by Phil Bowie
“The Krag used a black-powder cartridge, so the rifle needed frequent cleaning and every shot gave away the exact location of the shooter. So in 1898 in Cuba Spanish riflemen used their Mausers to easily pick off the smoking Yankees, breaking the assault at El Caney. At San Juan Hill it was the same, with 15,000 U.S. troops against 700 Spaniards. The famous heroic charge was really a slog through deadly Mauser sniper fire, and the Americans took ten percent casualties. They managed to rout the 700 Spaniards only with heavy Gatling gun fire. When they finally built the Springfield rifle they used a great deal of the Mauser design.
“The only thing more stupid than ignoring new technology in weapons is arming troops with known bad quality weapons. Italy has produced some trash. Their standard World War Two machine gun was the Breda Modello 30. It was heavy, just over four feet long, and was fed by twenty-round chargers. The extraction system was so bad it needed an internal oil pump to lubricate the spent casings, and the oil attracted dirt, of course, so it failed constantly. It had no carrying handles so the gunners had to wear heavy gloves to handle it hot in combat. Yet the Italians also produced the Beretta Model 1938A submachine gun. Collectors prize them today as a mechanical work of art.
“The Japanese also produced at both extremes. Their Nambu Type 14 was probably the absolute worst service pistol in history. It was so poorly designed it could accidentally discharge rounds before they were fully seated in the firing chamber.
“In World War One the British had the Vickers machine gun that vented steam from the barrel water jacket, so the clouds of vapor obligingly marked the precise location of the gunners for the Germans.
“They never seem to learn from such incredible blunders. After World War Two, during the race to make fully automatic rifles, while the Russians were producing the Kalashnikov AK-47 and Fairchild was producing the .22-caliber Armalite AR-15, both excellent weapons, the Pentagon, all on its own, came up with the .30-caliber M-14, which was much heavier than the Armalite, and when it was fired on full automatic even a trained soldier couldn’t hold it steady.
“The first troops in Vietnam in 1965 carried M-14s. The Armalite AR-15 was a vastly superior weapon for Vietnam conditions because it had been designed to hose the enemy at relatively close quarters, from 30 to 200 yards, and it functioned superbly in dirty, humid conditions. The Army grudgingly recognized its merits only under extreme pressure from President Kennedy and Robert McNamara. The Pentagon still preferred its own demonstrably bad M-14. Army dogma held that a rifle should be accurate to 600 yards so before they would accept the AR-15, which became the M-16, they demanded modifications that had the effect of destroying its reliability. They insisted on a more powerful powder for more range. The powder was dirty so it fouled the rifle and it increased the rate of fire from 750 rounds a minute to over 1,000, which only aggravated the fouling and also tended to jam the mechanism, so soldiers died with rounds jammed in their M-16s. A number of unmodified AR-15s had been sent to the South Vietnamese in 1962 and they had worked flawlessly. Later in the war GIs bought those AR-15s on the Saigon black market for $600 each to replace their M-16s. When the Viet Cong won a fight they’d strip the bodies of everything and leave the M-16s as worthless.”
Cowboy said, “The same thing happened after the Battle of the Little Big Horn when the Sioux stripped Custer and his men but left their Army-issue rifles behind because a lot of them had jammed.”
Strake said, “The M-16 was eventually improved but how many men were shot while they were working to free up a jammed early model? If I had been in Vietnam I would have thrown my M-16 into the jungle and picked up an AK-47. It’s made now in more than thirty factories around the world. More than forty million have been produced. The essential moving parts are made to close tolerances but everything else is purely functional and cheap. It’s rugged, reliable, accurate, and all of its parts are completely interchangeable, whatever factory they come from. Worldwide, it is probably the most popular service rifle ever built. It’s used in some seventy countries.”
As they drew closer to Atlanta Cowboy was preoccupied with ATC communications, monitoring the aircraft systems during the long descent, and studying the layout for Dekalb-Peachtree airport in his Flight Guide for a final time, and Strake fell silent, looking disinterestedly out his side of the cockpit, absorbed in his thoughts.
