Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  “Not really. Jose owes me his life because I have kept a secret from Pablo Escobar, and this is his way of acknowledging that. He is not safe with a hundred men at his side if I choose to denounce him. By coming alone, he is telling me that he trusts me. He is also showing me that I can rely on him because he is aware of his indebtedness. Our secret will die with me. Pablo will never know, unless of course I die mysteriously.”

  “How strange,” the Colonel mused.

  “To Jose it makes perfect sense. He lives by an uncomplicated set of rules. Fear is not part of his life, but honor, strangely enough, is. If he makes a promise or seals a deal, it is written in blood. He will die before dishonor. His simple philosophy has served him well, don’t you think? He is subordinate only to Pablo, leader of the world’s most powerful drug cartel. They say Pablo trusts no one, yet he trusts this Chibcha Indian. Jose is closer to Pablo than a brother.”

  After a late lunch, and a tour of the ranch, the two principals returned to the negotiating table. The tour had been enjoyed most by Brandon, who quickly got the lay of the land. There were fences and gates all around but nothing sophisticated. This was not a prison, it was a working farm, and Brandon, who had been unsuccessful in his escape attempt, had renewed hope. If Hosni failed him, he now knew the direction he should flee. The Tigris River was in the distance to the west not the east as he previously assumed. He would reach the river and float south toward Basra and seek help from the Shia Muslims along the way. He had a backup plan and felt better for it.

  Hours passed in a tiring game of give and take. It was a verbal circus where Brandon was the ringmaster at center stage. El Diablo sin corazon sat across the table from the Iraqi intelligence officer as if ready to deal another hand of poker. Brandon noticed that the Colonel afforded a new level of respect to the diminutive guest with the big reputation. He was obviously impressed and pleased to be in the company of a man feared by his countrymen just as he would be one day. Brandon thought the time was right to close the deal. The vegetable truck would arrive the following night and he wanted to be on it when it left.

  Brandon spoke softly but his words demanded a different response. “Slam your fist on table, jump to your feet and shout, ‘do you think I’m here to waste my time’?”

  Jose lowered his head, composed himself, and erupted as ordered.

  “Holy mackerel!” Brandon blurted out, his face lined with worry.

  “What is wrong, Sergeant? Why is he so angry?” the Colonel sputtered.

  “He thinks you’re wasting his time and he says you must think he’s stupid. He wants to leave now.”

  “No, no, no,” the Colonel pleaded. “Tell him I respect him and want to join him in an enterprise that will benefit us both.”

  Brandon urged Jose to be seated and with hands together as in prayer, he beseeched Jose saying, “He’s on the hook. It’s time to reel him in. Nod okay as if you understand what I’m saying and just tell me anything complicated you can think of.”

  Jose sat and massaged his temples with his fingertips and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and exhaled loudly in exasperation. Brandon and the Colonel exchanged questioning glances. After ten seconds of silence that seemed a lifetime, Jose began a passionate speech about how he had replaced the carburetor on his old Ford.

  The Colonel began to interrupt, but Brandon quelled that attempt with hands urging quiet. Jose finished by wiping his hands as he had done with the oily rag in his story. To the Colonel it signified he was washing his hands of the whole affair, and, without waiting for Brandon’s translation, offered five million dollars and twenty percent of the gross in exchange for assistance in setting up laboratories on the ranch, and help in making the initial arrangements for distribution. The Colonel added that he could acquire the raw materials without assistance, but any tips on improving production would be appreciated. Brandon was momentarily stunned, but the Colonel flicked his hands as if to say, “Tell him; tell him.”

  Brandon did as he was ordered. “Jose, we have a deal. Nod your head slowly. Look grave. You are absorbing the details—weighing the pros and cons of the offer. After mulling it over, agree, but up the ante, mention the island where the offshore account was opened and tell me more about that old Ford of yours. Understand?”

  Jose nodded. His jaw was firmly set. “Yo comprende.”

  The Colonel understood that, but soon Jose became unintelligible as he talked about how much punishment his suspension system absorbed on the rutted roads near his home. He mentioned Barbados twice and “vente dos” and with a shrug, opened his hands, palms up.

