The Pilot

THE PILOT

By Raymond Koonce

Copyright 2013 by Raymond Koonce

Smashwords Edition

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CHAPTER ONE

Somewhere Over Mexico, 1980

The two Piper Navajos tried to bracket him, one off either wing. He saw the first one below and to the left of his Cessna 411 as it climbed to get into position. Rolling his plane slightly to the right, he saw the other Navajo climbing to take position off his right wing. He saw rifles sticking out the windows of the plane on his left, pointing in his direction.

He had heard some of his fellow pilots tell of this technique that the Mexican Customs people used against contraband runners, but this was the first time he had seen it personally. The Mexicans had removed the Plexiglas windows from the cabin area of the Navajos and Mexican Army soldiers with rifles fired out those windows at the American planes. Several of those American planes and their pilots had never been heard from again. Most of those pilots were young Americans with a taste for adventure but not much flying experience. They made easy targets.

The cabin area of his 411 was packed with goods he was smuggling into Mexico. Television sets, stereos, VCRs and other household goods. Mexican citizens came across the border into Texas and bought ordinary items at places like Sears and Penney's stores, paying full retail for them. Then they proceeded to the airport and hired Americans to fly those goods into Mexico. Even though it was not cheap to hire a smuggler, it was still cheaper than paying Mexican tariffs on the goods. Quite a bit cheaper, in fact.

The Mexican government responded by maintaining a constant search for the smugglers, literally killing them when the opportunity presented itself. Arresting and ransoming them back to the aircraft owners was common, also. They wanted their money, one way or another.

The 411 pilot knew he was about to have his plane riddled with bullets and would probably wind up in a smoking hole in the Mexican desert. Having a natural aversion to getting shot and having some small experience with aerial combat, he rolled his 411 hard to the left and aimed his plane at the Mexican Navajo. It was obvious they intended to kill him so all rules were off. Without thinking he slipped into fighter pilot mode, a role he had learned well in the skies of Vietnam.

His Cessna would easily fly on one engine, so he intended to close on the Navajo and chew its tail off with the big three-bladed prop on his left engine. He could see faces at the open windows of the Navajo and they were very surprised faces indeed. The Mexican pilot was obviously just another civilian flier and when the shooters told him what was happening, he rolled away from the incoming 411 and hurriedly left the area.

When he saw that the left Navajo was retiring from the field, the 411 pilot rolled hard to his right, intending to take on the second Mexican plane. That one had seen what happened to his friend and wanted nothing to do with this crazy American. Shooting Americans was fun, but nobody had told him they might try to kill him! That one rolled his Navajo hard to the right and left the arena.

With the threat to his plane removed, the 411 pilot resumed course to his original destination, a large field north of Guadalajara, Mexico where the owner of the goods in the back of his plane would meet him and take delivery of the household electronics.

The year was 1980 and Rick Parker was a thirty-four year old ex-Air Force fighter pilot just trying to make a living doing what he did best; flying. He had served two tours in Vietnam, flying the F-4 Phantom and F-111A into combat against MiGs. He had managed to score two kills with the Phantom, both MiG 21s, and had avoided getting shot himself during any of the missions he had flown. He had been in a plane that got shot down, but he hadn't been the pilot and besides, that was another story. The incident did assure him that getting shot down was no fun, however, and he religiously avoided it.

The experience of Vietnam had changed him, though, and like a lot of combat veterans, his marriage had failed due to those changes. He didn't blame his ex-wife Peggy for the situation. Rick knew it was simply a function of coming home a different man. He had no problem taking responsibility for his own actions and the failed marriage was no exception. Gratefully there had been no children, so the break had been clean and Rick had never even considered another marriage since then.

It had taken a good three years to get his head screwed back on, as the saying went, and he wasn't about to involve himself with another woman during that process. He still dated occasionally, but there was nothing that even approached a serious relationship.

Rick had left the Air Force in 1976, the same year he and Peggy had gotten their divorce. Afterward, he had bummed around, taking one flying job after another, never settling into any one situation. There had been a lot of experienced ex-military pilots around, all of them scrambling for the same jobs. The result was that the pay was terrible, just enough to squeak by on.

He had learned of the smuggling work from an old friend and mentor, Earl Addison. Earl had been a World War II pilot and was operating an air charter service out of the Rio Grande Valley in South Texas. He met Earl while still in the Air Force during a chance encounter at an airport in St. Louis, Missouri in 1968. Both had been taking on fuel in their respective aircraft. They became good friends after that, Earl freely sharing his knowledge and experiences with the fledgling pilot.

Rick had called Earl to see if his old friend might know of any jobs available in his area. Earl, this is Rick Parker. How ya been, you old reprobate?

Hello, kid. I'm good. What have you been up to?

Aw, just looking for a job. Thought you might know of something down there.

Well, there aren't any nine to five jobs that I've heard of, but there is something you might be interested in. Want to hear about it?

Well, sure, if it'll pay for some groceries. What ya got?

Let me ask you something first. Have you got a plane?

Wish I did. Might pick up some free-lance stuff that way.

Tell you what. Can you get down here? I've got my business here at the McAllen airport and I might be able to do you some good.

Yeah, I think my old Buick is up to the trip. When?

Whenever you can make it. I'm here every day.

