A Twist of Fate

By Thomas James

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456848194

Thomas James

Jeannie Thomas lives in South Carolina with her husband, Rae, and two children, James and Betsy.  She graduated form Arkansas State University in the late 80s with a degree in Radio-TV, minoring in music.  She has since changed directions and works at home as a medical transcriptionist.   She has always worked with children in some capacity since she was very young, starting out as a baby-sitter in Collierville, Tennessee, where she grew up.  Through those years, she often scratched out or made up little children’s stories and would tell or sing them to the children.  After the birth of their two children, she had new inspiration for her stories and decided to try publishing a few of her favorites.  This is the first of her published works, done with the assistance of her husband, Rae who is her best friend.  The illustrations were done by her mother, Judy Doudoukjian and her son, James.

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Copyright © 2011 by James Thomas.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/22/2021

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

A Twist of Fate is a sequel to Operation: Deepcover as the adventures of Derick Conrad continue on. However, before we begin this venturesome journey, let’s recapitulate the players from their last adventure. It seems the best way to call to mind the players, and where we left them, would be Operation: Deepcover’s epilogue as A Twist of Fate’s prologue.

Six Months Ago

Once the attorney general had gone public with the fact that General Hector Mendoza had been indicted and arrested, the news media gave the extensive coverage. The face of General Mendoza and the attorney general were seen in every major newspaper and on all the television networks.

Consequently, the president of the United States enjoyed more favorable press in one month than he had had during his entire term. Things seemed to take a turn for the best in his presidential campaign. One by one, he had quelled the Middle East conflict and then miraculously dealt a devastating blow to the Colombian drug cartel by closing their refueling stop. The attorney general had credited the president for both the capture of General Mendoza and the ensuing victory in the war on drugs. This new popularity was carried all the way to the polls where the president was reelected by a landslide. The president would walk the halls of the White House for another four-year term, and his attorney general would be firmly ensconced at the justice department for the same period of time.

*       *       *

General Mendoza’s trial became a public spectacle. The general was afforded a speedy trial, convicted, and sentenced to forty years in the custody of the United States attorney general. The court’s decision was broadcast worldwide and was met with mixed feeling amongst the third-world countries but was overwhelmingly approved by the American public. The president’s approval rating in the Gallup Poll rose twelve points.

*       *       *

The Ambassador, Derick, and Flynt had flown to Nassau, Bahamas, along with the twenty-five ingots of gold, where the Grey Fox still maintained his considerable contacts in the island nation. Clearing customs was but a mere formality, and transporting the gold to Barclay’s Bank on Bay Street was a piece of cake.

The Ambassador met alone with the bank president for twenty minutes, then called Derick and Flynt into the office. The Ambassador painstakingly explained how he had shielded Dax Conners’s account from an onslaught of investigations on the island nation by the DEA and that he could no longer assure Derick’s anonymity. The Ambassador had suggested that Derick wire transfer all of Dax Conners’s funds, along with the eight ingots of gold he was giving him for services rendered, to Credit Suisse Bank in Zurich, Switzerland. The Ambassador explained how numbered accounts functioned and assured Derick that this was the best avenue for him to travel.

Shortly thereafter, after a series of satellite-transmitted communications between the two banks, Dax Conners’s funds were successfully transferred into a numbered account belonging to Derick Conrad. Dax Conners was no longer of the living; he had vanished just as easily as he had appeared.

*       *       *

Flynt heeded the Ambassador’s advice as well and established a numbered account with Credit Suisse Bank in Zurich, Switzerland. His eight gold ingots for services rendered are safely deposited there. Rumor has it that Flynt in busy chasing beautiful women around Rio de Janeiro.

*       *       *

The Ambassador finally retired. He resides in Zurich, Switzerland, with his beautiful wife Giselle and their newborn daughter. The Grey Fox is in his past.

*       *       *

The USS Sailfin surfaced two weeks after the mission was accomplished and had disembarked Major Thorndyke and his men at the navy pier located on the south side of Fort Lauderdale’s Port Everglades.

Major Thorndyke took his share of the group’s gold ingots and is now retired, living in a remote seaside village located on the Pacific Ocean side of Costa Rica.

*       *       *

Felix Garcia still resides in Colon, Panama, where his armament business continues to flourish.

*       *       *

Derick and Leslie married in Kauai, Hawaii, inside a cave at the stunning beautiful Fern Grotto. Their wedding rings were custom-made with the two emeralds the emerald cartel had given Derick as a departing gift—two—and four-carat emeralds set in eighteen-carat gold; his and hers respectively. The newlyweds are madly in love with one another and loving life. Derick Conrad has retired from being an aviation operative for the CIA. The Conrads reside in Hawaii Kai on the island of Oahu, Hawaii.

