Boston/Moscow Connection

By Dan Goldstein

Boston / Moscow Connection is the story of two Viet Nam veteran pilots, Ron Moscow and Tyrell Boston, who have partnered to create the Boston/Moscow Air Freight Company. While waiting for their license to fly to Moscow, they deliver electronics to Central and South America. During a trip to Corozal, Belize, they encounter a beautiful American woman, Barbara Wales, whose husband, Ed, has been arrested for drug smuggling. She recruits Ron and Tye to help rescue Ed. They join Barbara’s millionaire father in law, George, who provides financial and logistical support for a military style operation.

While conducting the rescue effort Ron and Tye, who had been confirmed bachelors, find their soul mates. Their romantic encounters lead to additional conflicts and connections. Once the rescue is completed, our heroes and heroines leap frog from Boston, to Virginia, to Reno, Nevada and, finally, to Moscow usually finding themselves in unexpected predicaments. The Boston/Moscow connection is completed when our heroes attempt to smuggle an ailing Russian Scientist out of his native country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Goldstein
• Release date: Feb 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988925311

Dan Goldstein

Dan Goldstein served in the United States Air Force during the Korean War as a Specialist in the Air Rescue Service and currently resides in Naples, Florida with his wife, Rochelle.In addition to writing numerous children’s stories, Dan has written six adventure novels, including; ‘Boston/Moscow Connection’ and its sequel, ‘Destination: Croatia’, which will soon be available in both ebook and printed editions.Follow Dan on Facebook and Twitter.

Book preview

Chapter One

Ron had the controls of the old C-47 while his partner, Tyrell, slept. It was going to be a long flight from Norwood Airport, just southwest of Boston to Corozal, Belize, near the Mexican Border. He was planning to make a quick refueling stop in Sanford, FL, north of Orlando.

Ron gripped the controls tightly as the plane vibrated and strained to reach their assigned altitude. He knew the plane was over forty years old and the rivets could pop at any time. The smooth flowing air over the outer skin could sneak in under the aluminum panel and rudely tear it back causing an airbrake. If that happened the turbulence on one side of the aircraft would make the plane dangerously unstable.

Memories of Viet Nam flashed through Ron’s head. A low flying aircraft was strafed by anti-aircraft fire and the resulting shrapnel tore the aluminum skin like tin foil ripped from a baloney sandwich. The pilot lost control of his plane and crashed into a squad of American ground forces. The impact and subsequent fireball killed the entire squad of twelve American fighting men. If the plane had more altitude the pilot might have had a chance to wrestle with the controls to bring the plane under control.

Their flight plan called for a six hour flight to Sanford, FL, where they would refuel, and then another six hours on a path which would take them over Fort Myers and Naples, Florida before turning for the final leg across the Gulf of Mexico to Belize. Ron banked to a heading 214 degrees, leveled off at his assigned altitude, cut back on the engines, and sat back in the pilot’s seat. He removed his old, khaki, beat up service hat, the one he wore for four years during his stint in Viet Nam. He scratched his black, straight hair, which was matted down from wearing his old hat and heaved a deep sigh, thankful that the plane had not faltered.

Ron turned his head to say something to Tyrell when he noticed a blinking red light on his console. He thought for a moment that it was the low oil pressure indicator, but then realized that it was the wheels up light. He knew it must be a false signal. Ron had seen Tyrell crank the wheels up, before he dozed off. Ron banged the blinking light with his fist. The light went off. He nodded confidently towards Tyrell and thought, ‘Tyrell never screws up in an airplane,’ and Ron laughed as he reminisced, ‘Except for the time he came after me when I was shot down in Viet Nam.’

Ron’s mind flashed back to when he crossed paths with Tyrell for the first time. He thought it would make a nice story to tell his son or grandson one day. He ran through the story as he would relate it to them.

It was during one of the many battles in and over the jungles of Viet Nam. Two U.S. planes went down within a mile of each other. It began with a radio transmission from my helicopter base not more than ten minutes flying time from my location. Through the heavy static of my helicopter radio I heard my call sign being broadcast.

Red Base to Retriever One, Red Base to Retriever One. Come in Retriever One.

