The Daisy Ducks

by Rick Boyer

  Handling the camper rig on those slick mountain roads was no picnic. I was used to driving in snow and ice. But I wasn't used to a four-ton truck, and I certainly wasn't accustomed to the steep grades and hairpin turns as well. I eased down out of the campground in first gear. When I reached the highway, I kept my speed under twenty-five. I had the roads all to myself and turned off on the little highway leading to the Royce place. Almost immediately, a patrol car with its blue light winking was behind me. Although I had no official reason for alarm, a cold sweat formed on my head and neck. Like most Northerners, I'd heard stories about the law in small southern towns arresting passers-through on trumped-up charges and holding them for a few days in intolerable conditions. But the police car swept right around me and barreled down the road. At the fate he was going, I hoped he had studded tires on his cruiser. Two more bends and I saw a solid line of winking blue lights. A state highway patrolman with a lighted red wand waved me over.

  "Been a wreck up yonder," he said. "Where you headed this time of night?"

  I answered that I thought I was lost. I was trying to get up to Knoxville, Tennessee. The trooper squinted at me and asked for identification. He wasn't buying. I showed him the papers, including the rental agreement. I was perfectly willing to play the dumb, lost Yankee. And of course I pointed out that I was a physician. Americans trust doctors. The trust is often not deserved, but it's there. Still, the state trooper with the weather-wizened face and the hillbilly twang was not impressed. He stared at me keenly, then looked at the papers, then back at me, then the papers.

  Finally he wrote my name and tag number in a notebook, then gave me directions on how to proceed to Knoxville the sensible way. I managed to back up to a wide spot on the shoulder and turn around. As I slipped the rig into first gear, he came up to my window again.

  "I just wanted to ask you what you's a-doin' out on these mountain roads in the middle of the night in a snowstorm," he said.

  Now that was a good question, a damn good one. I don't know why rural Southerners are so often portrayed in the media as stupid and comical. Tain't so, friends, at least with the mountain people. What they may lack in formal education is more than made up for in cleverness, sagacity, and dogged determination. I had to think of an answer that would satisfy him or there was no telling what would happen next. I started to explain, and as I did so he reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a gold foil pouch with the name R.J. Gold on it. He opened the pouch, took out a dark plug of tobacco, bit off a big hunk, and settled it snugly into the pouch of his left cheek. His eyes softened, glazed over, in the ecstasy of it.

  My explanation went like this: I was staying in a nearby campground and could not sleep, so I had decided to make an early start over the mountains to see Knoxville and Gatlinburg, which I had planned earlier. I had apparently taken a wrong turn, because this road looked too small to be Highway 129. I sure was thankful he had set me straight on how to get there. Yes sir! He thought awhile and took out the notebook again. Uh-oh. "Now, lessee. What's the name of the campground?"

  I told him, and he wrote it down. And then it was impressed upon me, if it hadn't been already, that I must play it as straight as possible with this man or I would find myself up to my neck in quicksand.

  "Now I know John Hardesty, and believe me, I'll check on this. Thank you for answering my questions. You can see why I was curious. It don't make a lot of sense for you to be traipsing over the mountains in this weather. It's bad here, but it's pure hell further west. My advice is that you head back to Hardesty's and stay put till she clears. But then you can do what you want —"

  I eased away from the roadblock and headed for the campground. If I wanted to retrieve my items, now was not the time. But retrieve them I would, if only for the pair of four-hundred-dollar Steiner binoculars. Maybe that could be the first item of business when Roantis and Summers showed up.

  I was back in the bunk just before five, so tired I couldn't stay awake.

  I awoke at one in the afternoon, very hungry. The camper lockers were stocked, but I had my mind set on a New England boiled dinner, just the thing for a snowy day. I headed down to it the supermarket in town. The snow was still falling, but not as heavily. All the footprints from my nighttime visitor had vanished. I bought the ingredients for the boiled dinner and an afternoon paper and headed back to my site. I filled a big aluminum pot with water and set it on the stove. When it was boiling, I put in the corned beef, turned down the heat, and covered it. In a short time the camper smelled terrific. I made a cup of coffee and sat at the dinette table with the paper. It was the Asheville Times, the afternoon paper. Page 1 wasn't that exciting.

