White Death

by Philip C. Baridon

  Could a small plane make a direct run into Miami from an airfield near Barranquilla? Too far, not enough fuel. It was over one-thousand miles from Barranquilla to Miami. Moreover, Miami or any port of entry was far too risky. With enough fuel, could they make a long trip to somewhere else in Florida undetected by the U.S. military? Although Tyrone did not know much about general aviation (GA), he had driven past small airports all around Washington: Woodbridge; Beacon Hill; College Park; Bowie, and Leesburg to name a few. Therefore, Florida must also be full of these little airfields.

  Wait. The U.S. military, by law, had no role in civilian law enforcement. The military would relegate a small, slow aircraft to the trash as a civilian problem. So, it was back to Customs. What did they have? Not much besides fast boats.

  Tyrone hit the intercom and asked his secretary to call Marcus. He wanted to know what Marcus thought of using small planes, and whether they should talk to Jorge Ortiz, one of several pilots from Batista’s old Cuban air force doing odd jobs for Marcus. If they agreed it was feasible, then they would broach the subject with Alvaro.

  Chapter 11

  A New Plan

  Miami, Florida, May 1969

  With the pressing need for a solution, Marcus agreed to a meeting with Ortiz. Tyrone agreed to take the next, direct Eastern Airlines flight to Miami. In the meantime, Marcus would put Ortiz to work on a plan, with an emphasis on details and feasibility.

  The next afternoon Marcus picked up Tyrone at the airport. Although amateurs about aviation matters, they outlined the basic issues in the car: (1) range and fuel; (2) payload, how much could it carry; (3) avoiding the attention of law enforcement; (4) loss percentage as a function of the number of trips due to crashes or detection; and (5) silencing any surviving pilots who might want to cut a deal with the police. This last topic would not be discussed with Ortiz, but concerned Tyrone. The unspoken consensus was captured pilots were dead men walking.

  Tyrone spoke no Spanish, but was quietly amused when he heard Marcus and Ortiz talking in the rapid, clipped manner characteristic of Cuban Spanish. Ortiz was of average build, prematurely balding, and probably a few pounds heavier than during his air force days under Batista. Although nicely dressed in a guayabera shirt and the regulation black pants, Tyrone thought he had some rough edges buried under the smooth pleasantries in his excellent English – which was fine with Tyrone.

  Ortiz had done his homework. He agreed with their assumption that no light plane would have the non-stop range; unless you used an extremely risky method of loading the back with a row of three or four twenty-five-gallon fuel tanks and jerry-rigging a fuel pump into the main tanks as they burned off fuel. He could obtain such accessories.

  “First,” said Ortiz, “a big problem is payload reduction. Aviation gas weighs six pounds per gallon, thus a max range flight with an extra hundred gallons knocks off six-hundred pounds from the useful load – more than one-half of any GA plane available. Second, accidental fuel starvation is a common occurrence because of pump malfunctions between tanks. If this happens, the pilot must trim his aircraft for best lift over drag ratio, set the autopilot on heading hold, and climb into the back and sort things out before the plane glides into the ocean, maybe five or ten minutes depending on altitude. Flying low, you’re dead.” Marcus asked him if he had ever done this before. “No,” he replied. “That’s why I’m here talking to you today.”

  Ortiz quickly read their faces and said, “I have a better plan and a plane to do the job.” Both men unintentionally sat up a little straighter in their seats.

  “The trip should be divided roughly in half, with a refueling point at Matthew Town on the Great Inagua Island in the southern Bahamas. The pilot departs from an airfield west of Barranquilla heading north for five-hundred-twenty-five miles, crossing the western tip of Haiti, and east through the Windward Passage for another one-hundred-seventy-seven miles to Matthew Town. Although a small field, it has fuel. The total trip is just over seven-hundred miles. Next, the flight heads west over the northern Bahamas then directly to Valkaria, one mile west of the Florida coast but far south of all the space activity near Cocoa Beach. The final leg is about six-hundred-and-fifty miles.

