“Sorry. When do you expect it will be here? It was scheduled to arrive five minutes ago.”
She cocked her pretty head and softly replied, “Do I look like a soothsayer to you? Do you see me wearing a wizard’s hat? How the hell should I know? It’ll be here when it gets here.”
“Thanks,” Jerry said, “you’ve been most helpful.”
“Don’t mention it,” she countered, as the gum bubble swelled.
Gunnison Radio (Friday, 26 August 1994)
The men who emerged from the black Suburban trucks looked like any of the hundreds of campers visiting Colorado at that time of year. They wore jeans, boots, and flannel shirts. They also carried large Nike athletic bags, the size of duffel bags. The Unicom facility had no guards, one lock, and a single operator on duty sitting at an unimpressive collection of radio transmitters and receivers. Willard Johnson swiveled clockwise in his chair in response to the sound of movement behind him, and saw only a blur as the butt of a 5.45mm AKS 74 rifle arced toward his skull. The impact to the left side of his face continued the rotation of the chair like a shove to a merry-go-round. Experienced hands went to work as he slumped in the chair, tying him securely with duct tape before placing a pillowcase over his head and cinching it at his neck.
Willard had no idea how long he had been unconscious but wished it had been longer. He was dimly aware that he was not alone and acutely aware of the searing pain in his head. Instinctively he moved to soothe and survey the damage to his face, to touch the throbbing tissue, and only then discovered his restraints. Wisely, he steeled himself to remain still, to ignore the pain, and to wait and listen. The radio was silent for what Willard assumed was ten minutes, though it seemed a lifetime as misery pounded his head with each beat of his heart. People milled about without speaking. They were waiting too but he didn’t know why until a strange call was received and a stranger response given.
“Unicom, landing.”
“Ready. Drizzle, One-two-five-twenty.”
After that short transmission, the injured operator heard the unmistakable sounds of malicious destruction and he winced as equipment slammed violently into the walls and fell as wreckage to his feet. There was no laughter, no banter as the facility was systematically vandalized. The intruders were quietly ruthless and purposeful in their work. The noise of demolition was followed by a lengthy and eerie silence. Unable to stand the pain of immobility any longer, Willard slowly stirred, and invoking no response, moved more vigorously until it was obvious that he was alone. His head pounded with each effort to free himself. It was as exhausting and painful as it was useless. He relaxed to still the pain, to gather his strength, and to try once more.
Cowboy Cop
When the black Suburbans made their second stop, it was outside the Main Terminal, the only terminal, of the Gunnison Airport. It was 7:36 p.m., eleven minutes before official sunset and there would be no more arrivals until the following morning at six thirty-two, the time of official sunrise. Most airline and car rental counters were already closed for the night when five men in casual dress entered the Terminal with nonchalant but purposeful strides. One turned left and the others turned right. To the left were shops and rental car kiosks, and if any passengers or employees remained on the premises, he, Stazlo Alonovich, would report it. Stazlo, like the others, was a former member of Spetsnaz (Spetsialnoye Nazranie or troops of special purpose). He resigned from his elite Soviet military unit (similar to the US Delta Force) in late December 1991 following the collapse of the Soviet Union, and joined his comrades in more profitable pursuits. Stazlo was nearing the end of the east wing of the Terminal thinking he was alone, when a huge, bear like man suddenly emerged from the restroom. It startled him. The bear was wearing a cowboy costume complete with hat, and boots.
“Howdy, partner,” the big man said, as he hitched up his pants and checked his fly for the position of the zipper. When his hands moved down to his sides, Stazlo saw the revolver riding high on his hip. The cowboy was a cop, badge and all, just like in the movie High Noon, a Western he’d seen on smuggled videotape. On the black market, everything imaginable was now available in Russia.
Stazlo’s hand rested in the opening of the athletic bag that was hanging from a strap on his right shoulder. In one unseen motion, the 5.45mm PRI automatic pistol, the weapon of choice for Spetsnaz and still Stazlo’s favorite, was pointed at the belly of the big lawman from within the bag.