I answered, This is Retriever One, Red Base, I read you, Red Base. What's up?

We have two downed aircraft in your area. Zone 12-C and Zone 27-D. Can you retrieve, Retriever One?

That's affirmative, Red Base, I'm on it. Give me more info, Red Base

One of the downed aircraft was an Air Force C-47, which was using a Gatling gun to strafe the Viet Cong, who were engaged in a battle with our ground forces. The other was a Navy Intruder from an aircraft carrier located twenty miles off shore. I checked the coordinates given to me and found that the Navy Intruder, piloted by a Captain Longworth, went down closer to my location than the C-47, which was within friendly territory, but close to a known enemy position. Based on the proximity of the Navy plane, I decided to pick-up of the Navy pilot first. I banked my Huey rescue helicopter in a turning dive and headed for the Intruder’s location. I spotted the downed aircraft quickly and my chopper hit the ground thirty yards from the fuselage. Although hostile fire erupted, I made my way to the downed plane, picked up its pilot and returned to my chopper without any injuries. Captain Longworth had lost a considerable amount of blood and his chances of surviving were as touch and go as his carrier practice landings. For me, this had been a textbook rescue, even though it was obvious that Captain Longworth might not make it. I knew Captain Longworth needed immediate medical attention. But I also knew I couldn't save one pilot and strand the other.

As I lifted my chopper off and gained altitude, I called in to my home base, Red Base, this is Retriever One. Pick-up of Navy pilot completed. I'm heading for second retrieval. Stand by.

As I approached the site of the Air Force C-47 crash, I made contact with the American forces on the ground, who told me what had taken place prior to my arrival on the scene. The C-47 pilot had maneuvered his plane to the ground with a belly flop that saved the lives of his crew. The pilot was the only crew member who was injured. The American forces at the scene were able to rescue three of the four man crew but, because of the heavy fire by the Viet Cong, couldn't get to the pilot.

I couldn't get my chopper closer than fifty yards from the downed aircraft, which left me wide open to hostile fire. As my chopper hit the ground with the sound of a muffled grenade, I was out of the door in a crouch, dashing towards the downed pilot. After bobbing and weaving my way through the half football field filled with heavy hostile fire, I jumped into the plane through the open cargo bay door and crawled toward the unconscious pilot.

There was no time to try to stop the bleeding from the pilot's arm, which was ripped open to the bone. I threw the pilot over my shoulder in a fireman's carry, but as we started to exit the plane the hostile fire became intense. While waiting for the rescued crew to cover our exit with friendly fire, I decided to put a tourniquet on the pilot's arm. But, as I bent over lightning struck, coursed up my back and terminated with an explosion in my head. My world went dark and I felt nothing.

When I awoke four days later, the doctors told me what had taken place. As I was bending over trying to place a tourniquet around the pilot's arm, a bullet ripped into my back, ricocheted up through my neck, and shattered my lower jaw. Shortly after that, two Air Force jets came screaming in to give covering fire for the two other choppers that had come to assist in the rescue. This time it was my rescue.

Before I left the hospital, six weeks later, a Bird Colonel came in and awarded me a Purple Heart and a Silver Star for exceptional bravery.

That wasn't the good part about that day, the good part was the news that my two downed pilots lived. As soon as I was able to leave my hospital bed and walk around, I visited the pilot of the C-47 who was recuperating in another wing of the hospital. I can recall the first words spoken. They weren't mine, as my jaw was still wired shut. As I was walking towards the pilot, who was sitting on the edge of his bed, he looked up at me and said,

I know who you are. You're the smart ass that risked your life to get me out of that hot fire situation. That was one hell of a job you did. I want to shake your hand, pal. As I came within reach of the pilot, I expected him to reach his hand out for us to shake. Instead he grabbed me in a bear hug, his face next to mine and whispered into my ear,

Thanks pal. I owe you my life and I'll never be able to repay you for that. I broke free of his tight bear hug and wondered how this must look, for my lily white carcass was being enveloped by a handsome black man. I warned him against planting a kiss on me. He laughed, but I saw some tears in his eyes. I couldn't help but do the same. I fell silent as the feeling swept through me that this man that just hugged me was standing there before me because I saved his life. Strangely, I felt a sudden bond between us. We were silent for a few moments until we both regained our composure.