  “For this proposal I recommend the purchase of two or three Piper Comanches, specifically the PA-24-250 with optional long range fuel tanks. With the rear seats removed and one pilot, the plane can carry up to five hundred pounds of product. At 65 percent power, which is not a conservative setting, it has a thousand-mile range at a speed of one-hundred-fifty-four knots or about one-hundred-seventy-five miles per hour. The extra range gives the pilot a fuel cushion if he has to dodge storms or gets off course. The planes cost approximately thirty-thousand dollars each. What do you think?”

  Both men looked slightly stunned. Tyrone finally spoke, “Marcus, I commend you for your selection of an advisor on this problem. And you, Jorge for putting all of this together in less than twenty-four hours.”

  Trying to appear modest, Ortiz said, “It wasn’t that hard. I pulled out some World Aeronautical Charts and looked for planes with fair speed and good range. Even if these are not night flights, we need instrument-rated pilots who can avoid the disorientation caused by flying over open water in poor visibility. I know of one other qualified pilot who might be interested. May I ask what it pays per trip?”

  The obvious question caught Marcus and Tyrone by surprise. This was supposed to be a feasibility meeting, not a done deal. Tyrone finally offered, “The pay will be excellent considering the risks. We need to talk to our other partner and get back to you on this. You fully understand the sensitivity of this matter, correct?”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave to speak to nobody.”

  As they parted, Tyrone heard Marcus say, “Entiendes que sera´ su propia tumba si decides hablar de este asunto.”

  “Si, comprendo.”

  Tyrone decided not to ask. He heard something sounding like tomb or death and considered that Marcus was adding some emphasis to his warning.

  On the way back to the airport, the men talked over the merits of the proposal and how to handle Gonzalez. They thought it had great potential for moving cocaine in quantity and a few kilos of marijuana. Ortiz had estimated five-hundred pounds of product per trip, better than they had expected. In addition, it would minimize the use of swallowers, a method nobody liked. They decided it was the best plan; but who would talk to Gonzalez? Tyrone was blunt about Gonzalez’s prejudice against blacks, and he acknowledged his manner of superiority also irritated to him. Accordingly, the burden fell to Marcus to convince Gonzalez. They compared notes in the terminal building and agreed on how best to present it to him.

  The next day, Marcus called Tyrone with the good news. Gonzalez liked it. Now, they needed to buy three planes, using three straw purchasers, and do a trial run.

  Implementation

  The three straw buyers bought the planes with cash and delivered them to Miami. Marcus paid each buyer three-thousand dollars for his services and told them to disappear. Ortiz planned a trial run, without drugs, in daylight to anticipate problems and evaluate the plan. He quickly thought through the three basic forms of navigation, critical for a long flight over water. Navigation by landmarks was out, except when near major landmasses such as the Bahamas or the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti. The trip required a lot more of dead reckoning, but between ground-based navigation aids, no other option existed.

  During his practice run, Ortiz jotted down altitudes and headings. Basically, the pilot flies low near land and high over open water to pick up navigation signals out of Barranquilla, and later from the vortac at Guantanamo,5 which also had Distance Measuring Equipment (DME).

  While taking on fuel in Matthew Town, Ortiz began chatting with the lineman – who was quite taken with the gleaming new Comanche.

  “Do you work at nights as well?” asked Ortiz.

  The young man replied that two linemen pumped fuel during the day and evening, but lived nearby
and would respond to night radio calls on the local frequency.

  Ortiz pressed a little harder. “How late?”

  The movement of the young man’s shoulders and face answered his question.

  “May I ask how much you make an hour?”

  “A buck seventy-five.”

  “Do you have a telephone where you live and near where you sleep?”

  “Yeah, don’t use it much.”

