As Sal swallows a sip from his glass bottle he continues. “Now . . . over here, we got the point man, the entry man. Correct height, weight, and walk. Big outgoing . . . personality, fast cars, women, lots of cash, and toys around. Older than his partner, probably flew in Nam . . . maybe a light Colonel when he got out or a wildcat renegade Major.
Still playing hand after hand he taps the play/draw button on the machine, he hits a few times and wins about 75 dollars, but like most people, he keeps feeding it all back in. The bartender stops by to chit chat, to offer to get him another beer or perhaps a cocktail.
“Are you ready for another drink, my friend? Perchance,” he grins—”a mixed drink, a sip of good scotch or a Crown and water?” he asks.
Sal then replies, “Yeah . . . no, just another cold beer . . . that’s fine.”
Serving the beer, Bill the bartender asks, “Winning much?”
Sal then says, “A little . . . uh a bit.”
With a quick gesture, Bill points over toward the dice tables and offers. “Hell of a game going on over at the craps’ tables . . . those folks already the hit house for right at a 100,000 grand so far. You might want to join ’em.”
“You know that tall guy with the cigar?” asks Sal.
Bill the bartender, continues on. “No, not actually, but he’s in here once or twice a month. Kind guy, big tipper . . . all the boys in the gaming pit like him.”
“Appears to me like he’s doing all right tonight,” observes Sal.
“Oh, he’ll either win big or lose big . . . fifty grand a night. Yep . . . that man right over there, according to the dealers at the tables . . .” Bill turns his head back to Sal, “. . . keep putting your money into the machine, she’s due to hit.”
Trying to sound a bit naïve Sal says, “Truly uh, thanks for the tip.”
Bill’s response is, “Yeah, these machines are set up to hit every three or four days and it hasn’t hit yet. These bar machines don’t pay much . . . 800 to 2,000 bucks or so, but (kidding) we bartenders like the tips too.
Sal quickly says, “Thanks again.”
As time drifts on and on, Sal drops a few more twenties into the money slot and scrutinizes the whole lot, but doesn’t win much. Sipping on another beer, he punches in a five coin bet and hits for a quick straight flush for 1,600 bucks. A bit later as he is cashing out his ticket, Tom and John start to leave. Sal tips the bartender a bunch of ones, tens, and fives. He quickly splits with a paper electronic cash ticket worth a bit over 1,650 dollars.
One taxi cab followed by another taxi cab pulls out onto the Strip and heads down the strip toward the Tropicana. Southbound from Caesar’s, they roll past The Bellagio, The Monte Carlo, New York, New York, and many more. Tom and John exit their cab and look about as the two men enter the lobby. A moment later, Sal enters the first set of doors and keeps an eye on the two pilots as they head toward the elevators.
Once the elevator doors close, Sal enters the lobby and watches for a several minutes before deciding that they’re down for the night. He plays a few slot machines, exits, and hails another cab. A fast tip for the valet and Salvatore is once again headed toward the Luxor Hotel and Casino.
Looking at his watch, he checks to see the time. “The sun should rise in another few hours out here,” he thinks . . . “then a new set of people will start to appear and move about the casinos. Damn,” he continues his thoughts, “I’m friggin tired. I need a quick nap and a maybe hot shower before I head out anymore tonight. This job is turning into work . . . a real job” Sal grins as his cab stops at the red traffic light—he glances down the Strip. The street sign indicates their position is on Tropicana Boulevard. The massive MGM complex is on their right and as they make the left turn, Salvatore passes by the Statue of Liberty.
After paying his fare, Sal walks into the lobby and pauses once again to admire the feat of architecture before him . . . to marvel at the structural design of the building. With a brief stop by the first level bar, Sal decides to go back to the same seat at the far end. A quick and efficient Jack the bartender appears and notes mentally that the interesting gentleman is back . . . and not in fact in town for the gambling. He starts the conversation. “You back?”
“Yep, beer, please,” was Sal’s brief answer.
“Can I get you another Bud Light?” Turning and walking off to the cooler, Jack the bartender says, “You got it.”