  The Colonel looked from Jose to Brandon expectantly, searching for evidence of success, a hint of victory, but Brandon’s expression… What was it? Confusion?

  “Let him sweat,” Brandon thought, nodding pensively, pursing his mouth. He pinched his lips tightly together and spoke. “We’re close. I’m amazed, but we are close to a deal. I never thought he’d agree but he has, with two conditions. The money is to be wired to an account in Barbados and the percentage must be twenty-two percent. In exchange you will receive state-of-the-art equipment, and the help of trained personnel. He will set you up, and if you have questions regarding your crop, of course, they will be helpful.”

  The Colonel literally jumped from his seat, exhilarated. His hand was extended to seal the pact. Jose rose slowly and did not offer his hand. He slid a piece of paper across the table with the account information and held his hand to his ear.

  “He wants you to make the call.”

  “I know what he wants,” the Colonel answered curtly. “I’m not an idiot.”

  In Arabic the Colonel demanded a satellite phone and it was quickly delivered. The call was placed and the money transferred from the Colonel’s account in Zurich to Brandon’s in Barbados.

  Jose said, “Is that it? Can I go home now?”

  Brandon replied, “Soon. Nice job.” Turning to the Colonel he said, “He wants me to place a call as well.”

  “I expected no less from this experienced negotiator.”

  The phone was handed to Brandon who dialed 00-57 and a string of additional numbers to reach Eddie Ramirez in Colombia.

  When the call was answered Brandon said in Spanish, “Check the account and call back using only local dialect. Ask for Jose.”

  “Perfecto,” answered Eddie as he cradled the phone. What is Stiles up to, he wondered.

  Five minutes later the phone chirped. The Colonel answered.

  “Senor Escobedo por favor,” Eddie requested.

  “Momento,” replied the Colonel. Handing the telephone to Brandon, he moved closer to listen as Brandon spoke for Jose.

  “El pregundo?” Brandon asked, seeking the answer to the unspoken question.

  “Si,” was the reply and the line went dead.

  Brandon turned to the Colonel who accepted the telephone from him. “I admit I did not think you could pull it off. Congratulations, Colonel.” He turned his attention to Jose. “It’s done. Congratulations.” Jose smiled as he shook Brandon’s hand and then the Colonel’s.

  At dinner, it was explained that to minimize Jose’s waiting time at the airport, he had been ticketed on Royal Jordanian from Amman to New York Sunday morning at eleven. From there he would fly on Avianca to Cali.

  Brandon relayed the information and told Jose to laugh and ask if he would be arrested before he could transfer to Avianca.

  “What amuses my new Colombian friend?” the Colonel asked.

  Brandon explained that the DEA would love to boast the capture of the elusive Diablo. “He prefers to transit Spain as before, even if delays are encountered and he wants to depart tomorrow.”

  “Of course, how stupid of me. Tell him the arrangements will be made. He will depart here at nine this evening. The drive will be cooler and he will arrive in Amman in time for a flight to Madrid. My apologie
s.”

  Jose nodded and smiled his understandings when Brandon translated.

  After dinner, and just prior to Jose’s departure from the farm, the Colonel took his new partner aside and read a prepared statement. Jose nodded his understanding. The Mercedes 600 SEL was waiting; its engine idled. The door to the spacious rear seating was opened for its passenger to enter. What had the Colonel said? Brandon needed to know. Did he suggest a translator fluent in Arabic as well as Spanish? Brandon moved toward the car but Massoud stopped him at the doorway. He could only wait and watch. Jose ducked to enter the cavernous interior, but stopped and suddenly stood. He touched his forehead saying, “Ay, disculpe. Ya recuerdo. Deje mi libro en mi recamara.”

  The Colonel brightened and spoke in Arabic as he turned back toward the house. “He just remembered that he left a book in his room, go check.”

  A houseboy sped off, and in that moment of distraction, only Brandon was watching Jose. He saw the Chibcha Indian run his finger across his throat. Brandon nodded, turned and scanned the room behind him. Seeing Hosni he waited until all eyes were refocused on the Mercedes and repeated the gesture signaled by Jose. The cook slipped out of sight, back to the kitchen, where he notified a friend to make a delivery later than usual.

