Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  Business was a euphemism for a bullet in the head, a coup de grace, to be administered to each of the dead or dying lawmen. Petr returned within minutes driving a late model Chevrolet Silverado Z71, 4x4. Together they drove to the plane.

  Dave had again scaled the fence and was making his way back to the plane when he heard the powerful engine of the Silverado. He dove to the ground just as the pickup truck cleared a rise and then roared past. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted in the darkness toward the yellow pumper sitting at idle. Motion to his right caught his eye. Dave spun to face the threat dropping to his knees as he did so. The three dots of his Trijicon night sights aligned with a yellow slicker that faintly reflected in the darkness.

  “Don’t shoot,” Thurston begged. “The Fire Chief’s dead and Kirk is missing. Leroy and I hid when we saw the Captain go down, shot at point blank range. What the hell is happening?”

  At that moment, headlights from the Silverado momentarily illuminated the activity near the forward slide as it turned to park near two large SUVs. Dave was astonished by what he saw. Cash packs were stacked four deep and were being loading into the vehicles parked side by side.

  “How in God’s name did they do that?” Dave muttered. “You two stay put. I need to check something out.” He dashed under the raised tail of the DC-10 and crouched behind the four left-main tires. To his left, a match flared. A sentry’s face briefly shone in the darkness as cupped hands shielded a cigarette from the wind and faint drizzle. Cloaked in darkness, the sentry moved along the trailing edge of the wing toward the fuselage. The faint glow at his fingers marked his progress. Dave circled the gear keeping the tires between him and the cigarette. As the smoker passed, he took another long drag. Paper and tobacco burned brightly as his lungs filled with smoke. The cigarette hand fell away and the sentry exhaled through pursed lips blowing the smoke high into the air. Dave picked that moment to attack. His rigid open hand sliced the air and crushed the smoker’s trachea, then curled and grasped his chin and jerked it to the right. He eased the body to the ground and listened for alarms. There were none.

  Urgent commands were shouted, men reacted, and the stack of cash packs dwindled in response. Dave had seen enough. He returned to the pumper and asked, “Anything unusual about this truck I need to know? I plan to move it.”

  “No, it’s a standard “H” shift, four on the floor. Reverse is down, right and back. The emergency brake is a pull-up handle between the seats. Headlights are on the dash to the left of the steering column. That’s about it.”

  The last cash pack had been removed from the galley and Daniel Stiles found himself alone. He was playing a dangerous game but felt he had to play it out. He stood in the doorway of the DC10 and jumped onto the slide. Milo helped him to his feet.

  “Fifty-fifty?”

  Milo laughed. “I will make you an even better offer. I will let you live to spend all you can carry out of here. You should know that one courier is hiding out there somewhere. Perhaps he will help you. These boxes are heavy as you know.” To Petr he said, “Leave a couple for our friend; throw the rest into the pickup.”

  Milo turned at the sound. The fire truck was moving in reverse from its position on the far side of the aircraft.

  “It appears that the fire fighters are leaving,” Milo said to Daniel.

  Daniel watched the truck for a moment before replying. “I don’t think so.”

  The truck was circling the left wing and accelerating towards them. Milo barked quick commands to his men but only a few had weapons ready. They fired and the headlights exploded and the windshield shattered. Dozens of rounds penetrated the snub nose of the cab but the heavy truck never slowed. Dave had wedged an axe between his seat and the accelerator pedal and had leapt from the vehicle before the first shot was fired. Milo’s men scattered as the trucks collided. The Silverado was demolished but the Suburbans were unscathed.

  “No driver!” Max shouted, pulling the axe free. “He is still out there.”

  “We have no time to look for him; assemble the men; it is time to leave. We are only six now, a third vehicle will not be needed. Move out,” Milo commanded.

  The whop-whop sound of the approaching helicopters could not yet be heard at the airport as they chopped through the darkened skies. Flown by men wearing night vision goggles, the choppers were still twenty miles from Roth’s beacon, homing in. The response team had made its weapons check and team leaders outlined the plan of attack.

  The Suburbans sped toward groups of gawking passengers who had gathered at the wreckage of police cars and fallen officers. The lead car’s horn blared its warning but never slowed. People scattered as the Suburbans skirted the patrol cars and dashed through the gate in tandem.