  “Sometimes I, and a few co-workers in my company, have to deliver handmade, spare parts at unusual hours to another company that operates around the clock near Miami. Obviously, we need to count on getting fuel here to finish the trip, another six hundred miles. We can’t spend the night here. If I called you from Barranquilla to say that one of us is leaving, would you go to the airport, listen to the radio, and be ready? It takes about four-and-half hours to fly here from Barranquilla.”

  “How much extra would you pay us?”

  “Well, what do you think would be fair for getting you out of bed late?”

  “Maybe twenty dollars.” Which was more than he had hoped for.

  Ortiz puffed up a little and said, “This is a time-sensitive business we operate. We can make or lose a lot of money based on our ability to supply these parts when needed. Because delays could be so costly, I will give you and your friend one-hundred dollars for late-night refueling. If you both show, to avoid arguing, then it is fifty dollars each. A deal?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Now, I need to jot down your name and phone number, as well as your friend’s name and number if you have it.”

  “Yes, sir. I can give you both.”

  “Please don’t brag to your friends, or I may need to reconsider our exclusive arrangement.”

  With the deal sealed, such as it was, Ortiz departed for the last 640 miles. Soon, he could pick up several coastal navigation aids. Twenty miles out to sea he dropped down to two hundred feet and reduced his speed a little, while crossing the coast. Valkaria airport was easy to find. Although physically exhausted and tired of pissing into a bottle, Jorge Ortiz was elated. He had flown a dream plane more than thirteen-hundred miles with one fuel stop. He called Marcus: “It was easy.”

  Chapter 12

  The Crime Beat

  Washington, D.C., July 1969

  “Pull to the right, stop the car, turn off the ignition, and put your hands on the top of the steering wheel,” said the imperious voice through the loudspeaker mounted in the grill of the cruiser. Mike Jansen had pulled over a drunk driver at 2:30 a.m., no doubt trying to find his house after the bar closed. The case required a pile of paperwork and at least two court appearances. Mike would be in court most of the morning, try to get some sleep later, and begin the next shift.

  D.C. did not permit the results of breathalyzers as evidence, so the drunks had to urinate in a bottle back at the station. This was not always easy. I was doing paperwork on a stolen car and prohibited weapon in the basement when I heard Mike having trouble with his lockup. I listened to the following conversation between them.

  “How ’bout filling this bottle for me?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Hey, you really are drunk.”

  “I ain’t drunk.”

  “Doin’ some tastin’ but not drunk, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well the only way to prove you ain’t drunk is to piss in this bottle.”

  The drunk eyed the bottle with suspicion. “So, this will prove I’m not drunk.”

  “That’s right. Just fill it about halfway.”

  “But I gotta piss bad.”

  “Fill it halfway, and I’ll take you to a bathroom.”

  “Okay.”

  With the drunk feeling relieved, Mike used the desk next to me to start filling out forms.

  “What do you have?” he asked.

  “Operating a stolen car and possession of a prohibited weapon,” I replied. “This knife is seriously ugly. Watch this.” I held the nine-inch knife in front of him and pressed the button. The blade shot out of the shaft with such force that I almost dropped it.

  “Holy shit! I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “The kid here is seventeen with a juvy record as long as your arm. Says it will pierce a two-by-four board, and I believe him. All you need to do is hold it against the ribs near the heart, press the button, and walk away. I called Homicide to see if they have any unsolved cases fitting this M.O.”

  We worked in silence for a while, with the usual questions for the lockups. I finished before Mike and turned to go.

  “I’ll see you in court in the morning. Just another night in paradise.”

  We locked eyes and smiled.

  Unambiguous Language

  Fate sent me to the 6200 Club twice on the same evening. Preacher and I had the power shift –6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. The 6200 Club was the secondary lesbian bar in the precinct, and a hangout for lowlifes of all species. I enjoyed working with Preacher; he never got rattled and was supremely skilled at breaking up what criminologists call, “the degenerating cycle of violence.” It’s sort of a game in which each side understands the rules and decides how much to up the ante until violence is inevitable or one effectively surrenders and tries to walk away, which is not always possible. Without realizing it, many cops play this game during confrontations, almost guaranteeing a violent outcome.

