“I see your Comanches here often,” said the booming island voice from behind the counter. He looked fit, in his early fifties, and of mixed racial origin.
“I appreciate your business, but how come you don’t buy one of those fancy jets and fly direct?”
I decided to answer. “The fancy jets are several million dollars we don’t have. We operate on a narrow profit margin, so these planes cost about three-thousand dollars and burn a lot less fuel.”
“Well, better for me you stop in regularly. Nice to see somebody other than salt cargo planes. Looks like fuel is just under two-hundred dollars; let’s call it fifty cents for the nuts and drinks and two-hundred dollars for the whole thing.”
We climbed back in and set the heading bug for 340 degrees. Only six-hundred-and-fifty miles to go. This time the Bahamas lay in front of us. A direct course would take us over Nassau and into big trouble. The plan was to skirt the land masses on the north side, then turn west to 290 degrees after passing Great Abaco Island. From there it’s only a hundred miles to Valkaria airport.
We dropped down to two-hundred feet about fifty miles offshore, to penetrate the military air defense identification zone that lies off both coasts of the United States. If military radar picked us up, the operator would conclude the sole aircraft was too slow to be military, and thus a civilian law-enforcement problem.
Soon the small barrier islands of the coast came into view. With the help of land-based navigation aids, I believed the airport was at our 12 o’clock, just out of sight. Although we listened to the local frequency, nobody was on the air. With the strong onshore winds we knew runway 9 would be in use.
Valkaria was a typical World War II military airport with long runways for that time, which roughly formed the shape of an overlapping, equilateral triangle. This was a variation with an additional north – south runway in the middle of the triangle. Four airstrips of about four-thousand feet attested to its value for the military during the war. Shore reconnaissance aircraft and anti-ship planes were launched from here for both the Gulf and the southeastern U.S.
“I got it at 11:30,” Ortiz almost shouted. “Let’s pull up to one-thousand feet and do right traffic for runway 9.”
“Sounds good,” I replied. I had already shoved in some power to bring us to traffic pattern altitude and looked forward to a smooth landing. I dropped the gear on the downwind leg of the pattern. All planes, big or small, normally fly a rectangular configuration before they turn onto the final approach. This explains how you sometimes see the airport out of your window in good weather and wonder why the pilot is flying past it.
“Shit! I’ve only got two greens,” exclaimed Ortiz. One of the three wheels was not down and locked, a serious problem.
“Exchange bulbs,” I ordered. “I’m breaking left and climbing to two-thousand feet while we sort this out.”
“I switched them, and it’s not the bulb,” said Ortiz.
“Have you had this problem before in this plane?” I asked.
“Once it flickered for a while, and then gave me a solid green.”
“I’m at two-thousand feet. Any objections to shaking the plane to make it lock?”
“No,” said Ortiz. “Let’s try that before the manual gear-extension procedure. Head a couple miles south, the alligators there won’t report anything unusual.”
“Are you ready?”
Ortiz nodded. I began a series of violent side-to-side oscillations to try to force the unlocked main wheel to move into place.
“Stop! It’s green,” yelled Ortiz. “Let’s get this thing on the ground before I puke on your shirt.”
Ortiz gave me taxi instructions to the backside of an old hangar where we tied down the Comanche. Two men and a truck were waiting. He had made an international call from the Matthew Town airport with an estimated arrival time. In fewer than ten minutes, the four of us had transferred the cargo. One man was Latino, the other a black American.
“Sweep out the plane. I don’t any want drug traces,” ordered Ortiz to the truck drivers.
I introduced myself to both men, but was more interested in the American. When I said my name was James, the black man looked briefly at me but did not smile.
“You two are tocayos, ‘the same name,’” chuckled Ortiz. “Kinda like namesake. When somebody else has your first name, you have a special relationship.”
I looked at James, but he turned away.