  At the crash scene, Daniel radioed to Harold. “Where are you, Harold?”

  “I’m in the weeds waiting for you. What’s your status?”

  “The hijackers split and took a lot of Coors, but they’d have taken more if it hadn’t been for the courier.”

  “Must be Dave; Mick is dead. It was an execution, Daniel. I was only fifty feet away. I heard and saw everything. It was awful.”

  “Keep it together, pal. I’m walking straight down the runway. I can’t hang around here waiting for the Feds. My presence will only raise questions. I’m not ticketed, remember?”

  “Roger that, I’ll start walking too. I’ll meet you at the Terminal.”

  Minutes later the choppers set down on the runway behind Global 620 and men jumped out and sprinted away, fanning out to flank the downed DC10. Dave Rotz knew the cavalry had arrived but this was not a good time to surprise anyone. After leaping from the fire truck he had rolled to his feet and run fifty yards in the opposite direction. There he lay prone and watched the Suburbans escape. He couldn’t stop them with a 9mm Glock and a partial clip. Mick Roth had proved the futility of resistance by firing sixty rounds of 10mm ammo without success.

  When the reaction team announced the all clear, Dave shouted from his prone position, “My name is Rotz. I work for Federal Armored Express. May I approach?”

  In an instant he was bathed in light and the reaction force saw a lone figure rise from the grass with his hands high above his head. He was quickly surrounded and told to advance. A team leader came forward and asked for his credentials.

  “I have a weapon in my waistband. Credentials are in my left rear pocket.”

  The gun and credentials were removed and handed to the team leader who compared the ID photo with the face of the man standing before him.

  “He’s okay,” he said, and the men in black lowered their assault weapons and moved away. “Rotz, I’m Iverson. What’s your status?”

  “My shipment was compromised. Roth’s was not. Roth is…”

  “I know who Roth is. He’s the reason I’m here.”

  “You’ll find his body about seventy five yards back that way.” Dave pointed.

  In response to a head movement, two reaction force members jogged off in that direction.

  “Sir, we have a security breach,” a black clad figure announced as he came to a halt at Iverson’s shoulder.

  “Show me,” Iverson grumbled and the trio walked toward the wreckage of the Silverado. Cash packs, still intact, were scattered everywhere.

  “Those are my responsibility and the reason I’m here and that’s what I mean by ‘compromised,’ I’ll need to take inventory to see what’s missing.”

  “I thought the cash packs were stored in aft cargo,” Iverson said.

  “They were.”

  “Then how did they get here?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. That’s the multi-million dollar question.”

  The ambulance arrived to a scene of carnage and the EMT raced from body to body then radioed hysterically for help. “Dispatch, dispatch, I’m at the scene and it’s not just Wilson. I have four, no, make th
at five, five dead deputies. Oh God, oh God. It’s a massacre. They’re all dead.” Billy heard the news and wept. Dan, his relief, was reassuring. His words echoed in Billy’s mind. “It’s not your fault, Billy. It’s not your fault.”

  Helicopters lifted off the runway twelve minutes after the departure of the Suburbans. They swooped low over the ambulance and the chaotic scene at the terminal and skimmed toward the airport exit. One chopper flew east and the other flew west on Hwy 50 looking for a pair of black, armored Suburbans. Thirty miles either side of town the choppers reversed course, the Suburbans had disappeared.

  The “Gunnison Gang,” as the press would refer to them, never left town, never traveled on the highway. They sped down Rio Grande Avenue and turned, tires squealing, onto South 12th Street and slowed. A short distance north they entered Security Self Storage by entering a four digit code on a touch pad much like a pay telephone. The gate rolled aside and the vehicles moved quietly through. The elderly manager of the facility, Robert Bearclaw, was also the owner; he lived on site in a small apartment to the rear of the office. It was after business hours, but he was always on duty. When he heard the rattle of the gate, he turned off the reading light next to his recliner and pulled the lever that dropped the footrest. Through the open blinds of his darkened room he could see who came and went.

  “You can never be too careful these days,” he liked to say, but this was nothing to be concerned about. He recognized the two SUVs with Texas plates. The light came on, the chair reclined and Robert Bearclaw continued his reading.

