Ford struggled upon hearing the information, feeling like his world was crashing around him. It reminded him of hearing about Wu’s cancer, and for the first time, the pressure of recovery in his Walter Reed hospital room, all at the same time.
“Grace. He’s… he’s backstabbing us? In public, he says he wants the base open, but in private, he’s working to close it?” His heart was racing, and it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest cavity.
Charlie looked at her in shock.
Emily leaned over to hold Ford’s hand and tightened her grip as Ford sat stunned in silence. He glanced over the bar for a moment, then down at the table in front of them. For the first time in years, his eyes welled up, feeling the betrayal. Why would he close our base? He felt immense loss and pressure, wondering now if the mishaps were being blamed on him in Washington. He wanted to do his Wim Hof breathing, as he’d performed so many times during meditation, and returned to look back at the oak wood framed bar.
Stay calm.
The combination of the apprehension of his past missions and status as a commander were taking a toll on him tonight. His long-term changes to his central nervous system and brain were just getting used to not having booze. When Ford drank, his body received an unnatural amount of dopamine, known as the reward pathway. His drinking connected to his GABA-A receptors in his brain, producing inhibitory effects, which made him less anxious. It made him feel good, and since he knew that, Ford was tempted to do it when the pressure was on. This emotion-brain connection was what made functioning alcoholics like Ford want to return to drinking. Things could be changing tonight.
Ford’s eyes locked on the bottles of whiskey behind the bar, ones he had not looked at in detail in quite a while. The green bottles with yellow labels. Ones with bluish caps and fancy labels. The short, stocky ones. He saw clear glass bottles – he loved drinking from those the most, holding them in his hand, impressed with the intricate design. The beautiful golden liquid inside that gave him that burning sensation he missed so much. And now, he felt it deep inside his core. The urge. The urge to taste it one more time. I need a drink. It was the urge he had not felt in years since recovering from his mishap in the Himalayan Mountains. Recovering from surviving for four months in the worst outdoor elements known to man. Close to losing Emily for good. The urge to want to put back some bourbon and whiskey… just a taste. Something.
Ford stood and walked away from the table for the bar, looking up at the large antique rustic hand-hewn beams that supported the ceiling.
Charlie shot Emily a puzzled look as if to ask, “Where’s he going?”
A moment later, Emily got up from their table, followed Ford, and stood a few feet behind him watching to see what he would do. He stopped short of the bar as he replayed in his mind seeing co-pilot Pinky’s helmet and brain matter, destroyed after slamming into the side of the airframe from a previous mission. Her eyes frozen open as she hung forward in her crushed cockpit seat straps.
Like a laser, he focused at the stunning brown-gold liquid in the clear bottle with the white label, sporting a slight grin. Moving his eyes then to the darker bottles with black and gold labels. More shapes of good-looking glass with liquid inside just sat waiting for someone to consume.
Just one, then I’ll stop. Promise, Ford said to himself, as his pulse increased.
He stepped forward, reaching in his jeans back pocket for his wallet, ready to do an irreversible act Ford knew he shouldn’t be doing.
She moved her hand to rub his neck as she had so many times before. “Ford, mate. No, don’t do it. Fear not. We’re not getting trollied. It’s all right, we’ll get through this.”
Ford had tears streaming down his face, and wiped them with his hand. No one was looking, but Emily moved him off to the side near the television side of the bar. The smell of burgers went by as a tray of food passed them inbound to a table.
“Em, I can’t do this any longer.”
He paused. Drinking glasses and dishes were heard being banged around behind the bar, as wait staff were hustling around them working.
“The base. The mishaps. My brother possibly being involved and… and… he doesn’t even know the extent of it,” Ford said, shaking his head. “That’s it.”
“Luv, what do you mean, that’s it?” Emily asked, rubbing her hand on the abrasive stubble of his face. “It’s ok, you love to fly. You can-”
He had his hand up and was rubbing the bridge of his nose, swallowed, then turned to look at her.