*       *       *

A knock resounded through the thick oak door. The brass knob turned, and a voice announced, Your Excellency, I’d like to present Senor Lehder. Senor Lehder, this is my nation’s leader, His Excellency, Fidel Castro. A heavyset, bearded man stood up behind a large mahogany desk and offered his hand. He smiled and said, Senor Lehder, won’t you please have a seat? Fidel Castro cast his voice across the large office and ordered the soldier, That will be all for now. Leave us! The premier’s personal assistant backed out of the doorway as he said, As you wish, Your Excellency. Once Senor Lehder was comfortably seated, Fidel Castro asked, What is it I can do for you, senor? The gentleman replied, Your Excellency, I represent the Colombian drug cartel. As you are undoubtedly aware, our organization is experiencing a logistics problems with our drug flights. Should we be able to resolve this problem, I’m certain that the party responsible would be amply rewarded. Would His Excellency know of such a person? Fidel Castro paused for a moment while he lit a Cuban cigar. A cloud of smoke wafted through the air as he drew on the hand-rolled tobacco. Castro leaned back in his chair and replied, I may know of someone that could help resolve your problems. Just how generous would the cartel be to this person? Senor Lehder smiled and said, Very, Your Excellency. Very generous. Another huge cloud of cigar smoke trailed from the end of the lit cigar as Fidel Castro said, Tell me more . . ."

CHAPTER ONE

T he narrow road arced along the windward side of the extinct volcanic mountain where the tropical Hawaiian sun relentlessly baked the black-top pavement and sent heat waves radiating from its surface. The gentle breeze that swept through the valley of Hawaii Kai had been replaced by a steady twenty-knot trade wind that flowed from the open ocean as the Porsche 930 Turbo swiftly accelerated up the mountainside. Colorful bushes and wildflowers flourished along the left side of the roadway. To the right, sheer cliffs plummeted into the navy blue depths of the Pacific Ocean. The afternoon sun produced a blinding glare on the windshield of the precision-built sports coupe as it hugged a crescent-shaped curve.

Derick Conrad depressed the Porsche’s clutch, then downshifted the four-speed transmission. The tachometer needle advanced in a clockwise direction while the automobile rapidly accelerated through the curve. Derick held a firm grip on the leather-bound steering wheel, making gentle corrections with the rack-and-pinion steering, careful to maintain a safe distance from the road’s perilous edge. His polarized sunglasses helped him to better discern the mountainside roadway through the afternoon sun as he shifted into second gear and punched the accelerator. The Porsche’s rear end fishtailed from the torque, yet with an ever-so-slight movement of his left hand, Derick brought the 930 Turbo under control. His right hand unconsciously massaged the teakwood shift handle while his face broke into a wide grin that reflected the love he felt for the powerful automobile. Derick cautiously negotiated another curve along the mountainside.

The forearm muscle in Derick’s right arm flexed as he smoothly shifted the transmission into third gear and the engine’s turbo boost rocketed the Porsche to ninety miles an hour during the third-of-a-mile straightaway. The change in direction, as well as speed, sent a gust of wind that mussed his hair through the open sunroof. Without thinking, Derick unhanded the gear shift knob and ran his fingers through his sun-bleached hair. He quickly glanced to the right and saw that Leslie was doing the same. Her slender bronze-tanned arm slowly raised and carried a mane of golden-colored hair with it. She closed her long eyelashes together as she turned her face toward the windy open roof. Leslie leaned forward until the safety harness restricted her forward movement, then continued to sweep the long hair over her head. The road momentarily paralleled the jagged wave-beaten coastline. The short straightaway allowed for a more aerodynamic wind flow, and the interior’s draft subsided. Leslie leaned back against the leather-covered seat and pinned her hair. Just ahead, the road curved once again.

Derick Conrad anticipated the curve and downshifted accordingly. He had driven this particular road so many times he felt as if he could do it in his sleep. The beautiful coastal roadway followed the east side of Oahu, past Makapuu Point, then north through the tiny village of Kaaawa. On the outskirt of this tiny coastal village was a restaurant by the name of the Crouching Lion. Derick and his lovely wife of two years were headed to this seaside restaurant. Although they had frequented this establishment many times prior, today was something very special—it was their second anniversary.

Once the Porsche 930 sped past the ridge at Makapuu Point, the road sloped downward until it was just a few feet above sea level. Rabbit Island protruded from the sea less than one mile off shore, its barren rock terrain resembling the hump of a giant whale’s spine and back. The coastal roadway ran alongside the ocean’s edge all the way to Kaaawa. Derick eased up on the Porsche’s high-performance engine, and what was before a whining sound was now a barely audible purr. Several cars ahead slowed as residents of the north shore pulled onto the roadway.

