Douglas Bunger's Blaze Of Glory

Chapter 32



 
 
 
    Burmuda Dunes is a what most private pilots would consider large (and what most professional pilots would consider a small) airport southeast of Palm Springs. Most of the aircraft are four-seat singles or six-seat twins that are flown by weekend fliers from LA who are more often seen in three-piece pinstripe suits than in a leather flight jacket.
    The concrete apron is normally covered with Beechcraft Bonanzas, Navajos, and Barons with a healthy mix of Cessna 172RG's, but is occasionally visited by a chartered King Air. Though the runway is paved, the tower is manned, and jet fuel is available, the corporate Citations, Gulf Streams, and Lear jets of the rich and famous usually land at Palm Springs Regional Airport at the edge of town. This makes Burmuda Dunes a happy medium between an uncouth grass strip and a junior LAX, and perfect for Paul Wilson's needs.
    Wilson ran a single craft service called Executive Airlift that specialized in shuttle service from Palm Springs to Las Angeles and vice versa. If he had chosen to base his Bell Jetranger in LA, he would have had made two or three times the sorties as available to him in Palm Springs. More correctly, he would have had two or three times the paying customers. But ferrying doctors who were called off vacation to perform emergency by-pass surgery was not Wilson's primary money maker.
    Wilson's field of expertise was drug running.
    The United States is surrounded by an invisible boundary called the ADIZ-- Air Defense Identification Zone. Technically, any aircraft entering the ADIZ from international or foreign airspace, is liable to be shot down by Air Force interceptors. This practice is not often executed, not even in the case of Russian Bear bombers probing for weak spots in the zone. In the past, the government has attempted to use ADIZ as justification for shooting down drug runners with their OV-10 Broncos, but the politicians have always whined that this was capital punishment without trial and thus unconstitional. Some say the government wouldn't shoot the drug runners down because the senators received a cut of the profits. The senators say its because the Air Force would shoot down an innocent aircraft by mistake-- after all, the Russians accidentally destroyed a Korean airliner.
    Wilson didn't bother himself with politics, because he had found a hole in the ADIZ and had been exploiting it for three years. His plan was based on the premise that radar cannot see through mountains, and the fact that Palm Springs was separated from Los Angeles and San Diego by the Sierra De Juarez mountain range. By carefully following an exact route, he could fly from Bermuda Dunes to the Mexican Border, and never be seen on FAA radar. He would appear on Air Defense radar.
    Since he was leaving and didn't pose a threat to national security, Air Defense would pass him over to the Drug Enforcement Agency. The DEA would dispatch an aircraft out of San Deigo to intercept Wilson and follow him to his landing field. The elapsed time from his appearance on radar to the arrival of the DEA plane was normally seventeen minutes.
    That's excellent response time, but in seventeen minutes, Wilson's chopper could fly fifteen miles inside Mexican airspace, meet a waiting vehicle, load half a ton of marijuana, and disappear through the hole in the ADIZ with three minutes to spare. His continued success had made him quite wealthy and the DEA quite frustrated. It also made him a very popular pilot on the west coast for special jobs such as Brad and Asher's on the grounds that if he'd defeated the DEA and Air Defense for so long, he had to be a great pilot.
    The LTD pulled in front of the office/hangar of Executive Airlift about four o'clock. Asher led the way around the hangar to the open door, and was relieved to see Wilson's green and white Jet Ranger inside. If Brad was surprised with the appearance of Wilson's hangar, he was even more surprised by Wilson himself. He had expected the hangar to have been a decrepit barn with the helicopter concealed beneath camouflage netting. Instead the building was a tin structure with plenty work space and lighting. The chopper wasn't hidden, there were no guards, or seedy looking drug dealers hanging around. The operation seemed almost... legitimate.
    As for Wilson, he didn't look like what Brad figured a drug smuggler would look like at all. Drug smugglers were suppose to be five-seven, about one hundred twenty pounds, long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, and wore black sunglasses and tie-dyed clothes. Wilson was a six foot, athletically built, distinguished looking black man in his mid-forties who could have passed for one of the visiting business men if he were wearing golf attire.
    "Asher, you old fart!" called the man. "What are you doing here? LA get too low-class for you."
    "You know LA could never get that low," responded Asher, as he shook hands with the man. "Let me introduce you to an associate of mine. This is Brad Dartmouth. Dartmouth, Paul Wilson."
    "Glad to meet you, son," offered Wilson. "Then, this is business?"
    "Yes," answered Asher.
    "Let's step into the office." Wilson lead the way to the office area Brad and Asher had bypassed earlier. They entered a small white room that held a desk, two upholstered chairs for guests, and Wilson's own leather chair. On one wall was a map of southern California, and on the opposite was window that opened to the hangar. "Okay... What's going on?"
    "Dartmouth is throwing a party for a few of his friends and we thought you might like to come along. Are you free for about three days?" inquired Asher.
    "I am available, I am never free. Fill me in."
    "It's a rescue mission... sort of a jail break, but from a military compound. I'll take a team in on foot. We'll get our man and get him to an LZ. You pick us up, and put some distance between us and the Air Force."
    "Where are we talking about," asked Wilson, as he opened a file drawer in his desk.
    "Few miles north of Las Vegas. Nellis Air Force Base."