“Sir, if you’re meetin’ a flight, I’m afraid you’re a mite late. Everbody has done come and went. If you’re lookin’ to catch a flight out, the next one ain’t until sunup tomorrow. Which is it?”
Stazlo, looking every bit the tourist, and sensing no danger, relaxed. His right hand slipped from the bag and grasped the shoulder strap. “I was hoping to catch the last flight out.”
“Somebody gave you some bad information. There ain’t no flights out of here after dark, and dark don’t necessarily mean you need the lights on. The last flight has already took off. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to spend another night here.”
“I see. I will take the morning flight then. Thank you.” Stazlo moved away, continuing in the direction he had been heading.
“Sir, I’m gonna save you some wear and tear on those nifty hikers you’re wearin’. I’m lockin’ up and I can tell you there ain’t nobody down yonder, least of all any airline personnel. They’d all be on the west end if any of them is still here. I don’t spect they are. If I hadn’t had to take a leak so damn bad, I’d a locked the front door by now and we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation.”
“Why didn’t you lock it anyway?”
“Not that it’s any of your bidness, but from experience I know who’s the last to leave, and tonight, like every other night, it’s the folks down at the west end. When they leave, I leave, and nobody gets in here until oh-five-thirty. This way, sir.” The big lawman extended his beefy arm and hand and made a herding movement to get this stray turned around and headed out.
The athletic bag swung smoothly in an arc as Stazlo turned and walked back toward the entrance with the policeman who reminded him of a bulldog with his underbite and heavy jowls.
“Officer, I would like to ask the staff who might still be here to book me for tomorrow’s early flight. My father has suffered a heart attack and I must get home.”
Deputy Dog was all bark and no bite, Stazlo thought, as he saw concern or compassion register on the weathered face.
“All right, you run on down there, but you’re probably too late. They most likely got their coats on and are out the door by now.”
“Thank you, officer,” Stazlo said as he broke into a run toward the west end, leaving the big cop shaking his head and looking for a place to spit out his chaw. Stazlo jumped over the luggage scales and knocked twice on the door to Sky Bird Operations, a small carrier operating in the mountain region. The door opened quickly, and Stazlo slipped inside saying, “We’ve got a problem. Where’s Max?”
“Upstairs.” A finger pointed the way.
Max heard the rapid pounding of boots on the stairs and turned to face the man now calling his name.
“Max!”
“Pipe down, you simpleton. Do you want to wake the dead?”
“Sorry, Max, but we have company. A lock-up cop is waiting for the people who work here. He closes when they leave. It’s a ritual.”
“Did he see you come into Operations?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s still east of the entry.”
Max grabbed the Ops Agent roughly and forced her into a chair. “Write the cop a note. Tell him you left early. Do it!”
She trembled as she wrote in block letters, “Locked up and went home early. See you tomorrow.”
Max ordered, “Sign it!” She added, “Bonnie.” He pulled Bonnie to her feet and grabbed the ID badge from her lapel. It snapped free in his hand. Holding it in the
light he saw the picture of Bonnie Sumner. Satisfied, he said, “Take the note, Stazlo and say you found it stuck in the door. Leave and return later.”
Stazlo took the note and descended the stairs three at a time. He had just closed the door behind him when the officer came into view. He feigned surprise. “Damn, you gave me a start!”
“Why’s that? You stealin’ pens from behind the counter?”
The man has a sense of humor, Stazlo thought, but he also wants to know why I’m behind the counter. “No, sir. The place was deserted, but I thought I might find a Flight Schedule back here, and then I saw the note.”
“What note?”
“Oh, sorry, this note. I was bringing it to you.”
The deputy tipped his Stetson back on his head and read the message.
“Door’s locked, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, let’s go. I got other things to do.”
Stazlo nodded and wiped away the sweat that was beading on his forehead, thankful for the low humidity of the mountain air. They walked in silence to the exit where Stazlo thanked the officer and bid him goodnight.
The deputy touched a finger to the brim of his hat saying, “Adios, amigo. Hope your dad does fine.”
