Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  Willy answered on the second ring and received instructions to drive directly to Gunnison to pick up Harold and Daniel. Smitty then called Jerry but got no answer. Well, it was still early in San Francisco. He would try again later. He did, with the same result.

  Shortly after 10 p.m. CST, however, Smitty received a call. “Where have you been, Jerry?”

  “Sorry, Smitty, I must have shut the phone off. I never heard it ring.”

  “Get a room for the night and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day. CNN can fill in the blanks for you but the package you’re expecting will probably arrive at Global via ground freight late tomorrow afternoon or early evening. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out. Keep your phone turned on.”

  “Sorry, Smitty. It won’t happen again.”

  The Deal

  Milo was on a phone speaking heatedly to Max at the terminal. “Listen to me! I am not guessing, goddamn it; I am telling you what I know to be true. The conveyor belt does not reach the cargo compartment; the tail is sticking too high in the air. Even if it could reach the cargo door, Max, and this is what you do not seem to understand, there is no way to open that damn door without external power. Can I be any clearer, Max? The engineer…Max, do not interrupt! I am not a naive fool. I know he would lie to me but I checked this fact in his operating manual. The book does not lie… Listen, Max! It makes sense that if planes of this size do not land here, then power carts big enough to power planes of this size do not exist at this airport either.”

  At that moment Daniel emerged from the galley saying, “Excuse me, do you speak English?”

  As one, the Russians spun their weapons toward the sound of Daniel’s voice and less trained men might have fired, but seeing Daniel’s raised hands, did not.

  “I will call you back,” he said severing the call, and to Daniel he coolly replied, “Yes, I speak English. Who are you and why do you ask?”

  “You guys are armed and you know how to handle the two couriers guarding the money. I can’t. Help me and I’ll split the money with you 50-50.”

  “Two couriers? What money are you talking about?”

  “Aren’t you here to steal the money?” Daniel asked feigning surprise. “Oh, I get it. You’re here to steal the engraving plates and you don’t even know about the thirty million in cash.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “I figure you guys had a few bad breaks. The plates weren’t supposed to be on a DC10. If this was a smaller jet you wouldn’t need an extension ladder just to reach the cargo hold. And, a smaller plane could stop on this runway. As it is, the plane has its tail in the air and you can’t reach it with a ladder. Not to mention, there are two armed men outside who want you to leave their stuff alone. This clever heist of yours ain’t exactly working out the way you planned.”

  Milo waggled his pistol in Daniel’s face. “Are you here to offer condolences?”

  “I work for this airline as a baggage handler. I know it inside and out. I’ve got two empty suitcases down there I planned to stash the cash in. The Feds were to unload in San Fran but I was goin’ out the front door with a million dollars. You guys didn’t exactly do me a favor because my getaway car is parked a thousand miles from here. Now I’m looking at lugging seventy pounds of big bills to the Avis counter. I figure, I help you, you help me. I fill the trunk of my rental car and you guys keep the rest. Oh, did I mention I don’t need to open an outer door?”

  Milo was expressionless. “Prove it.”

  “Okay, but you’re wastin’ time. 50-50 if I deliver, right?”

  Milo nodded. “Sure.”

  Daniel scooted down the ladder and set a record pace to aft cargo. He returned, wet with perspiration, and yelled up the ladder-way. “Three hundred and twenty thousand dollars is heavier than you think. Give me a hand.” The cash pack was relayed to the main deck where Milo sliced the pack open to reveal sixteen thousand twenty dollar bills. “You two go with him; we may salvage this mission after all.”

  Alone, Milo laughed deliriously at this delicious surprise—a bank robbery from the inside. He punched up Max. “Forget the plates; we cannot get to them. But we have good news for a change. A two-bit thief on board has introduced me to a backup plan. There is a fortune in cash stored below and we can get to it easily. There is no access to the plates, but thirty million dollars split eight ways is not a bad day’s work.”

  “Nine,” Max corrected.