“Em, I’m… I’m out. I quit.”
Chapter 29
Tonawanda Indian Reservation, New York
There was an energetic atmosphere as the tribal leaders gathered around for discussion at a house on the Rez, known among them in code as Grandma’s House. Hosted by their leader Daniel Parker and assisted by Graham Rockwell from the northern New York tribes, they were all assembled tonight to discuss their business finances for the month.
“We got two more items to bring up tonight, now that the money is settled,” Ray told them, looking at his laptop. “First, we gotta talk about the feds. Like, what happens if they get wind of our current businesses. Something we haven’t talked about in a while, right? No one present has said anything about strange things going on… wiretap detection. Surveillance. Yo, the shit that’s gotten us all locked up in the past. RICO, man. Second, we need to start doing some planning for the casino.”
Like commodity traders on Wall Street, they reviewed their take in revenue from tobacco, drugs, prostitution, car parts, breaking and entering, illegal gambling, and more, but did it by raising their voices at each other. Their inventory control was pretty good, as was their accounts receivable and payable, but their sit down and talk nice skills were lacking. The leadership spoke as they went around the table, raising their voices over each other to make their points. A normal month of income was sporadic, but this past month was refreshing, and Ray kept as quiet as he could out of respect for his uncles.
Ray assisted in running the numbers for the elders, ensuring that the tribes’ accounting was balanced for each reservation. Members from many of the territories and reservations were present, including Cattaraugus, Allegheny, Onondaga, and Oneida, representing their affiliations. Also included were their Canadian brothers from the “6 Nations” Reservation, known as “6 Nay,” located in Grand River, Ontario, just to the west of Buffalo. The members of 6 Nay were also part of Ray’s monthly accounting meetings, of course, taking into account their Canadian dollar conversion. But their presence was more important than that, as it was strategic in nature.
The threat of competition from the Canadian Motorcycle Club Chapters was growing in strength and numbers, as they were always looking to expand their presence and territory, and having brothers on the U.S. side of the border continued the peace. The Motorcycle Club criminal activity, such as drug trafficking of meth, cocaine, and fentanyl, in addition to money laundering and human trafficking, was in direct competition to the natives. The toxic combination of drugs and guns was the Club’s specialty, always able to provide stolen shotguns, rifles, and handguns to their customers. While the natives did not run in the illegal arms circles that much, 6 Nay knew enough to have their brothers across the Niagara River close by as a precaution.
So, Ray kept one set of books on the laptop computer in a spreadsheet, convinced that even the FBI couldn’t break the encrypted password. He knew enough about cybersecurity and how encryptions worked from studying security architecture, critical security controls, incident response, and digital forensics. No way FBI hackers were going to penetrate his system. Ray felt comfortable doing it like this, interested in cyber after learning how Treasury agents took down gangster Al Capone for tax evasion. It was about the financial records. The numbers.
Daniel nodded and agreed with Ray. “Yeah, Ray, you’re right. We’ll do what we can to take care of our families i
f that happens on your first topic. RICO. But unless we get caught doing the job, your laptop protects us. I don’t know nothin’. Of course, you guys do what you want, but cash is king. Keep it all in cash.”
Graham looked disappointed as he shook his head. It was well known that Graham did not like small talk and wanted to get right into cash and casino talk because he always did his work in cash. He spoke up.
“Daniel, yeah, we know. Cash, you always tell us that. But Ray, let’s talk dough with the Cadillac job,” Graham said, with others leaning in to hear the details. “And I don’t trust your Cowboy.”
Cowboy was a nickname for a rookie correctional officer in prison or some other powerful person that wasn’t liked or trusted at first because they were new. The nickname cowboy spelled backward was ‘yobwoc,’ also known as “young, obnoxious bastard we often con.”
Ray laughed, considering all the quiet time he had in the joint to generate ideas.