Motioning behind him, Ortiz said, “We always park a car here with keys under the mat. Although it’s another hundred-and-fifty miles to Miami, Mr. Sterling doesn’t want these planes near there. The airspace is too congested unless you file a proper flight plan, talk to controllers, and follow all the other procedures. So, no paper trail involving these aircraft. I’m going to ride a few miles in the truck, spend the night, and then get a commuter flight back to Miami. Besides, I’m tired of looking at you. But good job.”
“No sweat,” I said. “And you were getting uglier with each passing mile.”
“Fuck you, and here’s your money.”
“Sweet dreams.”
I rooted under the mat for the keys and cranked up the ’67 Chevy. My mind was spinning with what I had and had not learned.
Race is a common bonding agent in prison and street cultures. Ortiz works for Sterling, and both are Latinos. Sterling, the logistics man, works with a production manager in Barranquilla, another Latino. For the trip north, however, it’s a black American and a Latino. The distribution manager is sending one of his own to watch over the load. It wouldn’t be unloaded in Richmond, too far south, or in Baltimore, although both cities contain potential users. Under the firm control of a black gangster, the drugs will be unloaded in a single, secure place in the Washington area. From Washington, he can route smaller amounts, at low risk, both north and south. So, the production manager is Colombian, the logistics manager is Cuban, and the distribution manager is a black American. He is probably a major heroin dealer who has also been in the business for a long time with an established distribution system. Is this a true triumvirate, or is one the boss of bosses?
They also keep their mouths shut. Ortiz gave me no information outside of what I needed to make the runs. If I had probed, it would have aroused suspicion. Plenty of opportunities existed to talk about the operation. Also, I need to warn Ray to resist the temptation to send a couple of FBI agents to Matthew Town, a small, gossipy place. Unlike our early guess, they do not land at or near Miami. This no-place airport on the central Florida coast is much safer.
I need to look up tocayo in a Spanish-English dictionary. The black American had no accent and probably doesn’t speak Spanish. Maybe I can use this word to strike up a conversation – or pull his chain one night at the airport.
Almost there. I’ll be glad to see Jamie, and she’ll be happy to see me, hopefully not too happy.
I parked the Chevy at Ex-Pat Reality, picked up my car, and drove home.
As I was fumbling with the house keys, Jamie opened the door and pulled me inside. She was wearing white shorts and a sexy tube-top. After briefly looking me over like some sort of patient, she hugged me hard enough to crack my back.
“There’s another place on your back that needs to be cracked. May I?”
“Do you know what you’re doing? I don’t want to spend the night in an orthopedic ward.”
She took my question as a “yes,” and embraced me a little higher up. The bear-hug did feel good as did having her big, perky breasts pressed into me.
“Hey,” I said. “Where’s my forehead kiss?”
“Coming up.”
The kiss was sweet and gentle – not romantic or erotic. I was actually looking forward to it.
“You appear like crap, taste like salt, and smell of sweat and oil. Was this the last place you bathed?”
“Stop equivocating! Are you going to let me in or not? By the way, you look great, and the answer is yes, my last bath was here. Sometimes Ray or Roy works late. I want t
o call on your line. Sit next to me if you can stand it.”
“Roy! I just made a run. Shall I brief you now, or do you prefer to go home? How detailed? Everything. Okay, I will write this up tomorrow if Jamie can get a cleared courier from her office to carry it to D.C., so take light notes. She’s here with me and says no problem on the courier.”
I emptied my brain from my impression of Marcus Sterling, to the mechanics of their flight planning, to my preliminary conclusions driving home. I emphasized that I did not want any federal agents snooping around Matthew Town. I waited for his reaction.
“You filled in large information gaps with only one trip,” Roy began. “I agree with the assessment that one black and one Latino driver was a control measure by the distribution manager. D.C. has about four large-scale heroin dealers. Absent any turf wars, we assume they have an agreement.”