Northeast of the sprawling city he entered a downwind leg for Dekalb-Peachtree’s runway two-zero left at 2,500 feet. Working with familiar assurance he armed the autofeather, turned off the propeller synchrophaser, selected approach flaps, reduced the torques to 1,000 foot-pounds per side, and slowed to 170 miles an hour. When he was abeam the runway numbers he turned off the yaw damper, put the gear down, pulled the power levers back to 600 foot-pounds, and banked onto the base leg and then onto final, descending, bleeding off the airspeed to 140 miles an hour, aligning with the runway centerline dashes. As the threshold drew closer he squeezed off another 200 foot-pounds, pushed the prop levers forward, and put down the final increment of flaps.
As the threshold rushed by underneath he started pulling back gently on the yoke, raising his gaze to the far end of the runway for better peripheral vision height judgment. The mains touched down with only a muffled chirp at 90 miles an hour. He let the nosewheel touch down, then pulled back on the power levers to put the props into reverse pitch, the deceleration hefty, and got on the brakes, slowing the big twin down to walking speed in well under a third of the 6,000-foot runway. He retracted the flaps, set the power levers back into forward pitch, swung off onto a taxiway, and guided the plane sedately to the Mercury Air Center, where an attendant directed him to a tiedown. Without comment Strake got up and went back into the cabin. Cowboy went back and opened the stairs.
They all walked into the executive lounge of the fixed base operation, or FBO, and the attendant took their order for fuel. The gun company had sent a limousine to pick them up. Cowboy was prepared to wait at the FBO. Davis pointed a thick finger at him and said, “While we’re gone, take a courtesy car and stock up the mini-bar in the plane.”
After a moment’s thought, Strake said, “No, he’ll come with us.”
Davis looked at Strake quizzically, glared briefly at Cowboy, then shrugged.
At the plant the accountant was left with the company comptroller and two members of the office staff while the CEO and his fawning assistant conducted a detailed plant tour for the rest of the visitors through the offices—the five-person engineering room, the machining and assembly areas, tool and die, inspections, the parts warehouse and shipping, the cafeteria, and the small test firing range.
The tour consumed the remainder of the working day because Strake stopped to ask many pointed and perceptive questions along the way and was not satisfied until he received exhaustive answers, sometimes to the obvious irritation of the gray-haired CEO. Montgomery Davis followed along like a temporarily tame bear several steps behind the group, occasionally aiming a dark look at Cowboy. Because time had run out they were invited to return the following day to hear several planned presentations, and Strake agreed.
They were all prepared with overnight bags. A secretary arranged rooms for them at the Atlanta Hilton and by eight that night they were enjoying a leisurely meal in the Russian four-star restaurant on the Hilton’s top floor, the lights of Atlanta spreading away in an endless glittering carpet below. Cowboy ordered lobster in a wine sauce and found it to be easily the best he’d ever tasted. Twice he caught Davis eyeing him malevolently, but dismissed it. Traveling in this kind of style, he thought over brandy and excellent coffee, was a heady experience and could soon become addictive. Strake did not discuss his views on the company.
They took off late the following afternoon and when they were at cruising altitude Strake came up to take the right-hand seat. He said, “What did you think of the company?”
He was surprised by the question but tried not to show it. He thought for a minute and then said, “I think a lot of their machinery looke
d old and worn. I got the impression they were at the top of the industry once but time and technology have begun to pass them by and they’re still trading on their old reputation. Too slow to update their machinery and systems. Increasing overhead. They seem to be top-heavy with executives, probably all promoted up from the ranks over the years. I think they still put out good quality and have a good name, but I’d bet their profits have fallen off from what they used to be. But I’m certainly no businessman.”