Although they both felt awkward about crying in front of each other, it wasn't uncommon to see the hardest of warriors cry. War, death and dying were always around them and it was sometimes hard to control the emotions that coursed through their brains.

Although it was a struggle for both of us, I was happy that he understood what I was saying, actually mumbling. I explained to him what had happened to me and warned him that at times he may not always know what I was trying to say.

It took some time and a great deal of patience on his part, but I finally was able to tell him my name, Ron Moscow. He introduced himself as Tyrell Boston and said that he came from a small town just north of Boston. It was ironic that we both came from Massachusetts. I grew up in Revere, a small city on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean about ten miles north of Boston. We spent the next two hours just talking and joking with each other. One of the funniest things, at least to us, was the fact that each of our last names was the same as a major city.

Tyrell teased me about the black snakeskin cowboy boots and black cowboy hat that I was wearing in the hospital. I told him that I wore the hat and boots whenever I wasn't flying. I also told him that I sometimes wore the cowboy outfit, while flying, to annoy my Commanding Officer. The nurses attending me all referred to me as 'Our cowboy'. It was apparent that the nurses had a crush on me.

After that first meeting we visited each other daily and became good friends. Many times Tyrell came into my ward of the hospital to find me sleeping, due to the heavy dose of pain killers they were giving me. Tyrell usually sat at my bedside watching me, making sure that I was okay. I found Tyrell Boston very easy to become friends with. Over the years we've become like brothers, doing for and looking out for each other.

That's how I met Tyrell Boston, one of the downed pilots, who is now my best friend and partner of the B and M Airfreight business." I think one day my kids and grandkids will like that story, Ron thought, smiling.

One day in the hospital, Ron told Tyrell of his escapades as a boy of thirteen being raised in the beach resort city of Revere, Massachusetts, just North of Boston. There was a boardwalk with concession stands. Every night hookers would walk the boardwalk. These hookers all wanted to break this young, handsome boy into the pleasures of sex. After learning his name, they would say,

C'mon Ron, come with us. We'll show you how to be a man. Ron would play the part of a virgin by saying,

I don't know what to do. I'm afraid. The hookers would fall for it and Ron bed every hooker on the boardwalk without it costing him a cent.

Over time, Tyrell found Ron to be honest, glib tongued, always knowing what to say and do in any situation and the type of man that was always there for a friend in need. He told Tyrell about how he had worked many of the games of chance that lined the boardwalk. All the games were rigged to benefit the concession stand and he enjoyed fleecing all the customers that tried to beat the house. Ron said it was a challenge to try to take all of some sucker’s money, even though he didn't get any of the money that came in, he worked for a paltry few dollars a night.

Ron picked up a great deal of knowledge about scams and insurance fraud watching two or three concessions burn down each year, while the concessions were closed for the winter. Everybody knew and expected a fire on the boardwalk every year in the off season, wondering which concession or ride it would be. He told Tyrell how most people, who lived in Revere, understood that it was a deal between the Mafia that ran the beach and the insurance companies. The insurance companies always paid off.

The boardwalk was also where he learned how people react under different circumstances. He had to deal with all sorts of people; drunks, sailors without much money and the hoodlum dregs that hung out on the boardwalk at night.

Chapter Two

The flight from Norwood to Sanford went smoothly. Ron and Tyrell had switched positions and Tyrell made an easy landing on Sanford International’s new runway. After an hour stop during which the plane and the pilots refueled, Ron took the controls to start the final leg of the trip to Belize. After an hour of flying with the engines droning at their sleep inducing pitch and having the effect of a half dozen sleeping pills, Ron nodded into a half sleep. He awoke, took his hat off and whacked Tyrell on top of his head, waking him with a start. Tyrell grabbed for the controls, not knowing what was happening.

Rise and shine partner, Ron said. I need some coffee. Either you get it or take over. My eyes are closing. Ron watched while Tyrell sat there for a few moments waiting for the cobwebs to clear.