Still looking around, Sal offers. “Good, uh, good, thanks you for the tip on the machine.” In his own way, Sal processes everything through his investigative mind. He sits alone at this end of the bar, drinks a long slow beer and plays the poker machine while he’s thinking things all over. The machine hits again for 900 dollars. He tips the Jack the bartender a fast 50 dollar bill again and heads over to the craps table where he plays for a while.
Watching and betting with some people who seem to know what they’re doing, he wins another 1,400 bucks. Sal gets up, but not before leaving a good tip for the dealers. He drifts around for a bit and dead tired, splits the casino area for the east tower elevators and calls it a night.
Chapter 14
Current Weather or current METAR: KLAS
26015KT 10SM Sky Clear 36/29 A29.99 or in plain language:
Winds are 2600 degrees at 15KTS, 10 SM of visibility, Sky Clear, temperature is 36C, dew point 29 and the area altimeter setting is 29.99
Las Vegas, Nevada
A new dawn brings a new hot, a sizzling hot day in Las Vegas, Nevada. Thank God for the guy who invented the air conditioner. Down the long carpeted hallway, the walls are decorated with Egyptian artifacts along with some pictures; there’s a lone bellman. This bellman is knocking on Sal’s hotel room door in the East Towers. In his right hand is a standard white FedEx overnight pack. The door opens and a hand reaches out, takes the package and leaves a tip . . . a few bucks which the bellman hastily stuffs into his right front pants pocket. He turns and walks away down the hallway back toward the elevators.
Inside Sal’s hotel room, this day’s start is definitely morning. Sal is sitting in his boxer shorts to a certain extent covered by the half open robe he found hanging in the closet. As Sal takes a sip of his morning hotel coffee, he starts to leaf through the fresh packet of information. Each sheet is like a one page résumé, with a small 2”x2” color photo attached to the upper right hand corner.
At the bottom of the sheet is their military information. On a few sheets is the word COMBAT stamped in bold type indicating the pilots who flew in actual combat. Sal promptly sorts these sheets out and tosses them all out on the bed, one at a time like dealing a deck of cards.
He pauses when he gets to John’s spec sheet. He reads how John flew 62 combat missions during Desert Storm and was shot up bad on one occasion, Purple Heart, Distinguished Flying Cross, Silver Star, and on and on.
As Sal reads on, he gets to Tom’s data sheet and pauses. Tom flew US Air Force McDonald Douglas F-4 Phantoms in Vietnam, four confirmed kills, fifth probable, but refused to claim the downed plane because his wing man was shot down and lost on the mission. This was way back in 1974: Two Purple Hearts, DFC, bronze star, another Purple Heart, Silver Star, medals, medals, and more medals.
Sal sits back in absolute and complete awe as he reads the data sheet on the awards. Attached to one is the formal presentation sheet and the carbon copy of the original typed out—manual typewriter style, after-action report. He keys on the one about Tom’s last recorded dog-fight. Doing a tour in Vietnam himself for a rather long fifteen month “year” tour, Salvatore knows parts of the story first-hand as he reads on. He lost many a good friend over in a little place called Vietnam and can fill in the gaps from his own memory of his time in South Vietnam.
The story reads that while on routine patrol, blah, blah, blah . . . Tom and his wing man were finished with their day’s mission and were headed back to
their home base, when they were jumped by a flight of four Russian built Mig-21s supposedly flown by North Vietnamese Pilots, but everyone in the proper circles knew full well on more than one occasion, that actual Russian combat pilots went along with their NVA comrades.
Reading on, the after-action report as well as the citation stated that while on routine air patrol, headed back to their home base, four North Vietnamese Mig-21s attacked out of the west making a high speed pass upon the two American F-4 Jets. Said maneuver was a classic high speed surprise attack. When you come right down to it . . . it was an ambush maneuver, a hit and run maneuver. Our boys called it Chicken-shit, since they would never stay and fight like real men. Today, this attack . . . it would be called terrorism, since they never stay and fight either.