“Four questions,” I said. “Who seems to be the most security conscious? Who reaches outside of the black stereotype user with an ambitious distribution network? Does one or two seem more prosperous than in the past? Has law enforcement focused their intelligence efforts on anybody for money laundering? Maybe we can eliminate at least one or two that way.”
“That is a tall order, but I have some ideas. Tomorrow, I will task some analysts on your questions. We may need help from BNDD and the law enforcement side of Treasury. I plan to call the two FBI agents assigned to help me on this operation. Look, at the risk of being blunt, you’re not the lone ranger. We have other federal agencies available to us.”
“The FBI role doesn’t concern me. I wish we had more help from them. For the reasons we discussed, however, I’m uncomfortable with BNDD’s role. Moreover, as investigators, they are not as skilled as the FBI.”
“Okay. We’ve had this discussion before. It’s your ass, so I’ll reluctantly defer to you. Let me think of something bureaucratically useful for them to do that keeps you isolated. If I come up with anything on the heroin-cocaine dealers here, I’ll call. You sound grumpy and exhausted. Go to bed.”
“I need to shower first or my housemate will put me in a shed next to the gators.”
“Gators?”
“We live next to a drainage ditch full of them, and she eats them!”
“Yeah, better go shower. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Roy.”
“James, I’m so proud of you. What you are doing takes real courage.”
“Thanks,” I replied, somewhat self-consciously.
“Shower that scum off of you, and I’ll give you a nice massage to relax tense muscles.”
“Thanks.”
After I toweled off, I pulled on a pair of clean shorts I used for lounging around the house and flopped down on my bed.
“Jamie,” I called. “I’m ready to be relaxed.”
She came in with a bottle of lotion, the same white shorts, but with a sheer negligee top. I stared; she looked so sexy, especially for a man who recently left prison.
“I’m glad you like the top,” she said casually. “Now lie face down, and I’ll work on your back, neck, and legs, then flip over for the front later.”
Although she was quite skilled at the massage, the show wasn’t very subtle. I thanked her, got a forehead kiss, but slept somewhat fitfully. I did not want a complicated relationship with Jamie.
The Hammer
Jamie gave the memo to the courier the next morning. I walked out to look for the gators, which I concluded were a myth. I had two more days off, then a solo run. The sun was behind me, and a reflected light briefly hit me in the eyes, then a sound from across the ditch. A moment later, a large gator crawled up the concrete slope toward me. I slowly backed toward the front steps, attributing the sound to the gator and forgetting about the light in my face.
I sat down in the Lazy-Boy to wonder if I was under surveillance. By whom? Nothing made sense. If Sterling had discovered my identity, I’d be in a dumpster with two in the back of the head. I didn’t like coincidences.
For the next two days, I worked over at Opa Locka airport, doing odd jobs for the chief mechanic. Actually, my Airframe and Powerplant Mechanic’s certificate had expired, but I had done enough A&P work that his assignments were easy. Working gave me time to think about next steps. One crazy idea was to take a commercial flight to Barranquilla, stay in a tourist hotel, and find a cab driver who spoke English. Then what? Say, what’s the name of the local drug kingpin? I put the idea on rear burner. I also mulled over the apparent surveillance problem. Even if local law enforcement knew I was on parole, they have bigger problems to deal with than snooping around in bushes taking pictures.
The next day, I told Jamie about the surveillance matter. She was puzzled as well, but said she would inform SAC Wainwright. We said goodbye, and I headed over to Ex-Pat Reality to arrive by 8:00 a.m. I knocked on Sterling’s door and was greeted with “Enter.” No Names One and Two were standing in front of his desk. They frisked me roughly and removed the pistol from the small of my back, the first place they looked. I thought this might be my last day on earth. Nobody was smiling. Sterling took a single, typewritten page, turned it around and pushed it toward me. Complete with a correct address, it appeared like a formal letter to Marcus Sterling, President of Ex-Pat Reality. I read the letter:
Dear Mr. Sterling:
You have employed James Sixkiller as a pilot. He was an associate of mine in Oklahoma for years. Does he still carry a pistol in the small of his back? The only good thing I can say about him is he’s a skilled pilot. Otherwise, he is a double-crossing, thieving, piece of human garbage that owes me more than ten-thousand dollars. Watch your back because he’s watching it too.
