Tropicargo: The Flight of the Twin Beech Driver

By Enzo Bravo

After an uncontrollable engine fire, Duke Hyde, a pilot for Tropicargo, an air cargo company based in the Caribbean, is forced to ditch his plane before risking exploding amid air. After he and his passenger are rescued, commercial divers find the aircraft laying intact on the ocean floor, but without its cargo of $9 million in US dollars currency.

A fascinating and unpredictable novel, which will also give you a glimpse at the world of air cargo in the Caribbean and its antique DC-3 and Beech 18 (Twin Beech) aircraft.

With a writing style labeled as graphic and universal, Enzo Bravo is bringing us Tropicargo, the flight of the Twin Beech driver, and with it what is left of an aviation era in the region.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 17, 2009
• ISBN: 9781467057134

Enzo Bravo

Enzo Bravo (Puerto Rico, 1965) A multi-talented soul, Bravo has been able to create a lifestyle as close to one of a Renaissance man with his writing, painting, commercial pilot career and as anavid ocean sports enthusiast. Most of his writing concentrates in fiction with short stories featured in local and some international diving publications. Tropicargo, the flight of the Twin Beech driver, is his first novel which he also translated to Spanish, under the title Tropicargo, el vuelo del Tuinbichero. For more information about the author you can visit his website www.enzobravo.com

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Acknowledgements

To Luis Acevedo, the first pilot I ever met.

To Enzo and Giovanni, my beloved sons.

ENZO BRAVO

TROPICARGO

THE FLIGHT OF THE TWIN BEECH DRIVER

About the story

The characters and the plot in this story are fictitious; however, it is based on the real experience of a group of young cargo pilots flying in planes built in their grandfather’s era.

To those who lived through it all, usually at the beginning of their flying careers and to their mentors who spent a lifetime in that environment, this book is a homage to you all. To those with whom I flew, I take my hat off.

Enzo Bravo

In our land,

We do not breed that taloned king, the eagle

Nor make emblazonary of lions;

In our land

The blackbirds,

And the chickens of our mountains speak our dreams.

Harold M. Telemaque

CHAPTER 1  

SUMMER OF 1996

They flew old planes back and forth over the Caribbean Sea, as if they were third-world country trucks heading towards a food market; slow, overloaded and full of all kinds of merchandise. They flew the planes the best they could, without making too much fuss about it and unsafe as it was, so they could reach the other side of the pond and land on a small tropical island. Doing so was the best way to avoid being fired by Osvaldo Molinari, president and founder of Tropicargo, the company they were working for and that was controlling most of their lives during the period prior to a career flying for the airlines. Until that time came, they continued working as cargo pilots in the Caribbean.

Their boss, Osvaldo Molinari, was a commanding fellow in his early fifties. The man had a mane of gray hair that would scatter in the front every time his hot temper would go off, which was often, especially when he was close to those working for him.

He was also proud of his inner drive and habit of doing whatever he needed to do in order to get the job done, a quality that helped him become a Jack of all trades either by virtue of natural talent, pure necessity, or sheer lack of patience watching others performing jobs he knew he could perform better.

Multi-faceted indeed, Molinari was born with a natural talent for music, a talent that he polished abroad in his younger years with formal music studies. It helped him become a virtuoso on the piano and a charismatic host sitting in front of his black grand piano, singing and playing old songs requested by close friends on bohemian evenings. Another talent was agronomy in which he completed a degree but quickly became bored with. He never pursued the career, opting for something more adventurous, some other inspirational call from deep within his soul. He found it in flying.

He launched Tropicargo at twenty-eight with a small single engine plane he bought with money his father loaned him. He started by flying people back and forth to the nearby islands but wound up flying only cargo since he found it more comfortable than flying with noisy tourists. Eventually, with an increasing aircraft fleet, and the advantage of knowing about his aircrafts’ maintenance, Molinari became a certified aircraft mechanic, learning eventually all the tricks of the trade known for repair of these planes.

Captain Osvaldo Molinari knew his operation inside out.

Not only was he a virtuoso at playing the piano, flying planes and running his business, Molinari was also a virtuoso with women. A never-ending appetite for them turned him into a refined Don Juan, in and out of marriages, totaling four with his current one.

A romantic at heart, he was fond of naming his planes after whatever ignited his muse at the time of purchasing them. The one he had named Black Cloud, for all the troubles it gave him during its overhaul, turned out to be just that as it refused to fly without trouble in her first cargo flight for the company. As soon as the landing gear were raised during take off, a trail of smoke came out of the right engine cowling, which resembled that of acrobatic planes in air shows around the country. The only difference, though, was that this was not an air show and no joy could be felt watching such a sight. Molinari, who was showing the planes on the ramp to his niece, became hyper the moment he saw the troubled plane flying past their position. Orange flashes began spitting out from the right engine’s cowling. Mechanics, loaders and pilots raced around the ramp looking for a better view of the troubled plane. That’s Duke! someone shouted.

He’s not the one I just met, right? Renée, Molinari’s niece, just arriving from flight training in America, asked nervously as she removed long strings of her brown hair from her face. The sight of Tropicargo’s employees, running past her like a herd of wild buffaloes, confirmed her immediate thoughts; that she was witnessing her first aviation accident.

