard Roger almost staggered.
“Fuckin’ A!” Mickey chuckled. “Now that’s a fitting goodbye!” They embraced warmly then separated, smiling.
“Enjoy your island,” Roger said.
“Enjoy your family,” Mickey replied.
And with that, Mickey tipped his valet a Grant and drove away in his rental car to O’Hare International Airport.
Roger gave his valet a Franklin, climbed into his old green pickup truck and drove toward his cozy home in his comfortable neighborhood in his quaint little town, the home and neighborhood and town in which he would soon spend more time.
Much more time. During the past month, he’d spent four days at home. During the past few years, he couldn’t even remember how many holidays, anniversaries, birthdays and special family moments he’d missed.
“Not any more,” he said out loud as he pulled into the driveway and turned off the key just as the sun touched the treeline a few yards over. “Not any more.”
He bounded out of his truck and up the stairs, beating the sunset into his warm house and spreading his arms wide for the onrush of two delighted children and a shared smile with his equally delighted wife.
“Honey,” he said to her with finality, “I’m home.”