Stazlo nodded and walked casually toward his Suburban wondering if the big, hillbilly cop kept his gun loaded. He smiled at the very idea that it might not be. Had he been an American, he might remember that Barney Fife of Mayberry, USA, never carried a loaded weapon but always kept a bullet in his shirt pocket, just in case.
Deputy Chief Todd Wilson locked the outer doors then sat in his Chevy Blazer with the dome light on. Something bothered him. “Why would Bonnie write this note? She knows it’s Friday and she doesn’t work weekends. So why does she say ‘I’ll see you tomorrow?’” Todd doused the light and started his engine. He crept toward the exit hoping he was wrong, but there it was. Bonnie’s car was parked in the employee lot at the side of the building along with two other cars, a late 70’s Camaro, and a new, GMC Suburban. The latter was a near twin to the Chevy Suburban Todd had observed turning onto the service road leading to town. He followed, but at the service road he turned left, the wrong direction on the one-way street, and made a second left turn onto a secluded road. He turned off his lights and ignition. Five minutes later the black Chevy Suburban darted past and turned into the airport.
“Dispatch, this is Wilson,” he said after he keyed his mike.
“What’s up, Chief?”
“Is that you, Billy? Where’s Clyde?”
“He’s sick as a dog, Chief; so sick, Ruth had to place the call for him. He couldn’t even get to the phone. She says he’s flat out. Dan and I are workin’ twelve-hour shifts today so I’ve got almost an hour before Dan relieves me. Came on at nine this morning. I swear to God, Chief, I ain’t no fan of the four-day workweek if it means working four days like this. Course if we was talkin’ overtime, that’s a horse of a different color.”
Todd let Billy ramble as he slowly and quietly rolled into the passenger parking lot and shut down in the row farthest from the terminal, which in Gunnison wasn’t very far at all.
“Billy, listen up. There’s something funny goin’ on at the airport.”
“You need backup?”
“I might ought to, but I know you’re spread pretty thin, with Mike out with a broken ankle and now Clyde.”
“That’s a 10-4. Spike’s workin’ a domestic and he’s called for backup. Kevin responded. Lou and Harry are at the Two Horse Saloon. Betty, that big titted barmaid called; she was all excited.”
“Friday night; Happy Hour; so what else is new? Betty’s the excitable type, but don’t you go gettin’ excited just thinkin’ about her and watch your language. You have heard of Police scanners haven’t you?”
“You’re right, Chief. Just slipped out.”
“Forget it. This might be nothing, but I’ll run it by you. I locked up over here as usual, but I see two female employees have left their vehicles in the lot ‘round the side. They shouldn’t ought to be there.”
“Maybe they’re tow truck material?”
“One maybe, but not two. No, Billy, it ain’t nothin’ like that. I tailed a fella with Texas plates who left a while ago and circled back. He wanted me to think he’d left for good. Now why would he do that? There are two trucks from Texas now parked next to Bonnie and Judy’s cars. Do you suppose they could be foolin’ around?”
“You gotta be jokin’. Bonnie talks about her husband, Mark, like he hung the moon. Now, with Judy, that’s a possibility. She ain’t married and from what I hear she’s a player.”
“If Judy’s playin’ what’s Bonnie doin’? Keepin’ score? Naw, it don’t add up. Which is closer, Two Horse or the domestic?”
“Two Horse. The domestic is way the hell out to the northeast toward Almont.”
“Okay. When Lou checks in have him give me a look-see. I’m gonna check this out.”
“No heroics, Chief. If you see trouble, back out and wait for backup. I’ll pass this on to Dan when he comes on.”
“You do that, Slacker, and have yourself a nice weekend. Wilson, out.”
“Dispatch clear.”
Deputy Chief Todd Wilson crossed the road in front of the Terminal on foot, and rounded the corner on the west side. The cars and Suburbans were lined up, parked perpendicular to the building. From one, steam rose off the hood in response to the thin drizzle falling.
“This is a high dollar vehicle, that’s for sure,” Todd noted as he examined it. “This baby is tricked out real nice. Yes, sir, this is a high dollar set of wheels.”