Derick glanced over at Leslie. She was smiling. Flawless white teeth contrasted against her bronze-tanned face, and her beautiful eyes matched the golden color of her hair. High cheek bones were prominent in her sculptured facial features. He followed her neckline as it tapered into strong but feminine shoulders. Her shiny golden hair draped across the top of her shoulders and hid the tight muscles of her back. From underneath her hair, Leslie’s long slender arms reached down to dainty hands that were positioned, left on top of right, over her crossed legs. The afternoon sun reflected off her wedding ring and lit the four-carat emerald up with a captivating green fire. Derick wore a two-carat emerald wedding ring, and the sight of hers made him take notice of his own. Although not as bright, the smaller emerald was also emitting a green fire.

The emeralds had been a departing gift from one of Derick’s past employers—the Colombian emerald cartel. Several years ago he had served as the Cartel’s exclusive courier. It was a job that had been very exciting and proved to be quite lucrative. Derick had flown many deliveries for the emerald cartel, and as a token of their appreciation, they had presented him with the two perfect emeralds. Leslie had no idea as to their origin. It was her belief and her belief altogether, because Derick had never told her one way or the other, that the emeralds were family heirlooms, primarily because they had been unset. Derick had the stones placed into identical settings and used them for their wedding rings. Seeing the flawless emeralds on a daily basis reminded him of the years spent living on the edge. Those were the years that had made Derick Conrad a multimillionaire. For Leslie, the beautiful four-carat emerald was a constant reminder of the happiest day of her life—their wedding day at Kauai’s Fern Grotto.

That joyous occasion, two years ago to the day, had marked the end of an era for Derick Conrad. It was an era spent as a covert operative for the Central Intelligence Agency. Derick had participated in several clandestine missions over the years and ended his affiliation with the CIA after the successful termination of two simultaneous missions—Golden Odyssey and Operation: Deepcover. Like a fighter pilot who had flown a great number of missions, Derick Conrad had known when it was time to retire. Operation: Deepcover ended in a blazing firefight that cost several paramilitary soldiers their lives, but in the eyes of the firm, it had ended successfully. The Cuban general Hector Mendoza had been kidnapped and brought to the United States to stand trial for his continued cooperation with the Colombian drug cartels. An ex-Special Forces major, Major Thorndyke, led a paramilitary group into Havana, Cuba, to capture the general; and with the cooperation and at the direction of the president of the United States, General Hector Mendoza received a forty-year prison term. There were those among the CIA that contended General Mendoza was nothing more than a sacrificial lamb, removed from any potential threat he may have posed to the existing administration. At any rate, the general’s capture and further prosecution was a windfall for the war on drugs and the administration’s Gallup poll ratings. The following November, the President was reelected by a landslide margin.

During the election period, Derick and his new wife were getting settled into their new home on the island of Oahu, Hawaii. They found a lovely condominium on the ninth floor in the lush valley of Hawaii Kai. The Muana Luan condominiums back up to a sloping hillside yet offer an unsurpassed view of the Pacific Ocean. It was paradise at its finest.

A small road sign marked the boundary line for the tiny village of Kaaawa. Derick downshifted the Porsche’s transmission into second gear and allowed the sports coupe to decelerate without the use of the powerful disc brakes. The exhaust emitted a rumbling sound as the turbo-charged engine reduced its revolutions per minute (RPM). Once the speed reduced to thirty miles per hour, Leslie instinctively reached for the two switches that electrically rolled the windows down. Simultaneously, the two dark-tinted windows silently slid into the doors. The open windows allowed the Pacific’s trade wind to waft freely through the automobile, and the smell of fresh, clean sea air filled Derick’s nostrils. Several strands of Leslie’s hair danced freely in front of her face as the sea breeze alternated between gentle puffs and gusty blows. Derick turned his head toward the open sea. The outside reef was covered in foamy white breaking waves—the telltale sign of rough seas farther out. He brought his focus back inside the Porsche and noticed Leslie smiling at him once again. A look of love filled her eyes, and it was a look that melted Derick’s heart. He had experienced the very same feeling the first time he ever laid eyes upon her during a walk down a secluded beach on Nassau’s Paradise Island several years ago. For a moment, Derick’s mind time traveled into his past. He found it rather amazing that of the women he had known, for the most part he could not remember the first time he had seen them. It’s not that his memory is poor; it is more the fact that their meeting made no lasting impression upon his mind. Yes, his thoughts concurred, Leslie is indeed a very special woman. His thoughts went full circle and back to the present. The entrance to the Crouching Lion laid one hundred yards ahead on the left.