Strake nodded and said, “It’s entirely a family-owned business. The owner is the third-generation son and he rarely darkens the door of the place. It’s a fairly common story. The old man who started the business came up out of the Depression and that made him tough. He put everything into building the business. His son saw what it took, at least, and carried on, though not with the same toughness and probably milking away too much of the profits. His son, in turn, the current owner who couldn’t even be bothered to meet me, grew up expecting the best of everything as his natural right and has bled off most of the profits to get it all for himself and to maintain it, so updates in machinery and systems had to be put off. Couple that with the rising salaries and general overhead, and too many executives, and the business has begun to skid down a long slide. The owner most likely does not understand the reasons why it’s happening, but he’s feeling it begin to crimp his lifestyle.
“I can buy it, cull out the deadwood, upgrade some of the machinery, streamline the whole office system, use contacts I already have to market the products, and begin to make a good profit within three years. I’ll wait three weeks and then make a low half-hearted non-negotiable offer directly to the owner through my lawyer, reminding the owner of the declining profits, the increasing overhead, the constant threat posed by competition, and other general headaches associated with business ownership.
“My offer will be structured so the owner is tempted by a good immediate lump sum, perhaps to take care of a new Mercedes and a few other daydreams, and in such a way that he can see the possibility of a secure income ahead for at least fifteen years that’s equivalent to, or perhaps even slightly more than his last year’s take, with no apparent headaches whatsoever. We’ll do that by offering monthly payments with generous fixed interest, but there will in fact be a small rather obscure clause in the agreement that will effectively let me pay off the balance in full at any time. What do you think he will do?”
The promised interest would inflate the total deal price by three hundred percent, probably, but the interest would evaporate, of course, when Strake paid the deal off early in full. “I’d say he’ll add up the fifteen years worth of principal and interest payments and the lump sum and then jump on it,” he said with a genuinely appreciative smile.
Unsmiling, Strake said, “My lawyer will even help him do that addition.”
18
THERE WAS A TWO-DAY TRIP TO DALLAS AND THEN THEY went on a three-day excursion to Miami. On a rainy Friday while he was fifteen feet up on a tall stepladder in the Teterboro hangar inspecting and polishing the King Air’s T-tail his beeper went off and when he responded to the call Margaret told him, “Mr. Strake says for you to plan on leaving for Caracas, Venezuela, at any time within the next forty-eight hours.”
On the following day he took off at three in the morning with Strake, Davis, and two withdrawn unsmiling men who obviously worked for Davis and looked hardened. He flew down along the coast and landed just after dawn in Fort Lauderdale for fuel. He filed an international flight plan with the FAA Flight Service Station on the field and they were airborne again within an hour, climbing through scattered clouds on a southeasterly heading to skirt Cuba, the Bahamas strung out off to the left. They passed over Andros at 21,500 feet and farther on Great Inagua slid by underneath them.
Strake again came up to sit in the right seat and seemed to take some interest in the view, which was spectacular. They were in clear tropical air three miles above a widely-scattered layer of cumulus clouds that cast phantom island-like shadows onto the water. There were real islands in sight all of the time and the sea glowed with all the improbable luminescent colors of the Caribbean, abstract areas around the islands clearly revealing the sand, grass, and coral bottom, white fishing boats and yachts dotting the deeper, darker areas. They flew on over Puerto Rico.
Strake said, “When Davis ran a check on Kelly he found a brief history of probable drug flights.”
Cowboy said, “I mentioned that to you.”
“I know. You also said you had been approached to do the same kind of flying. Were you tempted?”
He thought a moment. “Yes. The money can be enough to tempt a preacher.”
“Then why didn’t you do it?”
“Mostly too much risk all around, I guess. But some part of it was that I don’t like what drugs do to people.”
“People start with drugs by choice, just as they choose to drink to excess and to take unreasonable chances for recreation and to eat like idiots.”
“And to fight each other.”
“Yes.”
After a few minutes Cowboy asked, “How much of the gun trade is black market?”
Strake stared at him intently, his black eyes bright. He said, “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve done some reading. I just wondered.”
