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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