You bet on it… Molinari said fixing his sights on the trace of smoke heading east. Where’s my damn pickup? he asked one of the mechanics standing nearby.

Duke, the pilot in Black Cloud, kept scanning over the instrument panel with eyes resembling those of a dog, as they rapidly inspected everything before him. At 25 he was the embodiment of health and youth, with his tall body covered with a perpetual golden tan crowned with sun-bleached and overgrown hair reaching past his neck which made him look more like a surfer than a cargo pilot.

"Tropicargo seven-two-five, San Juan tower." It was the female voice from air traffic control calling Duke’s flight on the radio. A rather calm response came back on the control tower frequency.

I know… got a little problem here.

"Be adviced, that you’re showing a heavy trail of smoke coming out of your right engine. Say intentions. Are you requiring any assistance?"

Duke continued flying eastbound, toward the shoreline, as he employed the engine’s fire extinguishing system after shutting down the doomed engine and activated the feathering pump¹.

San Juan tower, Tropicargo seven-two-five…

"Tropicargo seven-two-five, San Juan tower, go ahead." It was not the female voice answering this time, but a male voice sounding very mature and secure. The controller before him was a trainee and the seriousness of the events caused an intuitive swap of controllers.

Sir, I’m returning to the airport… requesting runway two-eight.

"Tropicargo seven-two-five, are you declaring an emergency?"

Duke did not have much altitude left over the palm trees, mangroves and scattered houses along his flight path. He had to return to the airport quickly, via the shortest route. The shortest way would have been landing on the same runway from which he had departed but in the opposite direction. He knew that as he kept losing altitude he didn’t have time to fly a wide turn around the airport so that he could approach the runway in the same direction in which he had taken off. That would have been the norm. The other runway of the airport, which was even closer on his flight path, was not an option since men were on the runway doing repair work with all their equipment. An emergency declaration from Duke meant that the controller had to rush. The controller would now be forced to divert all air traffic to make room for Duke’s crippled and unexpected inbound flight. Duke would be legally protected and could do whatever he needed to do on behalf of his flight.

"Tropicargo seven-two-five, confirm that you are declaring an emergency."

After taking a deep breath he pressed the radio’s push-to-talk switch. Yes sir, Tropicargo seven-two-five is declaring an emergency. He then mumbled to himself: for my own benefit…

The airspeed was decreasing. The palm trees were too close. The left engine’s temperature gauge was rapidly moving towards the red labeled area. Duke was draining its life. Had he not done that the plane would have stopped flying.

… Hate this… he mumbled to himself, thinking about the lack of alternatives that would save the flight.

"Tropicargo seven-two-five, runway two-eight, cleared to land," the resigned air controller said. He then began giving fast and precise air traffic instructions to all other planes in the area.

"Tolair four-five-six, cancel landing clearance, go around and turn left heading three- three-zero. Maintain three thousand. Brake. Four Star six-seven-seven turn right, now! Heading: one-eight-zero, traffic, twelve o’clock; less than a mile, Twin Beech coming in for landing runway two- eight; he’s got an emergency, brake. Borinquen Air… the controller continued his rapid instruction allotment to the fleet. Tropicargo seven-two-five say fuel and souls on board." It was part of the emergency procedures to request such information so that medical and fire-fighting personnel could prepare for the emergency.

One hundred and fifty gallons. One soul, replied Duke.

Molinari and his niece were already inside the company’s pickup truck parked on a corner beside one of the runway taxiways. They looked at the caravan of light green fire trucks used at airports with their flashing lights and blaring sirens passing them to assume their position alongside the exits of runway 28’s taxiways. With a hand-held radio Molinari was following the conversation between Duke and the control tower. While scanning the horizon searching for Black Cloud, flash backs from his flight emergencies made his blood boil as he remembered those tense moments when man and machine must become one to survive.

Duke continued scanning the instrument panel as sweat fell copiously from his forehead. Come on… fly, baby, fly… his voice was heard on the control tower frequency. On his last transmission he had had a stuck mike due to the push-to-talk switch strapped to the control yoke remaining on. Duke’s talking aloud and cursing in the cockpit was a ritual whenever he found himself in a tight situation. It was not a personal cursing towards the plane, only his way of keeping psychological control over the events.

"Don’t quit on me now, ya’sonofabitch…I’m the one who’ll let you know when to quit…" He pressed his lips tightly as he felt the wing buffeting on the yoke.

In the tower, the controllers were shaking their heads listening to him.

Boy, is he foulmouthed or what? the controller trainee said with a grin, as she stood arms crossed, behind the controller attending to the emergency. The senior controller slowly turned around and curled his lips.

He knows what he’s doing. He then turned back to look at the panoramic view from the control tower’s large windows. …I’m telling you, the only thing left to do is cross our fingers for him, ‘cause he can’t.

Duke could now see the fire trucks along the runway.

Almost there… slow and heavy… he said on the radio. He thought once more about the landing gear and the wing flaps; the trailing wing surface controls that deploy downwards to help the plane maintain lower airspeed during flight. Better leave them retracted for now. Better to lower them at the last possible moment so that they will not slow him down. He was desperately in need of more power to keep safe airspeed.