  But page 2 was dynamite.

  A big picture, a photograph of a small plane crashed in the woods with its tail up in the air. It reminded me of a feeding mallard. Next the headline: PILOT CRITICAL FOLLOWING ROBBINSVILLE CRASH. And then the copy:

  Robinsonville— A light, single-engine aircraft loaded with cocaine and heroin crashed in a wooded area near here early this morning. The pilot, who is in critical condition, was not carrying any identification. He remains unconscious at Vance Memorial Hospital. Local police and state troopers suspect that the pilot ran into trouble trying to negotiate the mountains in the sudden storm and attempted an emergency landing in a pasture on the edge of town. Since the plane was being used for smuggling, police speculate that the aircraft was flying without lights or radio contact with an authorized tower, thus increasing the hazard.

  Authorities have not yet determined the plane's origin, except to say that it does not bear the standard "N" prefix that identifies aircraft registered in the United States. The pilot, who appears to be of Hispanic origin, will be questioned as soon as possible, according to Sheriff Roger Penland, assuming he does regain consciousness.

  Concerning the destination of the aircraft, Penland speculates it was probably Charlotte or perhaps Atlanta, since "there would be no market for a haul that big up here in the mountains." A preliminary estimate of the street value of the illicit drugs was put at $1-$1.5 million, but Penland said, "It could be two or three times that. I just don't have the experience with this kind of thing to make a good estimate. I'm better at judging the value of moonshine."

  The plane came to rest in deep woods bordering the farm property of William Royce. The plane's landing gear and both wings were sheared off at impact. There was no fire and no other injuries.

  I looked at the photo again. It had obviously been taken early in the morning, after the sun was fully up. The plane had come to rest not far from a road, part of which was clearly visible in the lower left comer of the picture. I recognized the place exactly. When I was talking to the patrolman who mentioned a "wreck," the aircraft was less than a hundred yards away from us, in the trees opposite the Royce farm. Of course I had assumed he meant car wreck. Not so. And something else was bothering me even more. It bothered me so much I found myself pacing up and down the tiny camper, my booted feet stomping on the tiny linoleum floor of the camper.

  "Damn!" I shouted.

  I swore and paced for a good reason. Without knowing it, I had caused the plane to crash. When I'd pulled that wire in the switchbox, I had screwed up the runway lights. And if the pilot died, drugrunner or no, I would be his killer.

  That's a nice thought indeed for someone whose career is supposed to deal with the alleviation of human suffering. I sat down again, put my chin in my hands, and thought. Outside, the snow was coming down again. Within five minutes, I was in the phone booth at the campground office, placing a call to my friend at Hanscom Field, James McGrevan. He remembered me and said he'd answer all the questions he could.

  "I'm going to describe what I saw on a field down here," I began, "and see if you can tell me what it is and how it works, okay?"

  So I explained everything that had happened at the Royce farm: my discovering the hidden runway lights, the power source in the old pump house, and the electrical box and antenna. Before I could even f
inish, he interrupted me.

  "Okay, Dr. Adams, I know what you found. What you ran into is a unicom, a remote-activated radio tower. This system allows a pilot to turn on runway lights from his plane without anyone on the ground to help him. It's for seldom-used runways or ones in remote locations."

  "That sounds exactly right. This place is certainly remote and seldom used."

  "Okay, the system is run by a radio, or at least a receiver, which can pick up certain frequencies from an overhead plane. The frequencies most often used in unicoms are 122.7 and 122.8. The plane, when approaching the field, switches to this frequency. Then, when the pilot presses the push-to-talk button on his microphone, the system on the ground activates a switch that turns on the lights."

  "I see. And once they're on, do they stay on?"

  "Yes, for a certain length of time, usually eight minutes. Then they turn off automatically. If the pilot needs or wants more illumination—say he's forced to circle or make another approach—he simply pumps the microphone switch again. Presto, another eight minutes of lights."

  "And the lights can also be switched on manually from the ground?"