“Some or most of this owista we’ll get for this casino and hotel job will come from the feds. The money, like federal grants. My boy Bruce will hook us up. Some of our other tribes will want to invest. But we’ll need to come up with some additional Benjamins that we don’t have just yet.”
“So, what, the deal is over? We’re out?” Graham asked.
“Nah, no, Uncle Graham. What I mean is shadow banking,” Ray said.
“Shadow banking? Don’t get it.”
Ray huffed quietly under his breath out of respect but needed his uncle to understand the situation better. “Shadow banking is under-the-table loans. Off the grid. No regulatory oversight headache. Old school loans are from a bank. Shadow banking is from outside of them traditional banks. Borrowed from, say, our Italian friends in downtown Buffalo. They get a piece of the action. We get a piece of the action. End of the day, we get a hotel and a casino.”
Graham looked like he was on the fence, not sure about it upon hearing the money plan and rubbed his chin.
“We’re the Red Kings, Ray. And Daniel,” Graham said, nodding at his area of the table and pointing at them. “Emphasis on red, right? Us natives? The Buffalo crime families are untrustworthy, and they ain’t red. Don’t they have FBI coming out their asses?”
One of the older tribal members had a hard time hearing yet again, the gentleman that was ignored from time to time. He heard the letters FBI and sat up. “Not going back to Green Haven. Screw the FBI!”
One of the other leaders told him things were fine, just talking, and he settled down. His hand went up to adjust his hearing aid.
Ray nodded and understood Graham’s point. “I’ve read the Annual National Gang Threat Assessment from the Justice Department. New Mexico and Arizona tribes are taking a lot of heat. Read the news reports for the Buffalo Federal Building, and them feds are consumed with terrorism and border protection. So, they aren’t paying attention. It’s opportunity knocking,” Ray said.
Ray wondered if he should show them a web video or maybe a movie on borrowing money for a big project like this.
Ray continued with his sales pitch. “Look, as we said before, we know everyone. If we don’t choose the Italians, you’d have to go to somebody else. We have other friends that got shadow banking, too, if you want, down in New York City. Big time up in Montreal,” he said, pausing. “Or, as a last resort, we go to K-Town.”
Indian Reservations were held in federal trusts and couldn’t be leveraged for traditional bank loans the way a real estate developer might obtain a loan to build a Las Vegas hotel and casino. A Mohawk Reservation called Kahnawake First Nation Reserve, known as “K-Town” and located near Montreal, Canada, would be able to provide some funding for the Haudenosaunee.
Daniel pointed at Ray with his pinky and index fingers. “Ray, we trust you. We know what you’re doing is good. For us. All of us.”
The other leaders agreed with Daniel, nodding, giving their continued approval.
Ray nodded and was grateful for the support. “Last thing. I’m going back down to D.C. tomorrow to see my boy, Brucie Anderson. He doesn’t show me some action, like real soon, I’m going to give him a chin check.”
U.S. Capitol Subway System, Washington, D.C.
The underground subway system had tracks between the three Senate office buildings and one of the four House buildings, beginning operations in 1909. In use today, a two-track electric line with an open-topped car allowed members, staff, and escorted public to ride the rails. During an upcoming vote, only members could use the subway system, visibly identified by their House Member lapel pin. A tangle of walking tunnels rarely used by the public could also save time when it was crucial, such as during a jam-packed schedule. Because it was inside the entire time it functioned, even today’s rain would not affect its performance.
Bruce was in a hurry to prepare for his presser and separate House vote on a Foreign Country Policy and Support Act, so he was alone while waiting for the next car to become available. Scanning his phone in one hand and holding folders full of proposed legislation and BRAC talking points in the other, his head was down, and awareness to his surroundings was nil. The upcoming press conference on the Niagara Air Base dominated his thoughts as he reviewed defending the base, their interagency missions, and the people of western New York.
He saw that the subway had arrived and boarded alone in his car. He sat and opened his paper folder, reviewing the numbers for total troop strength, number of aircraft, and contribution to the local economy. Someone else got on and joined him.