Derick slowed the Porsche and turned on the left-turn signal. The yellow flashing light was easily visible as it contrasted against the highly polished black 930 Turbo. It alerted the valet attendant of Derick’s intentions and awakened his lackadaisical senses. He immediately recognized the beautiful Porsche and converted the sighting into dollars and cents—Derick always parked up front and tipped the valet ten dollars for that convenience. It was not a question of acting the big shot; the Porsche 930 Turbo has no door guards to prevent the customary three-hundred-dollar nickel-sized ding that one receives when parked in the lot.

The oncoming traffic lessened. Derick saw a four-car-length opening and eased the Porsche into the Crouching Lion entryway. The valet attendant grabbed the passenger door handle as soon as Derick stopped the car. He opened the Porsche’s door as he courteously said, Good afternoon, Mrs. Conrad. As Leslie swung her long suntanned legs out of the car, she replied, Hello, Kimo. The full-blooded Hawaiian smiled as Leslie stood. Kimo quickly closed the passenger door, then hurried to the driver’s side. Derick was already out of the Porsche and standing beside the car. Kimo asked, Your usual spot, Mr. Conrad? Derick flashed him a smile and said, Would you please, Kimo. Kimo returned the smile and replied, Anything for you, Mr. Conrad. Derick grabbed Leslie’s hand as she walked around the front of the car and replied over his shoulder, Thank you, Kimo. It was a ritual that Derick and Kimo went through at least five evenings a week.

The doorman greeted them by name, as well as the maître d’. The restaurant was to the left. As the maître d’ led Derick and Leslie through the restaurant area, he casually signaled the captain to ready the Conrads’ usual table. The captain acknowledged the maître d’ in an indistinguishable manner while he briskly escorted Derick and Leslie toward the lounge. Just as they turned the corner into the dimly lit bamboo-walled barroom, a huge Samoan bartender placed two frozen pina colada drinks upon the solid mahogany bar. A shot of Meyer’s Rum sat next to each of the frothy drinks. The drinks were so thick that a small paper umbrella stood upright in their centers. Lani, the Samoan bartender, simultaneously poured the two shots of rum on top of the frozen drinks as he greeted the two regulars. He said, Evening, Mrs. Leslie. Glancing toward Derick, he added, Evening, Derick. They both smiled and replied, Hello, Lani. Derick pulled the padded stool out for Leslie, then seated himself. The bright afternoon sun reflected off the calm waters inside the reef. The restaurant was overshadowed by steep jagged mountains that rose quickly behind it, and the sun was slowly sinking in the west. The tropical trade winds cooled the air with a light sea breeze while the frozen pina coladas chilled Derick and Leslie from the inside. It was sunset in paradise.

*       *       *

Six thousand miles to the east and five time zones away, it was a few minutes past midnight. The setting sun that Derick and Leslie were watching had long since set over the Florida Everglades and had been replaced by a crescent moon. The skies were clear and the visibility unlimited. The lights of Miami glowed in the distance, but total darkness engulfed their direction of flight. The twin-engine Piper Navajo was headed deep into the Florida Everglades and was transporting a load of cocaine for the Colombian drug cartel.

The cabin-class aircraft’s instrument panel lights illuminated the cockpit a magenta red color. The pilot in the left-hand seat was considered the cartel’s most competent, and he had earned this reputation by never losing a load. In other words, each mission he had flown for the Colombians had proved to be profitable—very profitable. The Colombian drug cartel was shipping cocaine flights at an all-time high, and had been for the past eighteen months. The Cuban connection had greased the wheels for what was certain to be the Colombians’ most profitable year to date. The pilot quickly scanned his forward-looking radar. The wand swept to and fro across the color screen while radio waves searched forty nautical miles ahead of the sleek aircraft. The Piper Navajo was twenty-eight miles south of Key Largo at an altitude of two hundred feet above the ocean’s surface.