The idea of a lovers tryst returned to mind, and Todd, who had discounted the idea before, began to wonder. Maybe a couple of wealthy Texans had turned the girls’ heads. Could have promised them something more than just a good time. Anything is possible. Bonnie might not fit the mold, and maybe Judy is just a tease but money talks. Todd remembered the story Sheriff Sterling had told him about the time he saw Judy flirtin’ with a pilot in the Antlers Lounge, the upstairs eatery. As the Sheriff remembered it, Judy was comin’ on strong and the pilot said, “Judy, you’re all flap and no throttle. If I called your bluff, you’d fold and run.” Judy just looked him in the eye and said, “Call,” and everybody cracked up laughing. She probably was all flaps, but she was fun. She’d party. But… Bonnie? From what Billy said, no way she’d be foolin’ around. She knows when the weekend starts and she’d be long gone for home by now.
Access to the ramp and the rear of the terminal was blocked by an eight-foot high chain link fence with an angled and barbed, two-foot addition. The gate was either guarded or locked depending on the time of day. Todd could see the large brass padlock even at this distance of about twenty yards, so what happened to the driver of the Suburban he had tailed? He hadn’t gone in the front entrance, because that was in clear view all the while. So, if he didn’t go in the front, where the hell was he? Todd walked back to the front of the building and peered through the glass. He then rounded the corner and walked in front of the vehicles, close to the wall of the building, to the fence. It was only another few feet before he reached the gate. The padlock appeared to be intact. Todd gave it a sharp tug and released it, turning back toward his cruiser.
The chain rattled slowly, then swiftly, link by link, as it fell to the pavement. Todd spun around, drawing his six-shooter from its holster as he dropped to his knees into a firing position. Both arms were raised horizontally with his left hand under his right supporting his grip and steadying his aim. He moved the gun left and right in a sweeping motion and then was still. The chain had been cut, and the loose ends had been draped through the chain link. His cursory inspection had failed to detect the break-in. He had been fooled and he muttered, “Son-of-a-bitch,” into the cool, evening air. The ruse almost worked, he thought, but the Lord looks out for little childre
n and dumb-ass cops.
After holstering his gun and getting to his feet, Todd pulled the Motorola radio from his belt and radioed back to base. “Dispatch, Wilson. Over.”
There was no response. He repeated his call several times before assuming his battery had not held its charge. He would need to make a call from his cruiser.
Billy was still on duty and should have taken the handheld unit to the can with him. The urge had come on strong and without warning, and Billy had run to the restroom. It was only after he was seated that he remembered the handheld. He figured he’d only be away from his desk for a minute, but Nature had other plans. If one of the deputies called in while he was on the crapper, he’d get razzed forever. He’d have to plead sunspots interfered or something, because in his condition he had no choice other than the unthinkable.
Todd clipped the Motorola to his belt as he walked toward his cruiser. He’d only taken a few steps when he heard the loud chirp of wheels hitting concrete. He spun around and looked through the fence and across an open expanse toward the runway. Even in the fading light he could see that friction had smoked the tires as they spun furiously from near zero speed to one hundred and forty miles per hour in an instant. A cloud of smoke drifted toward him. The wind was blowing across the runway. Up close the smell of burning rubber would be apparent but from the fence line it wasn’t. The smoke was prelude to the roar of engines in full reverse thrust.
“Christ Almighty!” Wilson heard himself say aloud. He had forgotten stealth entirely, because what he saw amazed him. “That’s a jumbo jet!” Todd had never seen one before and this one landing at Gunnison was as unexpected as an ocean liner pulling into dock on Blue Mesa Reservoir just west of town. “What the hell is going on? This has to be an emergency landing.”
Again, Todd turned back to his cruiser, this time on the run. He jogged a few paces before hearing the familiar sound of a garage door being raised by chains, and an unfamiliar voice shouting instructions. The deputy darted for the cover of the building knowing he should leave to call for backup, but first he had to see what was going down. Then, he would place his call.
Price For A Patriot Page 24