  Preacher would break the rules by saying or doing things that didn’t fit the pattern expected to unfold. The most famous story about him involved a group of Renegade outlaw bikers partying in a house, shooting out streetlights, and raising hell generally. Preacher’s appearance also fitted his personality. He was partially bald, wore wire-rimmed spectacles, always seemed slightly pale, and was a little thin and soft spoken. A photo adorned the bulletin board of him and Brinson standing next to each other with Brinson’s huge hand resting on his shoulder. In contrast to Brinson’s grim face, Preacher was smiling. Brinson towered over Preacher with a tattoo visible on one of his bulging biceps. One photo summarized their different styles.

  Two cars were dispatched to the disturbance. Preacher walked to the other car and told them he wanted to try to quiet them down alone first. All warned him that these were thugs, outlaw bikers, most of whom had to “roll their bones” (kill an enemy biker) to become “patched in” to the gang. He listened, told everybody not to worry, took off his cap (against the rules), and knocked on the door. When a pair of bikers opened it, he asked if he could come in.

  “Hey, the fucking police want to join the party.” Then, the door closed. In a few minutes, the music was turned down. The door opened briefly with Preacher pointing to a shot-out street light and laying his hand gently on the shoulder of one of the bikers. The officers waited anxiously outside. Finally, he emerged, returned to his seat, and said, “We’re 10-8 (back in service), party quieted.”

  Later, of course, other officers interrogated him as to what happened in the house. Preacher initially told them, “I want to chat with you boys, but the music is too loud, so please turn it down a little.” They offered him a marijuana cigarette and a beer. He thanked them, put the joint in his shirt pocket and set the beer next to him. Guns and drugs lay in plain sight all over the living room – which he pointedly ignored. With the stereo down, he reminded them of “how our mothers raised us to be polite and not to destroy others’ property.”

  “It’s okay to party,” he said, “but try to be respectful of your neighbors. They may be upset by too much noise.” Preacher looked for someone who might be the boss and said, “Let me show you something outside.”

  He anticipated the “fuck-you” response, gently grabbed him by the outer ear like a wayward child, and led him to the door, lecturing him on foul language and good behavior along the way. This was greeted by shrieks of laughter from the other bikers. Pointing to the shot-out streetlight, he said, “The taxpayers—and that’s all of us—must pay four-hundred dollars to replace it.” When they turned to come back in, Pre
acher said that most stared at him, speechless. So, he wrapped it up with an agreement from them to quiet down. He thanked them for their time and hospitality, and left. One of them yelled, “Goodbye, Preacher,” and that’s how he got his nickname.

  Pressed by one of the more hardline cops about ignoring all of the crimes committed or in plain sight, Preacher raised his voice a little. “Do you think we’re going to change those people? Probably none of the crimes would have resulted in jail time, and if they did, jail for them is just part of their life. Also, they were well-armed. How do we justify the bloodshed, probably on both sides? They are who they are. Our job is to contain their depredations. The dispatcher sent me to quiet the party, which I did. Perhaps some of them actually listened to me.” There were no further questions.

  Later, Preacher and I were eating at the 6200 Club. Unlike at the Zombies, the food was edible. We carried a radio in with us, hoping to stretch the time to eat. Cops eat too fast; it is a matter of survival. Two-man units can’t go out of service for food. If there were a real emergency and nobody answered, then we would take the run and leave. So far, we had been lucky.

  For 7:00 p.m., the place was mostly empty. I noticed Big Carol with two of her girls in a back booth but paid no attention. I was hungry. About halfway through my meal, Preacher says, “I have a better view of your friend. You might want to take a look.”

  “Shit, Preacher. I thought you couldn’t see with those glasses. Let me wolf down a few more bites, and I’ll talk to her.”

  I walked slowly back to her table, watched the flurry of activity, greeted Carol, and told the two girls to hit the road.

  “Empty your pockets, Carol, and I mean everything.”