  Ten minutes later came the expected rattle of the gate, probably the Suburbans leaving, but it could be another entrant, though that would be unusual at this time of night. He inserted his bookmark and closed the cover. Light out, he dropped the footrest. Odd. A white Chevy van was leaving the premises. “I don’t remember that van entering,” Robert Bearclaw said to himself. His aunt Sally had suffered the ravages of Alzheimer’s and for a moment he wondered about his other ancestors. It was genetic, wasn’t it? Shaking the thought away, he resumed reading. At 10 p.m., the gate would automatically deactivate until six the next morning. All the tenants knew that. If the SUVs didn’t leave before ten, they were spending the night. At 11 p.m., Mr. Bearclaw had a final thought before he drifted off to sleep. The SUV drivers must have left together in the white Chevy van.

  The “Gunnison Gang” had, in fact, driven slowly from Security Self Storage back onto 12th Street and headed east to Almont where Highway 50 joined Hwy 135. They continued northward toward Crested Butte, turning east on a narrow county road. Milo had rented a secluded home not far from the highway. It was stocked with supplies for a week and had a functioning radio and television set—all the comforts of home.

  The Secret Service and FBI covered Gunnison like a blanket, but two days later, the Gunnison Gang was still at large. A Secret Service Agent and five Sheriff’s Deputies had been murdered. Where were the killers? How had they escaped? The talking heads on local TV were having a field day, and the local populace was scared to death. Handgun and shotgun sales on Saturday broke all existing records as frightened residents prepared to defend their homes.

  Robert Bearclaw eased back in his recliner and clicked on the TV. A worried looking reporter appeared on screen.

  “The two black Suburbans police and federal agents are searching for have simply disappeared. Informed sources admit that Federal authorities are baffled. If you have any information, please, call one of the numbers listed on your screen.”

  Robert Bearclaw hadn’t been watching TV or listening to the news much lately, and he was one of the few Gunnison residents who wasn’t glued to his set. He was the only resident who actually knew the location of two, black Suburbans, so he picked up the phone and dutifully dialed the number listed for the FBI. Within ten minutes, Security Storage was surrounded. Mr. Bearclaw indicated to the lead agent which storage units housed the Suburbans, and bolt cutters did the rest. The elusive vehicles and their sixteen million dollar cargo were seized.

  Mr. Bearclaw was asked to keep the recovery a secret, and with his permission, Security Self Storage became an armed camp. It was decided that the best course of action would be to wait for the Gunnison Gang to return to collect the money. To maintain secrecy of the stakeout, local and state police would not be informed. There would be recriminations and hurt feelings, but the Feds could deal with that later. For now, there would be no search for a white van, and there would be no contact with the press, except for planned leaks. The first leak had been drafted and was presented to the On Site Commander for his approval.

  “Sir, the local newspaper, The Country Times, is being bombarded with questions from frightened residents that it can’t answer. This will take the heat off, and I guarantee they will headline this juicy bit of information in tomorrow’s edition. We have two hours before presses roll.”

  The Information Officer for the task force stood by as the lead agent read the proposed release. To paraphrase, it said that an unnamed source within the FBI, speaking without attribution, had revealed that the FBI and SS now believe that the Gunnison Gang slipped through their net and may be hiding as far away as Denver or Colorado Springs. The search had intensified in those areas and in adjoining states. The lead asked, “What about local TV?”

  “Sir, the print media will just get the ball rolling. This story will be picked up by talk radio and the evening news. By tomorrow night the hijackers will think the worst is over.”

  “Run it.”

  Gunnison Airport (Saturday Morning, 27 August 1994)

  The field was closed to normal traffic but a few aircraft were allowed to land just after sunrise with the assist of a hastily constructed Mobile Control. NTSB, SS, FBI, FAA and Federal Armored Express officials arrived and began their separate but overlapping investigations.

  Bonnie and Judy were found jammed together on the closet floor in Sky Bird Ops when the weekend shift reported. Judy had a concussion and a nasty laceration across her forehead, but Bonnie was just bruised. Nonetheless, she’s the one who became hysterical when rescued and had to be sedated. At six o’clock, the radio check with Unicom went unanswered and a State Trooper was sent to investigate. He found Willard still taped to his chair with a laundry sack over his head, conscious but in pain. His cheekbone was crushed. He would never look the same, but his appearance would be a constant reminder that he had survived when others hadn’t.