The pilot looked outside the cockpit’s left-side window. The only visible light on the pitch-black horizon was the crimson red exhaust stacks protruding from the three-hundred-fifty-horsepower fuel-injected port engine. The aircraft’s navigation lights were not turned on nor did the crescent moon emit a resplendent beam. The pilot looked up toward the heavens and saw a sky filled with hundreds of twinkling lights. The shimmering stars took turns blinking against the black velvet backdrop, yet their effulgence did not pierce the dead of night. The pilot checked the aircraft’s starboard quadrant and noted that the right engine’s exhausts were crimson red also. With the exception of the glowing exhaust stacks, there were no lights visible in that direction for as far as the pilot’s eye could see. The veteran pilot closely watched while the color radar’s magic wand swept across the screen. The returning radio beams defined the Florida Keys as a thin strip of green that ran diagonally across the small color screen. Beyond the mainland of the Keys, on the Gulf of Mexico side, dozens of tiny islands appeared within the radar’s forty-mile range. Instinctively, the seasoned pilot compared the radar image display against his sectional navigation chart, then checked his magnetic heading. The desired point for crossing the Florida Keys was a desolate area between Key Largo and Ocean Reef. He banked the Piper Navajo five degrees to the right. The gyro compass moved slowly until the aircraft had reached its desired course, then the pilot rolled out onto the appropriate heading. The Florida Keys steadily inched their way toward the bottom of the radar screen and passed through the twenty-mile arc. A small ultrasophisticated navigation instrument was positioned above the radar screen—the Global Positioning System (GPS). The GPS receives its navigational fixes, in terms of latitude and longitude, from orbiting satellites. Therefore, the reception is not affected by an aircraft’s altitude. While cruising at two hundred feet above the ocean’s surface, the pilot selected the computer functions on the sophisticated navigation instrument that calculated time, speed, and distance to their destination. Seconds later, the complex instrument arrived at a solution. The pilot turned to his copilot and announced, We’re twenty minutes out. Let’s get everything ready in the back. The copilot replied, I’m getting with it.

The copilot was several years younger than the pilot yet had accompanied the pilot on several previous trips, but he was not quite ready to captain one himself. The pilot meticulously explained his every move during the flights they had flown together, and the copilot had proved to be a quick study. However, as his mentor, the pilot held him back until he was absolutely certain that the copilot could handle the pressures a captain must burden—once he took off from Colombia with a load of cocaine, his destiny was in his own hands. No one could help him, and he would be left to deal with all in-flight emergencies, whether they be mechanical or weather, by himself. Yes, the burden of the captain’s seat was indeed a great one, but then again, so was the paycheck—the captain received $350,000 for the trip. The copilot took home $150,000.

Before the copilot left the cockpit, he dialed in the radio frequency for Miami International Airport’s Automated Terminal Information Service (ATIS). The radio crackled an unintelligible message. The copilot adjusted the squelch control, then carefully listened. Miami’s hourly ATIS message sounded clearly through the radio’s speaker, then repeated itself. Information Tango confirmed that the weather was clear ahead—at least in Miami.

The three-hundred-fifty-horsepower engines emitted a throaty sound as they spun the perfectly synchronized three-blade propellers. The pilot guarded the throttle quadrant’s red-handled mixture controls with his right hand when the copilot unseated himself. Should he inadvertently hit the controls with his leg while unfolding himself from the tight cockpit, the fuel supply would be cut off to the fuel-injected engines. The dark, unforgiving Atlantic Ocean waited two hundred feet below to claim its prey should the twin engines cough.

Once the copilot was clear of the cockpit, the pilot checked the radar once again. The Florida Keys were now inside the ten-mile arc. Instinctively, he peered into the darkness ahead of the aircraft and discerned a string of lights to the left of their course. Three minutes later, the pilot was able to differentiate individual automobiles motoring along Highway A1A. The curved string of evenly spaced headlights resembled a strand of pearls that had been casually tossed upon a black bedspread. It was a scene the pilot had witnessed numerous times before. Perfect, he said out loud, referring to the aircraft’s position as it crossed the shoreline. Suddenly the magenta red illumination of the cockpit became diffused by a phosphorescent glow.

The pilot turned his head to the right and looked toward the rear cabin. The copilot was vigorously shaking another cyalume stick—a luminescent plastic container that emits light by oxidizing phosphorus. The sound of the snap that generates the chemical reaction could not be heard over the thunderous roar of the powerful engines, but the lime green stick glowed in the copilot’s hand. Methodically, he attached it to the top portion of a duffel bag full of cocaine. Within minutes, eight glowing lime green lights illuminated the cabin of the twin-engine Piper Navajo. The tiny tubular lights filled the cabin with an eerie color that silhouetted the copilot’s face with its ghoulish color.

The cockpit’s magenta red lighting contrasted sharply with the phosphorescent beams emitted from the cyalume sticks, but the dissimilarity did not distract the pilot from his task. He carefully checked each instrument, then cross-referenced that information to confirm the aircraft’s position, attitude, altitude, and heading. As a part of his routine scan, the pilot also visually checked outside the aircraft. To the left, the highway traffic was abeam the port wing. Within minutes, the Piper Navajo would be across Key Largo and into the straits of Florida—the shallow portion of the Gulf of Mexico that surrounds the Bay Islands.