“Hello, Brucie,” the voice said.
Bruce looked up to see his face, and was puzzled.
The subway car was pretty silent, unlike the D.C. Metro or New York systems, and off they went down the track with the two passengers.
“Yo, how’s things going, homie?”
Bruce was confused by the way Ray appeared. The congressman looked left and right to see if the U.S. Capitol Police were around, checking to see if others might have seen them together.
Ray’s appearance had indeed changed. Getting a haircut, he removed his ponytail for a shorter look and removed his earrings. He had flesh-colored bandages covering the tattoos on his fingers. For clothing, he bought a navy-blue suit at a second-hand store, in addition to a pair of older brown oxfords. The shirt and tie he found were the perfect fit. Wearing a tan overcoat that was covered with rain drops, he fit right in among all the other business professionals on the Hill. Stiffs, as Ray thought of them.
“You numskull. You come and see me in D.C. at work? Do you have any idea how many cameras are monitoring us right now?”
“I’m a constituent, congressman,” he said, waving his hand around. “Coming to check up on my representation. This here’s a great country, ain’t it?”
“Jackass. What do you want now? I’m hosting a press conference in a few minutes.”
The subway car left the station and was auto driving on the track now, leaving them to talk in private. The short ride would give them just enough time to catch up.
“I’m checking up on you, yo. Making sure you’re following through on your end of the deal. And if you’re screwing it up, well, I’m going to hit you so hard on your chin that you’ll be having your food through a straw.”
Bruce shook his head, then held up his folder as if to demonstrate the work Ray was referring to was right there in his hands.
“Working on it right now. Presser scheduled for later today for me to keep the base open. Got a friend on the commission that told me he’s closing it.”
The subway car passed a tour group full of visitors walking alongside the track.
“I want proof.”
“Come on, Ray. What do you want, the deal in writing? They are having public hearings soon, then recommendations after that.”
“Then you better text me the draft of what the commission’s recommendations are.”
The tram stopped at the station in front of a large crowd. The tourists were whispering because his congressional pin was visible, recognizing he was a member.
“Don’t come to my presser,” Bruce said in a low tone.
Ray stared back, emotionless, thinking of guys like Bruce he met back in jail. “Threaten me like that one more time, and you can forget drinking through a straw. We’ll just start with Janice having that accident,” he replied, holding up his phone. Ray then leaned in real close to Bruce’s ear and whispered, just like he did back in the Big House. “Get it finished, or you’ll be Three Knee Deep, yo. Final warning, June Bug.”
Chapter 30
Niagara Falls Air Base, Niagara Falls, New York
Ford and Emily had gotten home last night from the restaurant and had a long talk about his situation. She quietly convinced him not to quit or leave his position in the squadron, knowing that it was something he loved to do. Emily reminded him of how much he’d been through, that he was a fighter and survivor, and could push through his troubles. She also added that their baby needed him to continue to be strong, despite these setbacks. Over the course of an hour, Ford realized Emily was right. Ford also realized that he didn’t need alcohol again to deal with his issues, and they went to bed in agreement. Tomorrow was another day.
Meanwhile, Zeke and the mishap investigator team were busy that morning on the hangar floor, picking away at the airframe evidence. Wearing hooded disposable overalls, the kind that zipped up from the waist and were tight around the wrists and ankles. Some of the men were huddled around what remained of the aircraft engines, all kneeling on towels rolled into long tubes to alleviate the soreness of being in that body position for so long. Large floodlights illuminated the area, tilted over their heads and the hangar floor like an iron construction crane.
One of them had tweezers in his hand, holding up an odd material. So did two other investigators, continuing to pull fragments of something, making a small pile of items on a plastic baggie. Tucked behind the turbine blades on the outer casing seemed to be more of these items, but without a laboratory observation under a microscope, they wouldn’t know what it was.
The Buffalo Pilot: A Ford Stevens Military-Aviation Thriller (Book 3) Page 16