  “No, Josef got popped trying to eliminate the courier. Had he known there were two threats, this would not have happened. Both couriers escaped. They are now outside guarding access to doors we do not intend to open. Bring the cars to the front of the plane; we will load there, and bring a truck too. Thirty million dollars takes up a lot of space.”

  “Okay, but now it is my turn to talk,” Max said. “We have one dead cop. Stazlo caught him snooping around but not before he made a call for backup.”

  Milo cursed profusely then asked, “How much bad luck is possible?”

  “We’re finding that out. Never mind. I will send two men and the cars to you now. Load one and let Stazlo and Ivan search for the men who killed Stazlo’s brother. Petr and Leonid will stay here with me to greet the local constabulary before we bring the truck.”

  Below Milo’s feet, millions of dollars in freshly printed currency were sliding downhill toward the galley as the first Suburban sped past the tail to park below the forward exit. The second car arrived seconds later and pulled alongside the other. The driver of the first car was Stazlo. He now slipped into the passenger seat of the second SUV, and the car made a 180-degree turn. A searchlight panned the area as the driver initiated a series of wide “S” turns. Stazlo was confident he would find his brother’s killer; it was just a matter of time, because there was no place to hide near a runway.

  Mick Roth lay in tall grass fifty feet from the edge of the runway to the right rear of the plane. Dave Rotz was positioned at the left also about fifty feet from the runway and two hundred and fifty from Mick. The searchlight drew nearer and Mick would be spotted on the next pass. He didn’t wait. He sprang from hiding and charged the Suburban raking it with an intense volley of 10mm rounds. It was as if he were firing blanks. Nothing penetrated and, too late, Mick knew why. The President had a vehicle just like it. The windows were dense ballistic glass laminated to a tough inner spall shield of resilient polycarbonate. The passenger compartment was enclosed in lightweight composite armor that was impervious to all handgun and submachine gun munitions. The sixty round double magazines of the MP5 were empty. He released them with the press of a button and pulled a second pair from his jacket pocket as a blinding light washed over him. A voice ordered him to drop his weapon. Mick was the Chinaman at Tiananmen Square, exposed and defenseless, empty weapon in one hand and ammunition in the other. He raised one hand in surrender but held the MP5 at his side. Mick looked left and right for a viable option, and, finding none, complied.

  A car door opened and clicked shut. A figure in silhouette appeared before him. He was holding a .44 Magnum revolver with ivory grips that had once belonged to a local Sheriff’s Deputy. It was held at waist level and was pointed at Mick.

  “We know there are two of you. Tell me where your friend is hiding and I may let you live.”

  “I work alone,” Mick replied.

  Flame belched from the muzzle of the big forty-four. Mick screamed as his shattered leg collapsed. “Wrong answer.”

  Dave could see clearly what was happening to Mick but there was little he could do at this range other than creating a diversion. He fired two rounds at Stazlo with Mick’s backup weapon, a 9mm Glock. Stazlo Alonovich leaned over Mick as he writhed in pain and whispered, “I would have killed you anyway.” At close range he fired an assassin’s coup de grace and raced back to the car, his brother’s death avenged.

  Dave was in full retreat as the tires of the armored Su
burban smoked in a sliding turn. The chase was on. Dave ran a zigzag course toward the field perimeter knowing he had no choice but to scale the fence and be fully exposed. The ease with which he vaulted the eight-foot chain link fence surprised him. He hit it at full stride springing off his right foot. His left foot contacted the fence at half its height and momentum carried him upward. He grasped the chain link near the top and swung a leg over it, and then the other. The fabric of the trailing trouser leg snagged on the jagged tips of the fence and ripped his pants from crotch to cuff. He fell in a pile on the opposite side, and didn’t feel the sting or pain of the puncture wounds until later. All in all, not bad work for a guy pushing fifty.