The pilot cross-checked the visual references with the aircraft radar’s return. Several small red images dotted the tiny color screen just outside of the twenty-mile arc. The veteran smuggler pilot made a quick comparison of the images with his visual flight reference chart and confirmed their position. Even though the GPS pinpointed their geographic position within three hundred yards, the experienced pilot maintained a constant vigilance of the aircraft’s exact position. In the event of a total electrical failure, it would be necessary for him to continue to their destination by dead reckoning only.

The pilot folded the chart and laid it on the floor between the pilot and copilot’s seat. He was cool, calm, and collected in his thoughts. Suddenly several beeping sounds resounded from the rear of the aircraft’s cabin. One beep seemed to call out to another until eight identical sounds overlapped each other. The copilot’s body deflected some of the sound waves as he moved forward through the Navajo’s cabin. Carefully he circumnavigated his way around the marked green-glowing duffel bags until he reached the cockpit. Once again, the pilot guarded the mixture controls with his right hand while the copilot maneuvered himself into his seat. The copilot turned toward the pilot and said, The transmitters are up and signaling. The pilot nodded his head in acknowledgement while he pointed to the radar’s screen. He said, The red returns are the Bay Islands. He turned to face the copilot, then added, The off-loaders should pick up the transmitter’s signals in another ten miles.

*       *       *

The Florida Keys arc toward the west and extend 115 miles from Florida’s peninsula. The chain of islands end abruptly ninety miles north of Havana, Cuba, at Key West. The largest island in the chain of the Keys is the island of Big Pine Key. The wooded island is approximately twenty-five miles east of Key West and is a wildlife sanctuary for Key Deer—a miniature species of the deer family. However, it is also the home for a miniature blimp—one hundred feet in length by thirty feet in diameter—nicknamed Fat Albert. Underneath the elongated, cigar-shaped airship is a fiberglass pod outfitted with the latest in highly sophisticated electronics, none of which are meteorological measuring instruments; the balloon is equipped with advanced-technology surveillance equipment designed to detect airborne traffic. Fat Albert’s radar, as with all radar systems, operates on a line-of-sight principle. That principle equates simply as what the radar’s radio waves cannot hit with a direct transmission, it cannot see. Therefore, the higher the radar’s transmitter, the farther the coverage. Fat Albert is tethered on a fourteen-thousand-foot stainless-steel cable and at that altitude is able to maintain a constant vigilance on Cuba’s northern coast and the waters between Cuba and Florida. The data transmitted from the surveillance balloon is received and analyzed by Charley Three—the command, control, and communications center of the United States customs office in Miami, Florida.

A radar operator casually scanned the dimly lit radar screen and watched the sweeping wand complete another circle. His job was to identify the targets on his screen and to disseminate that information if he suspected a target to be a bogey. The radar’s alarm was set in conjunction with the Air Defense Identification Zone (ADIZ) and thereby would not sound unless a target’s speed exceeded 180 knots—approximately the minimum flight speed for a jet fighter aircraft. In principle, this buffered setting prevented false alarms triggered by general aviation aircraft that regularly transition the ADIZ corridor.

The pilot of the Piper Navajo was privy to this information and had reduced his airspeed accordingly. The twin-engine aircraft maintained 160 knots as it continued northbound through the night sky. No alarms had alerted the radar operator of the ADIZ intrusion, but Fat Albert provided a primary radar return. As the operator monitored the advancing target, he satisfied himself that it was not a hostile aircraft, but it had the profile of a drug flight. The radar operator observed the approaching aircraft for a moment more, then reached for the telephone handset that connected him with the Air Wing Division of customs at Homestead Air Force Base. The phone rang twice, then a voice answered, Air wing. The radar operator informed him, I’ve got a possible for you. The bogey has penetrated the ADIZ from the south, slow moving. The air wing officer asked, Does he appear to be headed into Miami International Airport? The question awakened the radar operator’s groggy senses. The customs officer’s obvious curiosity caused him to wonder if perhaps he should have alerted the Air Wing Division earlier. Quickly, he evaluated the situation and opted to cover his ass, so to speak. The radar operator responded, The bogey was headed in that direction. However, two minutes ago he altered his course more to the north northwest. His current heading will take him into the Everglades. There was a momentary pause in the conversation while the air wing officer contemplated the information he had just received, then he replied, Roger the information. We’ll handle it from here. The radar operator wished him, Good hunting. The air wing officer replied, Good night, and hung up the phone.