They exchanged more small talk, including directions to Earl's business, and then Rick told Earl he would drive down the next day. Rick had been staying at a Motel 6 in the Dallas area and was more than ready to move on. He loaded the old Buick with his few possessions the next morning and headed south. It was a long ten-hour trip, but Rick was in excellent condition and drove straight through, stopping only for gas and a snack.

He arrived at Miller International Airport late in the afternoon. Following the directions Earl had given him over the phone, Rick drove to the west side of the field and saw a large hanger, complete with offices and Earl's name on the sign in front. He found Earl going over some paperwork in his office and they renewed their friendship. At last Earl told Rick to follow him out into the hangar. There were only three planes in a hangar that could have held several more. Earl led him to a twin-engine Cessna 411, a cabin class aircraft with which Rick was slightly familiar.

What do you think, son?

What's to think? She's beautiful and the green color you see on my face is pure envy.

Earl laughed. How would you like to own her?

C'mon, Earl. There's no way I could afford a plane like that.

Rick, I'm seventy years old and retiring. Worse than that, I'm in bankruptcy. My business has been going down the toilet and I'm trying to get out. The only thing I have left is the DC-3 we walked past, a Cessna 172 and this. I know you don't have any ready cash, but I'll tell you what I'll do. To get out from under all this, I'll sell you that plane for twenty-five thousand. You can pay me when you get it.

Twenty-five! Rick exclaimed. Hell, Earl, that's giving the plane away.

I wouldn't do it for just anyone, I promise you. In your case, I'll sign the plane over to you and you make payments when you can. How's that?

I'd be a fool to say 'no'. Does she need work or can I just start flying her?

Ready to go. Let's push her out and go flying.

They pulled the plane out to the ramp and did a walk-around pre-flight inspection. Rick sat in the left seat and took a few minutes to familiarize himself with the controls. He started the engines and sat for a moment listening to the powerful sound, and then contacted ground control for taxi instructions to the runway.

When the tower cleared them for takeoff, Rick pulled onto the runway and brought the throttles forward. He was rewarded with a deep-throated roar from the big Continental engines and in no time was rolling down the runway at one hundred and fifteen miles per hour. He gently pulled back on the yoke and the 411 instantly began a climb at two thousand feet per minute. Impressive. He tucked the landing gear into the wheel wells and continued to climb.

Rick put the big Cessna through its paces and was beaming when at last they landed. Back at the office he told Earl, If you're serious about the deal, the only way to stop me from taking it is to kill me. That was a helluva flight! I had no idea Cessna built a plane that responsive. A time or two there, I almost felt like I was back in a fighter.

Then it's settled. I'll make out the papers for transfer of ownership. Now, about that opportunity I mentioned on the phone. Did you ever want to be a smuggler?

Not really. The money would be nice, but I'm not real big on going to prison.

Earl laughed again. You would be breaking no laws in the United States. In point of fact, we go overboard to work with U.S. Customs to make sure we break no laws. Mexican law, however, is another story.

Earl went on to elaborate about the goods they hauled, everything from television sets to farming implements to replacement parts for equipment the Mexican people had bought in the States. We even go so far as to have the U.S. Customs people inspect our loads before we leave. We don't legally have to do that, but we want to make sure nobody thinks we're smuggling drugs or anything of that nature.

Rick had a lot of questions and they talked well into the night. In the end, Rick decided that he would like to get involved. Earl said he would contact some people and put Rick in touch with them. He also said he would let Rick keep his new plane in Earl's hangar for a while at no charge. Thus Rick became a smuggler.

It didn't take long for his name to become known as reliable and efficient. He had been able to rent a small apartment near the airport, and after the first five trips had paid Earl the full amount they had agreed upon. Life was looking pretty good.

When he returned from the flight when the Navajos had tried to nail him, he learned that the soldiers in the Navajos had killed two college kids who were trying to make some extra money. They had forced the kids' plane down to a landing and proceeded to chase them down on foot and shoot them both. The customs men must have spotted the small Cessna 206 not long after deciding Rick was too much for them, and that made Rick feel partially responsible for their deaths. He was furious.

CHAPTER TWO

Rick had gotten to know most of the pilots who flew the smuggling runs by now, and he started calling them or catching up with them around the airport. He asked all of them to attend a meeting at the Fairfield Inn, a local watering hole for pilots, on the first of next month, some two weeks from then. He had a plan to counter the Mexican Customs agents and their armed aircraft.

On the evening of the first, about thirty-five pilots had gathered to hear what Rick had to say. I want to thank you guys for showing up. As you well know, we are losing pilots to Mexican guns, and I for one am a little tired of it. Several men have been killed, and some of you, like Bobby Samuels who I see over there, have had to nurse your shot-up planes back.

What did you have in mind, Rick? asked Samuels, who had barely escaped with his life. It had taken him a month and quite a bit of money to get his Beech 18 airworthy after his run-in with the Mexicans.

For any of you that don't know, I was trained by the Air Force to be a fighter pilot. I saw plenty of combat in Nam, and managed to score two MiG kills. I propose to use those skills against the Mexican planes that are shooting at us.

Someone said, Sounds good. How do you plan on doing that?

Rick continued, "I know a guy in Fort Worth who's trying to sell his P-51D. He's asking two hundred fifty thousand for it, but would probably come down some. I propose that we all chip in and buy the Mustang. We'll have to find some fifty-caliber machine guns for the wings, but that shouldn't be too hard. We mount the guns and I fly high escort for some of the runs we make. If the Mexicans show