  The Colonel stood at the driver’s window issuing final instructions to the men who would drive his guest to Queen Alia Airport in Amman. Jose heard them conversing as sleep beckoned. This had been a strange but interesting trip and Sergeant Stiles had promised him immunity and wealth. What a wonderful surprise. A smile remained on his lips as he fell asleep nestled in the soft, aromatic Connelly leather.

  Hosni was waiting just inside the villa when the Colonel waved his final goodbye to the now sleeping Chibcha and stepped into the foyer. “Hosni, I am driving to Mosul tonight and will return on Sunday. I have missed today’s matches, but tomorrow I will be on hand for the championship finals. Prepare something sweet for me to take to Mosul. I will leave in one hour.” The Colonel patted Hosni on the shoulder, a personal touch and his first physical contact in three years of employment. Indeed, for some reason, the South American’s visit had changed the Colonel for the better. He wondered how the Colonel would feel Sunday morning when he discovered his prized American had escaped.”

  24

  The Cockpit; The Courier; The Crash

  Milo had ordered the landing approach to commence and Greg had crossed the outer marker and begun a procedure turn outbound.

  “You say you have an ATP on the DC-10,” Murphy began, “but that’s a lie. If you had half a clue you’d know that at this weight, at this density altitude with our increased true air speed, it will be impossible to stop on that runway even if we land right on the leading edge. We will smoke our tires, blow our engines, and still slide off the far side. Without a tail hook, without a drag chute, there is no way to stop this plane on that runway. You will be one of the first to arrive at the scene of the accident, up here in the pointy part of the plane, and you will be among the first to die. I don’t know what you want or why you’re doing this, and I don’t care. I do care about all the souls aboard. They are innocent and they depend on me. I want them to live, and for that to happen I need to burn off more fuel. Let me drop the gear and flaps and drive this bird around in circles for twenty minutes and just maybe you’ll survive this landing too.”

  Milo was silent. Greg disengaged altitude hold and called out his intention to descend. Tension in the cockpit was electric.

  “Circle for twenty minutes, Captain, and then promptly begin your landing procedure.”

  “Gear down.” Murphy ordered, “Enter left holding at the marker.”

  “Gear down.” Greg complied. “Copy, left hold.”

  Murphy pulled the throttles to idle and reengaged altitude hold. “Greg, as our speed decays lower the flaps at limit speeds. We’ll land with 50 flaps. Let’s start burning gas. Crack the boards too. Forget procedure. It’ll fly. We need to create as much drag as possible. At flaps 50, increase power to hold Vref plus five. At this density altitude let’s not cut the speed buffer too close.”

  “Roger, Captain.” Greg questioned, “Sir?”

  “What is it Greg?”

  “Shall we try to dump again? It sure would be faster.”

  “Can’t do it Greg. It’s not worth the increased risk. We have twenty minutes to burn.”

  “First Officer,” Milo ordered, “transmit on Unicom these two words: ‘Unicom, landing’.”

  Greg glanced at the Captain and did as ordered. There was a pause of several seconds before a reply was received.

  “Ready. Drizzle, one-two-five twenty.”

  Greg and Jim shared a questioning glance. “Does that mean something?” Murphy asked.

  “Stazlo is a bit cryptic. He doesn’t like to transmit; doesn’t like exposure, so he doesn’t waste words. There is drizzle and wind is from 125 degrees at twenty knots.”

  Murphy replied, “Well, that’s just great.”

  “Is that a problem, Captain?”

  “Oh, no. Everything is just perfect. I’m landing heavy on a short, wet, high-altitude runway in a crosswind. What’s not to like?”

  “Captain, are you up to the job?”

  “The primary runway is six two-four. We’ll land on six. Am I up to the job? For your sake you better hope so.”

  Anticipating the requirement to begin the approach in twenty minutes, Murphy took control and abandoned holding in time to begin his descent for landing. “I’ve got it,” Murphy announced as he reached across the console and retracted the speed brakes.