The North Vietnamese pilots had well established tactics and they didn’t want to stay and fight it out in a real dog fight. They would simply make a high speed pass, a real high speed 500-600 mph pass, firing all their guns, hoping to get a hit or kill. They would then go to full AB—after burner and race away. Sometimes the ambush worked and they scored a kill or two. These pilots didn’t care, they couldn’t care. All North Vietnamese Pilots were under strict orders to hit and then run back up to the north, to run home. They would run home back to the safety of their air base’s defensive ring.
Without thinking, Tom’s instincts took over once his mind processed the white hot tracers passing over his windscreen. He didn’t need to think, he purely reacted. Knowing full well the attackers were high above him, shooting down at his plane, he snap-rolled into a split-S and dove toward the ground to get out of the immediate line of fire.
Almost as fast as he started diving toward the ground, Tom went to full after burner and was, in a flash, climbing over 25,000 feet a minute processing in his mind where the shooter’s plane should be. Like shooting skeet and trap, you have to lead your target and when you’re traveling at over 500 mph you better be quick and good. In a flicker of an instance, he set eyes on the last of the Mig-21s move into his kill zone and launched his last two AIM-9 Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles at the fast moving target.
On this particular day, the North Vietnamese tactics worked and Tom’s wingman took a couple of dozen hits in the aft fuselage area. One General Electric J-79 jet engine, the left engine, disintegrated into a million pieces and took out the other one bolted next to it. Blue Flight two was now a glider, a broken glider, with pieces of metal and aluminum falling off into the void. A flash of a second later, pieces that once were somehow attached were burning off into the aircraft’s slipstream.
Tom was about to finally take his first breath since the ambush started, when his radio crackled in his headset.
“Hey buddy, uh . . . tell everyone that I love ’em. I hope this damn parachute works . . . she’s coming apart, gotta’ go, we’re getting out . . . Come back and get us!
Bye. Eject! Eject! Eject!”
Before he could press his mike button, Tom flipped his plane around in time to spot the two Martin-Baker ejection seats rocket plume clear the fuselage sections of the broken up pieces of the damaged plane. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the second missile hit the Mig’s right wing, causing it to tumble widely. Unconcerned about the kill, he immediately came up on his radio calling in Search and Rescue on the appropriate emergency frequency, referred to as Guard . . . 243MHz.
Circling overhead, Tom felt helpless as he watched the two orange and white T-10 emergency parachutes drift into the jungle covered ground. The report went on and on.
At least the men got out alive. In a flash, almost out of nowhere, some little Army OH-6A Loach arrived on scene, blasting at all the bad guys with his mini-gun and rockets. The report read on . . . I don’t know who the crazy mutha’ fucker was, but he did one hell of a job keeping the enemy at bay. “Boy,” thought Sal, “this is one heck of an after-action report.”
Once relieved by the Army chopper and knowing the proper search and rescue teams were in route . . . uh . . . and rather low on fuel, Tom had no other choice except to head back to base. Later, the little Army chopper was relieved by an Air Force 0-2 bird dog, the FAC, the Forward Air Controller. The report continues with the dreaded information how they could not affect the rescue of the downed Airmen during the day, and by first light, he was simply gone—MIA—missing in action and presumed captured.
Softly again, talking to himself he offers, “Son-of-a-bitch. I didn’t realize it would be this good. A bona-fide US Fighter Pilot Ace, two DFCs, bronze star, wow . . . Talk about your adrenaline junkies.”
He gets up, still holding the data sheet on Tom and walks over to the window and stares out for a few moments trying to figure out what to do next. He turns to his right and tosses the data sheets toward the bed where they land next to John’s.
* * * * *
Back at the McCarran International Airport, Sal is off to one side, watching as a SouthEast flight is boarding. Once the coast is clear, he moves toward the jet way and boards. Detective Sal has on a light jacket, baseball cap, and dark glasses; he didn’t shave in order to help disguise his appearance a little bit as he settles into his coach seat in the exact last row. A skilled detective, a natural at covert surveillance, Sal learned long ago that disguises do not need to be fancy. A different hat or ball cap, a different loud shirt, dark glasses, no glasses . . . just keep it simple and change often. Give the crook a different look every time you let him see you.