The air wing officer walked over to the detection-systems specialist and pointed to a small target on the radar-repeater screen. He said, How about checking this one out. The specialist replied, Yes, sir, as he leaned forward and placed both hands on the computer keyboard. His fingers moved furiously for several seconds, then paused while he allowed time for the computer to interface with the Federal Aviation Administration’s main computer. One minute later, the monitor filled with scores of filed flight plans. The detection-systems specialist meticulously pored over the flight plans in search of one that might match the bogey’s flight path. None could be found. Therefore, the specialist determined that the primary return was indeed a bogey and promptly reported the diagnosis to his superior. The air wing officer complimented the specialist on his quick analysis, then picked up the hotline phone.

The flight squadron leader listened intensely as the air wing officer briefed him on the bogey. When the briefing was finished, the pilot replaced the hotline phone back into its cradle. His hand continued moving until it rested on a red button by the handset. The flight squadron leader pressed the button, and a loud, drawn-out whoop whoop blared through the Klaxton. The loudspeaker projected the sound across the airfield’s apron to the two Blackhawk helicopters and a Cessna Citation jet sitting in the ready position. Immediately, the on-duty pilots scurried toward the air wing dispatch office. The flight squadron leader quickly briefed them on the bogey’s position, speed, and direction of flight.

Customs’ Air Wing Division was already running another intercept operation in the Bahamas that evening, and that chase had locked up UHF channel five. The flight squadron leader assigned the crew of the Cessna Citation the intercept and code-named the jet Grumpy One. The two Blackhawks were assigned code names Grumpy Two and Three respectively and would launch when the pursuits reached the interdiction stage. Their direction of flight would depend on which chase unfolded first.

The briefing was finished on the move as the three men walked toward the Citation jet. Five minutes later, the deafening roar of the twin-turbine engines sounded while the sleek jet took off into the darkness. The aging squadron leader removed his dark blue baseball hat and lightly ran his hand across his balding head. It was a motion done more out of habit than necessity and was a carryover from his Vietnam days when he possessed a full head of hair. The motion was his trademark among the air wing pilots and was a nervous twitch that he would love to break. The thought entered his mind, and he replaced the ball cap on his head and exclaimed, Goddamn it! The sound of the Citation’s engines grew faint as he walked toward the small building.

The drug flights were crossing the ADIZ at an unprecedented rate. Consequently, the powers that be up on the hill were coming down on customs with threats of budget cuts, etc. Threats such as that usually run downhill and unfortunately were stopping at his department—the Air Wing Division. The Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) had reported to a senate subcommittee that the supply of cocaine in this country has risen, and street prices are at an all-time low. Cocaine is flowing freely across our borders. After that senate hearing, the Air Wing Division had been leaned on heavily. Now here they were running two interdiction missions at once. The flight squadron leader unconsciously removed his baseball cap as he reached for the office’s door knob. He turned the handle and grumbled, Goddamn it!

Inside the small office, the radio operator was overheard replying, Roger, Grumpy One. You’re radar contact. Suggest heading of two six zero for intercept. The flight squadron leader listened to the conversation and, without realizing, ran his hand across his head once again. The Cessna Citation jet replied over the radio, Roger, Charley Three, while they proceeded to soar through the dark sky. The pilot reported, We’re going to maintain two hundred knots, Charley Three. The radio operator acknowledged their airspeed transmission, which would be used in calculating their intercept angle, then stood by. The flight squadron leader realized he was performing his nervous twitch again and exclaimed, Goddamn it!

CHAPTER TWO

T wenty-two miles southwest of Everglades City, two flat-bottomed camouflage-colored aluminum airboats silently bobbed in six inches of water. Although the area was predominately flooded marshland with tall saw grass, there were several small islands covered with thickets of shrubs and trees. These islands vary in size and shape relative to the accumulation of rainfall. Fortunately for the off-loaders, the annual rainfall had been above average this year, which kept the Everglades in a flooded state. This was particularly advantageous for the off-loaders because it made the area inaccessible, with one exception — airboat.

The four Everglade City locals had become vastly wealthy during the past twelve months by off-loading cocaine airdrops for the Colombian drug cartel. Their equipment included the latest technology in electronic homing devices and night-vision goggles. The airboats were painted flat black, which allowed for imperceptible movement through the saw grass. On this particular evening, a crescent-shaped moon hung overhead and enshrouded the two boats in a veil of darkness, yet its obscurity still provided ample light for the night-vision goggles to function properly. The equipment enhanced the luminary light sixty-four thousand times.