  "Sure, by turning a selector switch."

  "Well thanks." I sighed. "You've certainly been a big help."

  I trudged back to the camper with my worst fears realized. I sat at the little dinette table and worked it out. When I'd turned that knob in the control box, I'd switched the system on manually. But as McGrevan had pointed out, once on, the lights were designed to remain on for some time. The only way I could shut them off was to unhook one of the power wires. There was probably a master power switch for the system, but it wasn't in the box. No doubt it was in the locked pump house.

  I could imagine, in my mind's eye, the pilot coming in low over the mountains. Probably he was running silent and dark, using Robbinsville as his last landmark. From the lights of the town, he would use his gyrocompass to set a course toward Royce's place. At the same time, he'd pump his microphone button to switch on the lights down below. But there were no lights because I had disconnected them. Add to this the confusion and danger of the snowstorm. The pilot had obviously overshot the field and crashed in the woods. He was coming down low, looking for the lights that weren't there, thinking he'd spot them any second. And then he went into the trees before he knew what hit him.

  "God, please don't let him die," I whispered aloud.

  Of course, there would be those upright citizens who would praise me, saying that I had nipped evil in the bud. And speaking of human suffering, how much had I prevented by keeping that planeload of hard drugs off the street? But I didn't buy that. Drugrunner or not, he was in the hospital, in critical condition, and I had put him there.

  To clear my mind of guilt temporarily, I placed this new information into the chain of events to see how it altered them. For one thing, it was now clear that the men in the two cars that had happened by the Royce farm in the dead of night weren't friends or acquaintances of Bill's. If they had been, they would have told him about the lights, and he would have then inspected the system and replaced the disconnected wire. He did not make such a repair because he assumed the unicom was working. That left two possible scenarios. Unfortunately, neither of them was cheery.

  Scenario one: The men driving the two cars, hearing about the plane crash, go to the law and report the strange lights they saw on the farm the previous night. The police get a warrant, search the farm, and find the lights, which are enough to incriminate Royce. They also find binoculars belonging to one C. Adams, of Concord, Mass. Who's he? they wonder. Then one of them, the trooper who directed traffic at the crash site, whips out his notebook with my name and plate number in it. Hearing the description of the camper, the drivers of the two cars chime in that, yes, they too remember the camper: it was at the farm the night before the crash. So Adams was at the farm two nights in a row, just before and after the plane—carrying illegal drugs—was due to land there. Fade-out. Curtain.

  That chain of events, perhaps beginning to unravel at this very moment, was bleak indeed. However, the second scenario was surely no improvement.

  Scenario two: The drivers of the midnight cars do not go to the law. Perhaps their innate distrust of the police, or some shady nighttime activity of their own, rules this out. So the law assumes the crash was simple pilot error or equipment failure. But at least one person knows better: Bill Royce, ex-air force commando. At his first chance, he examines the signal box on the tree. A wire pulled out. Who did it? He searches the farm, finds binoculars belonging to one C. Adams, of Concord, Mass. Dr. Adams, the well-mannered guy who's a friend of Roantis. The guy who said he was returning to New England. The guy who lied, sabotaged his unicom, ruined his million-dollar drug deal, and will probably get him arrested and thrown in the pen . . . Oh yeah, that Dr. Adams . . . What are Royce and his friends going to do about him? What do they have in mind for this Yankee sneak and traitor?

  l had no idea, except that it would not be Dinner at the Ritz. Fade-out. Curtain.

  l sat lor a while inhaling the fragrance of the boiled cornedbeef. It didn't help. I could, no doubt, put forth several more scenarios, each a variation on a theme. I had a feeling none of them would conclude with C. Adams remaining a free and/or healthy human being.

  I ducked into the tiny bathroom and lathered my face. I wanted to look as nice as possible. I didn't want an open-casket funeral, but one never knows.

  Assuming the law found my equipment and came knocking on my door, what would happen? jail as a suspect. Phone calls home. A hearing. Perhaps a trial. The odds were good I would eventually walk.