After a moment Strake looked out at the view and said, “Nobody really knows, but black market trade is certainly significant. When an AK-47 can be bought readily for a bag of maize in southern Africa and sold for a thousand dollars in Israel, there is ample incentive. Again, our governments are largely responsible for fueling the trade.
“The CIA, for example, supplied the Mujahideen in Afghanistan for their war against the Russians, sending, ironically, 400,000 AK-47 rifles, thousands of land mines, 8,000 light machine guns, Stinger missiles, 100 million rounds of ammunition. When the war ended nobody made any attempt to collect the weapons so they’ve been circulating on the black market ever since. Afghanistan, Pakistan, Angola, they’re all open arms bazaars selling everything you can imagine.
“When the United States pulled out of Vietnam in that ridiculous mad scramble in 1975 they left behind a stupendous stock of weapons that had cost the American taxpayers over five billion dollars—800,000 M-16s, 600 M-48 tanks, 300 self-propelled 175-millimeter guns that had cost one million each, brand new F-5 fighters. It was probably the biggest war booty in history, and it’s still out there, still worth several fortunes even at bargain prices.
“The Pentagon has routinely given away small arms—M-16s, M-14s, pistols, machine guns, grenade launchers—to Bahrain, Bosnia, Chile, Egypt, Estonia, Greece, Israel of course, Latvia, Lithuania, Morocco, and the Philippines. But many officials in those governments seldom play by American rules. A weapon knows absolutely no allegiance, and who can say how many of those arms are being traded on the black market?”
They were following a westward track along the chain of the Lesser Antilles leading in a broad shallow crescent over the horizon all the way to the northern shores of South America. The plane sped along powerfully in smooth air, all systems working flawlessly.
“How long will we be staying in Caracas?” Cowboy asked.
“My business should take no more than four days. Among other things, the day after tomorrow I’ll be bidding on a large store of arms that includes a sizable private collection of antique weapons, part of the estate of a weapons manufacturer that specialized in military and sporting shotguns. I have it on good authority that my only serious competitor is a man named Charles Harrington from Liverpool. The man has been troublesome to me in recent months concerning two different African transactions.”
“Do you know how he’ll be coming into the country?”
“He’ll be coming in on a commercial flight tomorrow afternoon. The stock of weapons will only be made available for inspection the following morning. The bidding deadline is noon.”
Cowboy thought for a moment as he scanned for traffic. “How well is this Harr
ington known in Venezuela?”
“I don’t think he has ever traded there before. His dealings have mostly been in Africa. Why?”
“I did some reading on the country yesterday. There’s a recent history of serious trouble along the border, with Colombian guerrillas. If the customs people at the airport were to get an anonymous call claiming this Harrington is coming into the country with forged papers to buy guns that will be diverted to a Colombian guerrilla group, I would guess they’d detain the man for a while to check it out. If they should hold him overnight that might leave a clear field for your bid. It’s just a thought.”
Strake appraised him, his dark eyes hard. Then he nodded once. He said, “You will have considerable free time while we’re there. Caracas is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Take some time to see it, but I warn you it’s like New York in many respects. There are areas you do not want to explore after dark, areas where even the police do not venture.” He got up and went back to take a seat in the cabin.
Just over four hours out of Miami as they drew close to the verdant, wildly-rugged coast of Venezuela, he called approach control at Simon Bolivar airport—actually located in the coastal suburb of Maiquetia—and they gave him traffic advisories, altitudes, and vectors in only slightly accented English, the universal language for air traffic control.
He landed at the large modern airport and taxied directly to customs, where they were all cleared after a perfunctory look at their passports, visas, and luggage, and no inspection of the plane whatsoever. Two of the officials seemed to know Strake well and were smilingly accommodating. They re-boarded and taxied to an FBO where attendants tied the King Air down and chocked the wheels. A limousine met them by the plane to take on their luggage and then drove them for just over half an hour along a palm-lined freeway to the modern high-rise 780-room Caracas Hilton complex downtown in the center of the financial district, with the offices of companies such as GTE, 3M, and Fluor Daniel within walking distance.