  “You’ve got it,” Greg replied as he removed his hands from the control wheel. Twenty minutes had expired and the DC-10 was on the approach to Runway 06.

  “We have a crosswind and a wet runway, Greg. I should bump up the speed but I can’t. I’m going to slow to Ref minus five. We’ll be nose high dragging it in, nipping at the stall. I know it’s dangerous; we’ll be eating our stall buffer and hanging it out. If we don’t, however, we won’t stop on this wet runway. Keep a sharp eye on the speed. Make the call outs.”

  Greg answered, “Roger.”

  Milo said, “I thought you burned off fuel.”

  Murphy lost it. “Listen you moron, with your vast knowledge of the DC-10, you know we had enough fuel to go to San Francisco, divert to Seattle and still fly for forty five minutes. We’re in Colorado, less than half way. We’re loaded with kerosene! Normally, the only time you don’t want more fuel is when you’re on fire, right? Well, this is one of those exceptions. We have too much fuel, it’s heavy, and as you must know, an object in motion tends to stay in motion, and when we land we have to stop that motion. Twenty minutes ago, we didn’t have a prayer. Now that’s exactly what we do have, a prayer. I would like to have held for an hour or more but would you have allowed that? I don’t think so. You seem to be in a hurry to get us all killed, so now why don’t you shut up, so I can concentrate on keeping us alive.”

  Men didn’t speak to Milo in that way, with those words, in that tone of voice, and live to tell about it, but Milo simply raised his chin slightly in acknowledgement and tightened his shoulder straps. “This man, Murphy,” Milo thought, “He’s good at what he does, and he is not afraid. He is, as the Americans say, ‘a cool customer.’ But when I shoot him, he will be just as dead.”

  Visibility on the approach was reduced by patches of virga that drooped like sad fingers along the approach. The “Ten” sped through them, these passing, wet shadows, popping in and out, short tunnels of darkness in otherwise clear air. The runway was in sight as they passed through 1500 feet above ground level.

  “Greg, this is a no-no, but I’m ducking slightly under the glide path. I’m going to drag it in at full power. Because of trees on the approach, and the short threshold, I can’t drop it on the first foot of pavement but I need to be close.”

  “
Roger that. Normal aim point is 1500 feet down the runway, Captain. I hope you remember how far back the main gear are. We don’t want them getting snagged on the bushes.”

  “Point taken. There’s danger in miscalculation but we sure as hell don’t want to land long. I’ll power it on and plant it, no flare—a carrier landing. When rubber hits the concrete, I’ll chop the throttles, and pull the reverse levers to max thrust. Make sure the spoilers deploy on wheel spin up and get on the binders with me, bend those pedals, I want full braking right from the get-go. Any questions? Okay, let’s do it.”

  The cockpit was silent, even Milo was mute, but the engines howled in protest as they strained to keep the giant bird flying in this nose high attitude nipping at the stall. Gusty crosswinds rocked the boat on final and attempted to blow the aircraft to the left of course. Murphy countered that tendency by slipping the big bird into a crab letting it weathervane into the wind. The nose was pointed far to the right of the runway. That stopped the drift to the left. Jim aimed for an upwind touchdown zone by looking out his side window. The misalignment was disconcerting to an observer but was necessary and intentional. It kept the aircraft on runway centerline. Jim knew he couldn’t land the aircraft in a crab, the tires wouldn’t roll, they would skid sideways and explode. The side load would shear off the gear. The result would be a disaster. No, Murphy had to make a last second adjustment before touchdown to align the nose, and more importantly the tires, with the runway heading. The First Officer, who had been calling out airspeeds, now called out the readings on the radar altimeter as the aircraft neared touchdown.

  “One hundred feet… fifty… forty… thirty… twenty…” Just seconds before impact, Captain Murphy pushed hard on the left rudder pedal to swing the nose of the aircraft back into alignment with the runway. As he did so, his view of the runway smoothly transitioned from his side window to the front. He held the right wing down slightly, cross controlling aileron and rudder. The right four main tires collided with the pavement an instant before those on the left and a split second after Greg said, “… ten.”