  Excluding the local police officers who had been slain at the terminal building, ten deaths were recorded. The initial count had been eleven until it was discovered that poor Mr. Wilson had been counted twice, inside the plane and out. Six bodies were on the plane. Two lay beneath it, one was found behind it, and the last, a bit removed from the rest, hung from a perimeter fence.

  Dave Rotz leaned against the wreckage of the Chevy pickup and witnessed the orderly confusion of an accident scene. He was disconsolate and exhausted. Fifty-eight packs were missing and good people had died. He watched as five bodies were dropped down the slide, one after another; it was a somber scene. What a waste. Then someone yelled from the forward exit, “Medic! Get me a medic, on the double!” The mood changed. The atmosphere was electric. One person on board the plane thought to have been killed was still alive. It was Captain Jim Murphy. Extraction from the pitched deck was difficult but after applying a neck brace and harness, he was safely lifted from his seat and pulled from the cockpit. Thirty minutes elapsed before he was finally lowered to the ground where a Care Flight helicopter stood ready to receive him. Dave stepped toward the stretcher and grasped the Captain’s hand and felt a reassuring squeeze in response.

  “You saved two hundred lives Captain, mine among them. Thanks. We won’t forget you.”

  By 10 a.m., the NTSB had released the high value shipments to the Secret Service and all other freight and luggage to the carrier, Global Airlines. Global in turn placed its cargo on a Red Ball Express truc
k destined for Salt Lake City. It had the shipper’s assurance that it would make the 415-mile trip and complete the drop off at Global Cargo by 6:30 p.m. Global Flight 1232 was scheduled to depart SLC for SFO (San Francisco) forty minutes later.

  Phil Roberts relayed the flight schedule to Smitty who notified Jerry Peppers to make his pickup at 8 p.m. At five minutes after eight, Jerry strolled into Global Freight and approached the counter. The blonde freight agent was leaning over a filing cabinet. Same skirt, different color. “My, oh my,” Jerry thought, “if only.” She straightened and turned toward Jerry but before she could spoil the moment, he said, “5-4 Charlie 3-7-8 Papa Mike.”

  “Shipment arrived at 19-50 on loading dock numba twelve. Get off the pot, sweethaaht, space is critical and you ain’t our only customer you know.”

  Jerry waved goodbye thinking about a tongue extraction procedure. What a waste.

  The pickup of the casket went without a hitch, and Smitty was notified immediately. It was late in Texas but Smitty was awake awaiting his call. He cackled and choked with the news. The orderly making late rounds quickly handed him his water bottle and he sipped the cool liquid.

  “Thanks, Henry, I’m okay now. Good night.” Into the cell phone, he said, “Great news, Jerry. Great news! The rendezvous is unchanged. How do you feel about an overnight drive?”

  “I’ve been sleeping all afternoon. I’m good to go.”

  “Fair enough. Willy and Raul have company from Colorado and are headed your way. Any questions?”

  “None. I’m outta here.” Jerry signed off and pumped his fist. “Hot damn,” he said, “Hot damn.”

  At the storage unit, Jerry made the transfer of the eight cash packs to two large steamer trunks, and dismantled the casket as planned. After relocking the storage space and checking his roadmap one last time, Jerry joined the stream of traffic on I-5 headed toward L.A. He would be in Phoenix by nine thirty Sunday morning, thirteen hours after the others arrived. The “others” were Daniel and Harold, who managed to get a room Friday night at an airport motel in Gunnison, and Willy and Raul, who drove through the night to find them. On Saturday, Willy and Raul bagged it in the back seat of the big Ford crew-cab on the drive to Phoenix. It took twelve hours to put Durango, Tuba City and Flagstaff behind them but Saturday night the foursome rolled into Phoenix and logged plenty of time between the sheets. They were refreshed and ready for the long drive to Texas by the time Jerry arrived Sunday morning, weary but in good spirits. The rendezvous had gone as planned. Jerry pulled into the Motel Six and knocked on the doors of rooms 112 and 113. A raucous reunion was joined.