Okay, Tyrell growled groggily in a low voice, I'll get the coffee. Then looking at his watch, he said, But you still have two hours to go in that seat before I take over. Ron casually looked out his side window checking for DEA helicopters or planes. Ron knew they would show up sometime. They always did.

Okay, okay, Ron responded, But while you're up, scan the skin, we just passed between Fort Myers and Naples. We’re over the Gulf of Mexico and there's a lot of water down there, and no landing strips between here and Belize.

As the words left Ron’s mouth, something outside the window caught his eye. A helicopter was flying along beside their aircraft with somebody motioning for them to bring the plane down. Ron didn't have the old crate flying that fast, but the chopper must have been going flat out to keep up with them. He yelled for Tyrell to get back into the flight deck. Tyrell put his headset on and dialed the emergency channel. The helicopter was DEA, and they told him in no uncertain terms to turn to a heading of 137 degrees and prepare to put down at Everglades City Airport, thirty five miles ahead.

Ron turned to Tyrell. They want us to go down. I'm not gonna do it. If they want to talk to us, they're gonna have to follow us in to Belize.

Screw 'em, Tyrell said. Just keep going. Let them follow us in to Belize.

When Tyrell told the DEA helicopter of their intentions, the agent that was sitting at the door brought his machine gun into view. The DEA agent informed Tyrell of his intentions on the radio.

I guess we’re gonna have to go down, Ron said. Tyrell looked at Ron in the pilot’s seat and wondered how the guy could take any situation, grab hold of it and twist it around until he had control of it. How Ron knew what was happening all around him, at every moment, was beyond Tyrell. He thought of Ron as top notch, and the only guy for whom Tyrell would give his life. Neither of them ever spoke those words aloud, but they both knew that the feeling was mutual.

Ron followed the helicopter as it banked south-east toward Everglades City. He surveyed the situation, pushing his cowboy hat back on his head, allowing a dark curl of hair to fall onto his forehead. As he started their descent, Ron could see slash pine forests, isolated palm trees and miles of saw grass marshes. After about 20 minutes they passed over Ten Thousand Islands, a mecca for fisherman and at one time a popular hiding place for drug runners. He spotted the airport out his port window. Ron could also see that due to the westerly winds he would have to circle the plane out over Chokoloskee Bay and come back toward the airport for his landing.

Get the wheels down, pard, Ron said, as he banked the aircraft to the left trying to get himself aligned with the runway. Tyrell watched his hotshot partner bank and maneuver the old crate into the final approach.

Tyrell pulled up on the hydraulic wheel lever, bringing the wheels down into a locked position. As the plane approached the edge of runway, they skimmed over the water with what appeared to be just inches to spare. Tyrell could see an old army three quarter ton truck driving at a healthy clip out of the area. Druggies, he figured.

Tyrell was amazed at how Ron landed an airplane. All of his landings were as if he had a feather balanced on the nose of the aircraft.

I sure would like to know how you do that, Tyrell said.

Do what? Ron asked.

Touch down so easy. You're going to have to show me how you do that, Tyrell said, with a smile in his voice.

No problem, pard. There's nothing to it. I'll show you how it's done when we get back to Norwood. But you know, to land a plane like that takes a certain amount of skill. I'm not sure you'll be able to learn that, pard, Ron said smiling, as he left the pilot’s seat.

Oh, really? Tyrell responded. You're saying that I should learn how to fly first, huh?

Well, Ron answered as he stepped out of the plane backwards to go down the short ladder to the ground. I've seen the way you fly, pard.... Before he had a chance to finish his sentence, Tyrell swatted Ron’s head with his hat. The playful slap sent Ron's cowboy hat to the ground ahead of him. Ron looked up at Tyrell and broke into a belly laugh. He liked joking with Tyrell, and the feeling was mutual.

As they stepped off the ladder onto the ground, Ron reached for his hat which was a few feet in front of him. As he bent over, a shot rang out, sending Tyrell and Ron to dive for cover under their plane. Someone on a loudspeaker said,

Hands on your heads, get your hands on your heads. If you make a move I'll blow your heads off. Both of them wisely sat up with their hands on their heads. The DEA helicopter landed with a thud, and Ron and Tyrell saw two men jump out. Ron and Tyrell started to lower their hands.