Sincerely,
A Distant Friend
“Care to comment, James?” said the icy voice of Marcus Sterling.
“Yes. Was it postmarked in Oklahoma?”
“No. It was pushed under the door.”
“That’s because I have no associates in Oklahoma. I owe nobody money, let alone ten-thousand. I worked alone and was busted alone by a border patrol agent who spotted the tail number of my plane as I flew low over the river. That letter was hand-delivered by the same person who has been snapping photos of me from the bushes near my house.”
“James, how did he know where you conceal your pistol?”
“From the photo surveillance. Finally, no low life in Oklahoma knows anything about you, least of all the correct address of your company. Somebody here has you in their cross hairs and is trying to set me up for whatever comes next.”
Sterling said nothing during my rebuttal, but his body shifted slightly when I used the phrase “correct address of your company.” His silence continued for a full minute after I finished, looking at me with a penetrating gaze designed to give him more information or break the weak. I returned his gaze without expression. It was his move.
“Number Two, return the pistol to James. James, make sure to phone the pick-up team from the Bahamas. Ortiz gave you the number, correct?”
“Yes, and I will call.”
“All of you get out my office.”
Marcus punched intercom for his secretary to call Tyrone in Washington. Tyrone picked up on the third ring.
“Good to hear from you too. I need your advice.” He read the letter to Tyrone, repeated what Sixkiller had said, and how he had reacted.
Marcus gave Tyrone time to think, as he would do if the roles were reversed.
Tyrone began, “I believe Sixkiller. He had all the right answers without knowing this was coming. That said; the only thing Sixkiller could be setup for is a load rip-off. We may have a problem in the pipeline similar to the Nassau double-cross.”
“Tyrone, I trust our pilots and have confidence in all of them, even Sixkiller. Whoever is setting this up knows one of our pilots is a gringo, and if I were to guess, at least one Latino is behind this. Do you think this is coming from Barranquilla or here?”
“I can’t say yet. Maybe even from my office, too many unknowns.
Call Gonzalez in Barranquilla and tell him we need his help – which we do. His ego couldn’t tolerate finding out second hand we’re doing an internal investigation. Frankly, the only possibilities for problems from Barranquilla are the ground crew loading planes or Alvaro’s big mouth. Thinking about it, I see this as more of a Miami problem. Why set up Sixkiller? Why announce their intentions? Marcus, maybe you are the target, and this is not directly related to drugs.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. The letter said to watch my back. What about the Matthew Town gossip?”
“I doubt it. How would they know your company’s address?”
“Good point.”
“We caught and killed the guy in Madrid,” said Tyrone, “but he never gave up the dirt bags in Nassau. Everybody talks when tortured, so I don’t think he knew their identities. I’ll also bet the airplane is at the bottom of the Atlantic, and the drugs were sold overseas. Unless you personally are the target, my assumption is these same people are planning another trip to the well.”
“It rises to the top of my list.”
“Are any of the four No Names trained investigators?”
“Yeah. Number Three was a small-town detective sergeant. He actually attended the FBI National Academy program for cops, but didn’t graduate for technical reasons,” said Marcus.
“What about putting him with one of the other three, if any has an IQ above room temperature, explain the situation, and see what they come up with. I’ll do the same on this end. Alvaro can check out his ground teams. Ask Alvaro to send someone he trusts to check their homes. Are they living a little too well? Bank accounts, and things like that. What do you think?”
“I like the plan. Tyrone, you always ask me to call Alvaro with bad news.”
“It’s not exactly that. You have the right knack in delicate situations, especially if we suspect Latinos of screwing us. You know he doesn’t care much for blacks.”
White Death Page 14