  Bullets pinged off the fence as Dave turned and ran. The Suburban slid to a stop near the fence and Stazlo jumped out in pursuit. He tossed his PRI automatic pistol over the fence and tucked the .44 under his belt at the small of his back before leaping high to grasp the crisscrossed metal. With brute force he pulled his chest to his hands. His right leg arched over the fence as his body twisted to the left. Hands repositioned, he began to pull himself higher when through the diamond shaped patterns, he saw the man he was chasing rushing toward him into the glare of the headlights. He panicked. First he tried to retract his leg but his weight had pulled the fabric of his trousers onto the pointed tips of the fence. He released his right hand and reached to grasp the weapon whose barrel was tucked beneath his belt, hard against his lower back. In desperation he released his left hand and flung himself backward straightening his right leg to flip away from the fence. This produced some slack in his waistband and the weapon came free in his hand but the flip stopped prematurely with his right leg pointed skyward. The fence held him captive dangling in a hurdlers stride, right leg straight, left leg bent, and upper torso perpendicular to the fence. Stazlo used his powerful stomach muscles to raise his upper body flat against his thigh, placing his face just inches from the fence and the barrel of a 9mm Glock. The hunter had become the hunted.

  Stazlo’s brain registered the muzzle flash, and the bullet’s entry as its last recorded event. His memory card had been erased, and all knowledge, all stored data was irretrievably lost. Stazlo’s chin lifted as his head arced backward followed by all parts not securely held by the fence. Rotz holstered his weapon as Ivan raced the Suburban in reverse back toward the plane.

  Gate 2, Crash Fire Rescue Responds

  Only CFR crews and the occasional maintenance truck used Gate 2. It was far removed from the terminal building. The first two returning vehicles sped through the still open gate and the third stopped after entering to secure it.

  The powerful diesel engine of the yellow pumper truck was idling as the late arrivals grabbed their gear and jumped on board.

  “Hit it!” someone yelled and the driver smoothly accelerated onto the ramp, running through the gears, lights flashing. The rumble of the engine was music to these men who craned their necks to see the apparition that loomed ahead.

  Passengers straggling back to the terminal waved as the fire truck raced by, its air horn blared in response. The crew was excited; the adrenalin flowed.

  “Holy moly,” the fireman riding shotgun exclaimed, “that is one big mother!”

  “You ain’t wrong about that,” the driver replied as the truck rolled under the tail toward the right main gear where flames were visible.

  “Use halon on that, Leroy. We won’t need the hoses,” the crew Captain ordered. “Luckily the brake fire didn’t spread beyond the tires. You check the other side, Thurston.”

  Milo dropped onto the left forward slide following a cash pack when advised of the approaching fire truck. He watched as the firemen extinguished the flaming brakes.

  “You need to clear the area, mister. This is an unsafe environment,” the fire chief yelled at Milo as he approached.

  “Yes, it is,” Milo shouted over the rumble of the truck’s diesel and the louder whine of the aircraft’s engines whose turbine blades continued to spin at idle.

  “Kirk! Go shut these goddamn engines off,” the Chief yelled, obviously irritated. To Milo he said, “Sir, follow me, I have to get you clear of this area.”

  Milo followed obediently. When they reached the pumper, Milo tapped the Chief’s helmet. Startled, the Chief stopped and spun around.

  “Don’t tap me on the head, mister. You want to talk to me, talk to me, but don’t be tapping on my helmet like it’s a door. What do you want?”

  Milo accepted the rebuke without comment, asking, “Can you open the rear cargo door on the other side?”

  It was a strange question. “Why would I want to do that?” was his honest reply.

  “It’s a simple question, can you open it?”

  The Chief shook his head, “Are you in shock? Your bags are safe. Start walking toward the terminal; follow those people right there.” He pointed.

  “Can you open it?”

  The chief laughed. “Damn you’re persistent. No, I doubt we can open it because if it works like the ones up front, it has to be raised electrically or by using hydraulic power. It’s too damn heavy to lift manually. Okay?”

  “No, not okay, but if you can’t open it, what good are you?” Milo questioned in a tone tinged with malice.

  “What?” was the surprised reaction to both Milo’s remark and the sight of the gun that killed him.