Hands over your heads, the first man out of the helicopter said, as he prompted them with a wave of his machine gun.

The agent with the machine gun stood in front of them, as the partners sat on the ground with their hands on their heads. Ron didn't think they would shoot, but, he thought, who can predict what a government agent could or would do. Ron looked around the perimeter of the isolated airport. He was aware that he and Tyrell could easily disappear with nobody ever finding them.

In a thickly accented Hispanic voice and with a look of hatred in his eyes, the first agent said, My name is Angel Ruiz. We're with the DEA, and guess what fella's? You're busted.

Ron couldn't understand why these agents seemed to hate them so much. What could be the reason, he wondered? He thought that maybe somebody high up in the Department of Justice had it in for them. Was it a black and white thing? Is having a partner who is black making somebody uncomfortable? He knew if he could figure it out, he would certainly force the issue.

Tyrell looked at Ron, and in unison they shook their heads in disbelief. Ron and Tyrell were looking at a short, dark, mustached man with a paunch belly. Ron looked at Tyrell and said, "Sort of reminds you of a cartoon character, doesn't he?

Look, you guys, Tyrell said, feeling frustrated at being brought down for the sixth time by the DEA. Take a look inside the aircraft and tell me what we're busted for.

Agent Ruiz said, Tony, take a look inside. See what's going on.

Tony, the helicopter pilot, climbed the ladder and stepped inside. They could hear him opening crates and throwing things around. After a few minutes Tony came to the door and said, Angel, there's only five crates of computers. I busted three of the terminals and keyboards apart. There's nothing here.

Tyrell stood up, putting his hands down, and said, You bunch of clowns. We don't run drugs. We ship legal electronic freight. We're American citizens just trying to earn a living. We keep telling you guys we're clean. Why the hell won't you believe us?

The third agent, the one with the rifle, looked directly at Ron and said, I'm Agent Frank Williams. This guy is Agent Angel Ruiz and the pilot is Agent Tony Lobo. Take a good look at us, because every time you guys turn around, you're going to see us. We have our orders and one of these times we're going to nail you.

Neither Tyrell nor Ron answered him. Ron just shook his head in disbelief. Agent Williams cast a steely eyed glare on Ron for a few moments and, then, motioned to the other agents to get back into the helicopter. They climbed aboard and buckled their seat belts as the craft lifted off.

Tyrell yelled up to them, I hope you fall out, you bastards.

Tyrell looked at Ron, who was still sitting on the ground with his arms around his knees, and said, Let's get out of here. As they climbed the short ladder into the plane Ron heard Tyrell muttering.

What's that you're mumbling about, pard?

Tyrell shook his head from side to side in frustration and said, Damn it Ron. I'm getting tired of having to put down every time we fly over the Caribbean or the Gulf of Mexico. I think we should find out just what's going on. Do you think the government is after all the charter planes flying to Central America?

Ron chewed on a thought, and then said, I don't know if you caught what that agent said, pard. He said he had his 'orders'. I wonder if that meant they stop all planes flying down here or is it just us?

Why would it just be us? Tyrell asked, with a deep frown across his forehead. I mean, we know that they stop all sorts of planes because they suspect something.

Either somebody has lied and given them a false tip, or, I don't know, somebody in the DEA wants to get us, Ron responded.

Who? Tyrell asked.

I don't know, Pard. Ron laughed. It was all so farfetched.

Well, next time we're at DEA headquarters, let's get a list of all the agents, Ron said sarcastically.

That's exactly what we're gonna do, Tyrell replied, dead serious. In his mind, Ron had to agree that they should do something.

Tyrell was chewing on a blade of grass that he had picked up, as they saddled into the cockpit. He plopped into his co-pilots seat and looked at Ron intently to see his response.

Hearing none, he asked, If push comes to shove, Ron, could you protect yourself and shoot somebody?

"Yeah, pard. I could. Something you have to know about me is when