Up front, a middle-aged female flight attendant is giving the always required passenger briefing as the airplane taxies out. Over the loud speakers, she says, “. . . and although we do not anticipate a loss in cabin pressure, should one . . . blah, blah, blah . . . sit back and enjoy the short 55 minute ride down to Phoenix.”
Up at altitude, this SouthEast DC-9-30 is cruising unevenfully along, not too high today, only 28,000 feet since they are not going that far. The brilliant sunlight is glistening off of the shiny fuselage and its two contrails. Off in the near distance is another airliner doing the same, although headed out due west towards California at 34,000 feet.
Inside the 92 seat cabin, a tall brunette flight attendant stops by to see if Sal needs anything, a bit more coffee, a magazine or anything else. She asks, “Can I get you anything else sir?
Sal answers back, “No, thanks, I’ve had enough coffee for a while. Uh, where do ya’ll go from here?”
The Flight Attendant answers, “Well, this crew goes on to Atlanta next, but we’ll be back in Las Vegas later tonight . . . it’s going to be a long day for us.”
“Oh, in reality . . . I’d agree,” said Sal.
“Yes, keep the flight crews together . . . that’s the way “SE,” I mean SouthEast like a to do things. They try to keep the crews together for at least a month at a time. You see, the CEO has some sort of fancy degree in . . . uhh Corporate Industrial Psychology or something like that, and I understand that his thesis was on the pros and cons of start-up airlines.”
“Interesting,” says Sal.
She continues, “I’d guess it seems to work for everyone around here . . . so where you headed?”
Sal answers, “Oh, down to Phoenix for some business, but I’ll be back in Las Vegas tonight.”
“We’ll be there, too . . . we’re due back in at 8:05 pm tonight and finally we’re off for four days . . . I’m glad about being off.”
A quizzing Sal asks, “Everyone, the entire crew?”
A page, a ding-ding, causes her to turn and look up the aisle. At this, she turns and starts to leave. She turns and as she walks toward the front section, she finally says, “Yea . . . well let me know if you need anything else . . . got to go.”
Inside the Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, the air conditioning is trying to keep up with the oppressive heat outside. Today’s temperature is supposed to top out at around 109 F degrees. The passengers are exi
ting the airplane and entering into the gate area. Sal is one of the last ones off as he heads back toward the ticket counters.
Standing in line behind two other men, he waits his turn. Once at the counter, Sal says, “I’d like a one way ticket to Las Vegas on your next flight out please.”
The male clerk, unaware Sal had just left Las Vegas less than an hour ago, punches the keyboard of his computer and produces a fresh new ticket for his customer. With a quick swipe of his credit card, Sal has his new boarding pass in hand.
The quick 46 minute flight back to Vegas is uneventful and Sal has the chance to re-run all the information that has been spinning about in his head. Back at the Luxor Hotel, he locates the business center and swipes his credit card to access the internet. “Hell, 5 bucks for 5 minutes—seems like robbery to me,” he says under his breath.
Seated at a computer, Sal is surfing the Web, reading some rather old newspaper articles. He locates one in an old copy of Stars & Stripes about Tom and his wing man. He even finds one story about John and how he saved his F-15 by making it back to base, even though he had one engine shut down. As he gets to some articles, he squints to read the small print. Lingering on some and zooming past others, he prints a couple out.
On the 21” computer monitor screen directly in front of his face is an old magazine—the Time magazine article about Tom’s fourth kill and how he will probably be the United States’ next Fighter Ace, blah, blah, blah. The date on the magazine is May, 1974.
Sal speaks directly to the monitor and says, “. . . well blow me away . . . I sort of figured there was something special about these two.”
Once again, Sal sits back in complete awe of these two and stares at the computer almost in disbelief as he flips through some of the print outs. He gets up and moves about the room, collects his paperwork and heads out into the casino . . . to get lost in a crowd.
Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured Page 23