  What would happen if Royce got on my trail? How could I hide or escape from him, a man who could jump from an airplane at twenty thousand feet? Rig explosives anywhere. Kill with his hands. Who knew these mountains like the back of his hand. A master at espionage, terror, and mayhem; a man at home with things like machine guns, garrotes, C-4 plastique, claymore mines, tripwires, and torture.

  I picked up the razor and started to shave.

  "Well, hot shot," I said to the clown who stared back from the mirror, "looks like you've really done it this time."

  Fade-out. Curtain.

  18

  STRATEGIC WITHDRAWAL. That's what they called it in the Daisy Ducks' war in Vietnam. As I finished shaving, that phrase was echoing in my head. I thought it might be a good idea under the circumstances. The law knew where I was. Royce could, and would, find out in short order. I was therefore a sitting duck. It was true that Roantis and Summers were on their way. If Roantis's old crate was still in forward motion, they were certainly in North Carolina by this time, probably almost to Asheville. I'd feel a bit safer in Asheville. For one thing, they had lawyers there. I had a hunch I'd be needing one.

  But first things first. I had to call Mary.

  "It was not a date, Charlie. Your saying that makes you insecure. There were other people there, too."

  "Couples?"

  "Yeah, some of them."

  "And so old Leon Kondracki—recently divorced—just happened to know you'd be in town, and so he called you to reminisce?"

  "Uh-huh. Something like that."

  "What do you mean, ‘something like that'?"

  "Charlie, c'mon! Give me a break. How can you mash with Janice DeGroot in the phone booth, for Chrissakes, and then get pissed off at me when I go out for a pizza with my old high school boyfriend—and nine other people?"

  "How can I get pissed off? Easy, that's how!"

  Well, you get the general drift of the conversation. It was not pleasant. And I'd be the first to admit that I was being overly possessive. But dammit, I couldn't help it. I couldn't shake the feeling that Mary was trying to get revenge. And doing, I had to admit, a thoroughly good job of it.

  We called a truce to bury our dead, and we agreed I'd phone her again in Concord after her flight back home. I went back to the rig, unhooked it, and rolled out of the campground in a sour mood. I made it a point to tell Mr
. Hardesty that I was going over the mountains to Tennessee. I wanted to lay a little false trail for my acquaintances on both sides of the law who might be interested in following me. I felt a sense of relief being on the road again. My aborted New England boiled dinner could wait a few hours. As a matter of fact, after the phone call to Mary, it could wait till hell froze over. And it's not every day that Charles Adams would say that about food, either.

  But before I left Robbinsville, there was one thing I had to do. Vance Memorial Hospital was not large. I stopped at the reception desk to ask about the injured pilot and was directed into the next room to wait "with all the others." There were five other people in that room, sitting around smoking and drinking coffee. If one of them hadn't been a woman, I would've sworn it was a maternity waiting room. Who were they? Reporters, I figured. Before long, a white-gowned attendant told us to follow him. We walked down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, and approached a section of hallway that was being guarded by a police officer sitting in a straight-back chair. I didn't like this. What would I show for credentials? But the officer scarcely gave us a glance as we all walked past. At the far end of this corridor there were more chairs set up outside the last room. We sat down while doctors and nurses came and went. We were told to wait a few minutes until the attending physician could give us a full report on the patient's progress. Meanwhile, a Catholic priest had shown up, and he sat solemnly with his little black case on his lap. I knew what was in that case; I had seen hundreds just like it in all the hospitals where I've performed surgery. It held silver vials with screw tops, and inside the vials were rare oils in solid form, rather like petroleum jelly. Except they came from whales and other exotic creatures and had a lovely musky scent. These were anointing oils and were rubbed on the foreheads of parishioners at the time of various sacraments, such as baptism, confirmation, and so on. There was a different oil for each sacrament. One of them was for extreme unction. In the old days this was known as the last rites. The problem with this nomenclature was that it understandably scared the hell out of hospital patients. So now the Catholic church refers to it as "prayer for the sick." Better. The priest, a swarthy fellow who looked rather Hispanic himself, would perhaps speak to the injured man in his native tongue and give him comfort.