    Wilson withdrew a map, unfolded it on the desk top, then slid the drawer shut. Brad scooted to the front of his seat to get a better look at the highly detailed, yet confusing, map. Noticing Brad's interest, he spun the map to where he could read more easily. "This is an aviation sectional," he explained, "It's a specialized map designed for aircraft navigation that provides information for both instrument flying using radio navigation, and visual flying using checkpoints on the ground." Brad nodded in understanding, though the map made no more sense than it had before.
    "Here's Nellis, east of North Las Vegas."
    "Where we're going is in the bomb range, up here," Asher studied the map for a moment, comparing it several times against his own. "You got a pencil?" Wilson handed him one from his desk drawer, and Asher made an mark on the map. "That's our compound."
    "Okay, that's restricted airspace: R-4806 W." Wilson turned the map over and indexed the code with the Special Use Airspace chart in the margin. "That's continuous and unlimited. That means you can't fly in any time of day, at any altitude. Of course we can get in under radar by skirting these mountains."
    "I'd like to march out to the other side of this hill for extraction," stated Asher, "but if we can't, you'll have to get us a few hundred yards to the east."
    "There's a special warning on here you may be interested in," offered Wilson, "'R-4806 W and R-4807 contain many unexploded bombs and rockets, and other ordnance that may explode if disturbed.' The Air Force seems very intent on keeping people out of that area."
    "We've been there before," said Asher.
    "You're either brave or stupid," commented Wilson with a smile. "Where do you want out?"
    "I haven't worked that out yet, but I'm thinking a couple of miles northeast of the range. After you drop us, I need you to decoy the Air Force."
    Wilson laughed. "Decoy the Air Force! That's a joke! As soon as they can draw a bead on me, they'll blow me out of the sky."
    "Have you got another plan?" asked Asher.
    "Yeah, but I can't use my chopper for it... let me think on it. What's the job pay?"
    "Three grand up front, another five if it gets hot and you've got to pull us out under fire."
    Wilson leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Asher looked at Brad, who continued to sit quietly. "I can live with the three thousand dollars, but I'll need two thousand more to cover expenses."
    "What expenses?" piped Brad.
    "Deposit on the other helicopter, a set of fake papers and licenses for me to rent it, fuel, a few other goodies."
    Brad looked at Asher who's face was totally expressionless. "We'll give you four up front, but that includes your two for expenses, and your 'bonus' drops to four to cover it," stated Brad. Asher raised an eyebrow in surprise at Dartmouth's offer.
    "That sounds fair," said Wilson, "I think you can count on having a pilot." Wilson extended his hand, Brad shook hands over the deal, and hoped Baker would be proud that he'd kept it under eight thousand. He asked to borrow the phone, and stayed behind when Wilson and Asher stepped into the hangar to chat.
    Brad dialed the number of the Los Angeles Main Library and asked for the microfilm department. The phone rang several times before a man's voice answered. "Is Don Ralston there?"
    "This is Ralston."
    "This Brad Dartmouth with the Los Angeles Herald," stated Brad, forgetting that he was as good as fired from the newspaper. "You arranged a meeting with Baker for me."
    "Oh yeah... How did it go?"
    "It went real well, I'd say. Listen, you remember what I said I was working on?"
    Ralston hesitated. "Yes."
    "You remember you said when it went down, you wanted to be there?"
    "Yes."
    "It's happening tomorrow night-- you want in?"
    "I... Well... Tomorrow?"
    "Yes, Baker's got the details. He'll arrange to have a ticket to Las Vegas waiting for you at the Airport tomorrow afternoon. Call him to find out which flight."
    "Yeah, but how long is this going to take? I've got to be back at work Monday."
    "After dawn Sunday, you won't care about going back to work," answered Brad.
    "I don't know," added Ralston.
    "Hey, this is it! If you want to go back to LA Sunday night, that's fine, but if you don't come along, you'll never get the opportunity I'm offering you again."
    For a moment the line was silent. "Baker's going, too?"
    "He'll be on the plane with you."
    "Okay, I'll be there."
    Brad hung-up the telephone, and stepped into the hangar where Wilson was telling Asher that there was a strong market for coyotes who could smuggle drugs and illegal aliens across the border. Asher noticed Brad's return and told Wilson that they were in a hurry to get back to LA. He agreed to meet the man at North Las Vegas Airport Saturday afternoon, then stepped out of the hangar toward the car.
    "I convinced him that Baker was good for the cash. We've worked together before, so he trusts me."
    "And you trust Baker?"
    "No, but I think Baker isn't the kind if guy to turn on his hired guns." He tossed Brad the keys to the Ford, without warning, and Brad fumbled with them until they fell to the ground. "Now that you're all rested up, you get to drive."
    "Drive. Drive where? You told Wilson we were going to Los Angeles tonight, but that we'd be in Las Vegas tomorrow. So, which one is it?"
    "Both. We'll sleep at the beach house tonight, pickup the equipment we're going to need in the morning, then head to Vegas."
    "Don't you think we're pushing this a bit fast?"
    "No."
    "You don't think we could slow down long enough to rest from the recon?"
    "You want this guy out, or not?"
    "Of course I do."
    "Then," explained Asher, "You're going to have to let me do my job, by my timetable."
    Brad stepped into the car and buckled the seat belt. "I guess I have to trust you, but I hope like hell you don't get us killed by moving too fast."
    Asher joined him in the car, and Brad pulled out of the parking lot. "Rest assured, young Dartmouth, if anybody's killed on this operation, it'll be your fault."


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