  The jet engines wound down, and the turbine blades clattered loosely in their casings. Only the rumble of the diesel remained to disturb the fast-approaching darkness as the sun fell behind the mountains.

  29

  Call For Backup; Disaster at the Airport

  The domestic squabble out near Almont had been settled, and there was a lull in the action at the Two Horse Saloon when the four officers received a frantic call for backup. Flashing lights and wailing sirens announced their approach as they raced to the airport.

  In the cockpit, Kirk had pulled the start levers to off and then surveyed the damage. In addition to the dead passenger outside the cockpit door, there were two dead crewmen. The Captain was alive but unconscious. Struggling up hill, the fireman called to a passenger at the aft end of the First-Class compartment.

  “Hey! I need some help here.”

  His request was ignored. The passenger disappeared behind the bulkhead and reappeared carrying a box that he dumped out the door on the far side of the cabin. Now closer, Kirk repeated his earlier request for help to the passenger, now empty handed, who returned to the galley.

  “What’s the matter with you, man? Didn’t you hear me? I’ve got an injured crewman and three bodies down there.” He pointed downhill toward the cockpit.

  The passenger looked into Kirk’s eyes and quietly spoke one word, “Four.”

  The plastic helmet and rain slicker would have slid easily on the small tight loops of the carpet, but for Kirk’s heavy rubber boots. His body had been propelled by the impact of a burst of two bullets lifting it like a speedboat topping a wave, catching air, and then falling to slam onto the surface, moving fast until the anchor, his boots, dragged him to a stop on the leeward slope of the wave.

  At the terminal, Max, Petr and Leonid positioned themselves to greet the arriving squad cars. Deputy Wilson’s body was dragged to a point inside the now open gate where it would be clearly visible. The bait was in place; the trap was set. The sirens silenced and red and blue lights winked out as the four patrol cars slowed a short distance away. Kevin gave Wilson’s Blazer a cursory inspection before the cars rolled slowly out of the parking lot to cruise past the front of the terminal building. Lou stopped at the entry, and signaled to the others that the doors were secure. The procession moved down the street with Spike now in the lead car. His searchlight revealed what appeared to be a body on the ramp well beyond the fence. He punched the accelerator and turned swiftly through the open gate to stop ten feet from his friend. Into his shoulder microphone he excitedly
broadcast, “Officer down!”

  Harry, flanked by Kevin and Lou pulled in to park behind the lead vehicle as Spike jumped out.

  “Oh, Lord!” Lou muttered aloud as he piled out of his machine. Todd Wilson was his best friend and godfather to his only child. He threw caution to the wind.

  “Dispatch?” Harry radioed from his cruiser, “Wilson is shot. Don’t know his condition. Send an ambulance double quick.”

  As he spoke, the gate swung closed behind him and the night was filled with the sound and fury of gunfire. Spike and Lou fell where they stood. Kevin jammed the accelerator to the floor and ducked low driving blind straight ahead. It didn’t help. A blizzard of 5.45mm rounds from AKS 74 rifles exploded his windshield and raked the side of the car as it passed. Kevin was struck in the head, neck and arm. His Kevlar vest was untouched. The squad car he was driving simply drifted to a stop.

  Harry acted as quickly. He threw his transmission into reverse and slammed into the gate, which buckled but held. He had been parked too close to develop the momentum that might have saved him. He shifted to first gear and rammed the squad car ahead of him pushing it forward, his tires spinning furiously, to create space for an escape. He reversed again and crashed into the gate ripping it from its hinges and dragging it rearward as bullets peppered his car. Now at full throttle he shifted gears and swerved sharply to the right in an attempt to negotiate a 180-degree turn. Three men advanced on him firing in full automatic. Glass shattered and metal yielded to bullets that penetrated the doors. Harry was struck numerous times from knee to neck, and once through the head. His foot slipped from the accelerator and the car rolled into bushes one hundred feet away.

  “Petr, bring the pickup truck from the front parking lot on the double,” Max ordered. “Leonid and I will finish business here.”