Two men sat side by side in each of the airboats, and all four wore night-vision goggles. Their conversation was nil, and had been for over a half hour. One of the airboat drivers checked the luminous dial on his wristwatch and noted that the drug-laden aircraft was scheduled to arrive in less than ten minutes. The off-loader seated beside him searched the heavens to the south but still did not establish visual contact with the Piper Navajo. Henceforth, the four men patiently waited in anticipation for the arrival of the Cartel’s courier flight. Several minutes passed in total silence, then suddenly the electronic homing device made a single beep. Seconds later, the machine emitted continuous beeps not unlike those resounding from an automobile’s radar detector. The other airboat driver heard the monotone beeps and immediately illuminated his handheld GPS. The small sophisticated navigation instrument interrogated satellites twenty-six miles above the earth’s surface and quickly triangulated their position. The longitude and latitude coordinates appeared on a small backlit screen. The off-loader compared those numbers to the ones he had long since committed to memory and smiled. The wind was light and consequently had not drifted them from the rendezvous site. All was well.

Without conversation, he aimed a small transmitter toward the rectangular-shaped island and pressed the thumbnail-sized switch. Immediately, two strobe lights, one on either end of the island, began emitting rapid, brief, brilliant flashes of light. The strobe’s flashes were particularly bright to the men through the night-vision goggles, but the lights were imperative; When the brilliant flashes were lined up, they marked a straight-line airdrop zone in which the Piper Navajo would unload its cargo of eight duffel bags. Explosive flashes illuminated the scrub brushes on the island as the off-loaders started the powerful engines on the two airboats. The perfectly tuned motors caught during the first rotation of the two-blade propellers and emitted a throaty sound. The drivers maintained one thousand RPMs at an idle speed while they waited. One minute later, the sound of the Navajo’s engines were heard. All four off-loaders looked in a southerly direction.

The Piper Navajo and the Cessna Citation were both twenty miles from the strobe-lit drop zone and positioned south and east respectively. Although the two aircraft were the same distance away, the smuggler pilot had an advantage over the customs’ flight officers—his onboard GPS was receiving pinpoint navigation fixes to the island destination. The Navajo pilot pressed a tiny button labeled Time/Distance that calculated their position with reference to the waypoint. Instantaneously, two figures showed across the dimly lit screen—six and a half minutes and twenty miles respectively. Quickly, the smuggler pilot computed the twin-engine aircraft’s groundspeed at three miles per minute. A glance at the airspeed indicator confirmed his next thought—they were traveling much too fast for an airdrop. The pilot placed his right hand on the throttle controls and gently eased the levers back. The manifold pressure reduced in the 350-horsepower engines and the airspeed quickly decreased. He retrimmed the aircraft three times before a slight increase in the power stabilized the Navajo’s airspeed at 120 knots. The reduction in their cruising speed increased the time to the drop zone to eight minutes—eight very long minutes.

The pilot shifted his weight in the seat and nervously wiped his right palm across the thigh of his trousers. His palms always perspired at this moment. It did not matter how many times he had done it before; each time he climbed in the cockpit to fly a trip, he stood the chance of meeting his maker. Each and every time he pushed the airplane to the outside of its performance envelope, he toyed with disaster. Tonight’s airdrop was no different. The pilot gathered his composure and replaced his right hand on the throttles. Casually, as if to project calm confidence to the copilot, he turned and said, Let’s open her up. The copilot nodded his head in acknowledgement. One second later, the pilot heard the familiar click of the safety harness unlatching.

As the copilot moved through the obstacle-filled cabin, his body movements cast weird shadows across the instrument panel. Once the shadows ceased to dance about the cockpit, the pilot knew the copilot was in place. His thoughts were confirmed when the cabin filled with a rushing whoosh. The copilot’s arms strained while he slowly dropped the lower portion of the Navajo’s split door into the 120-knot slipstream. Invisible hands attempted to pull the half door free from the copilot’s grasp until the tornadic slipstream fully extended the restraint chain. The induced drag caused the aircraft’s nose to veer slightly to the left. Without thinking about his corrective movements, the pilot gently increased the rudder pressure with his right foot. When the correction stabilized, he retrimmed the yaw with a small knob below the throttle quadrant.

The copilot busied himself with the positioning of the duffel bags for an expedient release once the pilot gave him the signal. The cocaine-filled bags performed pirouettes on the Navajo’s ceiling while the slipstream inside the aircraft’s cabin whipped the green-glowing cyalume sticks attached to their tops to and fro. He worked furiously to get the duffel bags into the ready position, because once he received the signal, all eight duffel bags must go out the Navajo’s split-door opening between the two flashing strobe lights—the copilot was working against the clock. A bead of perspiration formed above his eyebrow as he manhandled the heavy drug-filled cargo bags. Just as he positioned the last one,