Desperate Measures

By R. Douglas Marley

A skilled Pilot, Mick finds himself in the service of the Cartel, smuggling drugs. Delivering drugs is lucrative and he rationalizes his involvement, but when he is asked to deliver a group of girls into prostitution his morals kick in. How is he going to avoid making this delivery? And, if he does thwart the delivery, how will he ever escape the wrath of the Cartel? Every survival skill he has ever learned would be needed to make this work, but would they be enough?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891570658

Book preview

cover.jpg

Desperate Measures

R. Douglas Marley

Copyright © 2024 R. Douglas Marley

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

I wish to acknowledge my sister Barbara Hansen for helping me prepare this manuscript for the publisher, and my wife Donna for being patient while my mind and fingers are off in another world.

ISBN 979-8-89157-048-1 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-89157-065-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

About the Author

Prologue

Five airmen huddled in the back of a step van on the Nellis Air Force Base ramp, awaiting the return of four A-10s from the morning's training mission. The radio said it was another scorching day in Downtown Las Vegas. That meant the blistering heat coming off the ramp at the air base was somewhere above 115 degrees! The step van's overtaxed air conditioner provided mobile refuge from the sun for the young airman. Inside the van, benches ran along both sidewalls, and the airmen sat facing each other as they enjoyed some time to socialize and rest in the cool air.

A brown ten-gallon Igloo cooler full of Gatorade and ice sat on the floor between them and six long polypropylene tubes poked out from under the loose lid. The straws were meant for taking oil samples from the Warthog's engines, but they just happened to be perfect for sipping the replenishing liquid from the community jug as well.

Mick entered the back of the van, wiped his face on a piece of light-blue canopy cloth, sat down next to the two female airmen on the left side, and took a long swig from what he hoped was his straw. No one protested so he sucked in another mouthful. He noticed the conversation had died when he entered the van, and he glanced up to see what clues might reveal why.

Ed took a slow drag on his cigarette and gave Mick an impish smile before blowing a smoke ring toward the ceiling. Ed was the natural leader in the group. Not only was he a senior airman, but he was also a good mechanic, and three of his buddies orbited like moons around him. His sandy-colored, out-of-regulation hair was combed back above his ears with a little Brylcreem to hold it in place. He stood an inch shy of six feet and though his arms weren't bulging, they were respectable. Besides that, Ed was a congenial man with a square jaw and steel-blue eyes. He was also a prankster.

Pausing while his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, Mick looked around the van. When his eye's met Diane's, he stopped. She was his trainer and the most likely one to reveal the secret.

Help me out here, Mick pleaded.

Sorry, you're on your own this time, his trainer replied. Diane smiled glancing at Ed, then with a slight tilt of the head, she winked at Mick.

Mick knew he was being played, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know just how. Since nothing else seemed amiss, he narrowed it down to two possibilities: the straw, which was supposed to be off limits, or the canopy cloth towel. He inspected the towel. There were no skid marks, and it didn't smell of sweaty nards or nasty fluids, so he pulled the straw out of the jug and began to inspect it closer. Snickers sifted through the van.

Okay, what'd you do to my straw?

Don't look at me, Ed defended.

Mick looked at the other guys, each vigorously denied wrongdoing. When he got back to Diane, he could tell from the muscles in her neck she was holding back a giggle. Mick clinched his teeth and scowled at her, bracing for what caper he'd be treated to. He took in a slow, deep breath. She still had a teasing twist in her smile. Mick looked up at the headsets hanging on hooks above the airmen for several seconds, his mind formulating the right questions.

Come on, Diane, out with it… What did you do?

You've got to try harder than that, she coaxed.

Mick examined the straw closer, looking for lipstick, saliva, boogers, anything… He felt a tickle in his throat and cleared it with a little cough. That's when it hit him.

"Nooo! You didn't?" Mick started hacking as the van rocked with laughter.

Then sure enough, a little black insect leg coughed out on his canopy cloth. The roar in the truck climaxed as they began holding their aching tummies and falling against the walls.

Mick glared at Diane. What did that come from?

Just a little cricket, or was it a cockroach? He had an organ donor card?

Mick gagged. You put a cockroach leg in my straw?

I was blackmailed. Diane shrugged in her defense.

Blackmailed with what?

I can't tell you that. It's the very reason I had to trick you.

Mick turned to Ed. Next time it's your turn to be sacrificed for half-time entertainment, so watch your step.

Hey, it wasn't me. I'm just an observer. Go after her.

Sure, brave man blackmailing a lady to do your dirty work.

Lady!

Careful, Mick growled.

Ed shot Diane an inquisitive look. Is there more than mentoring going on in that hangar?

Mick knew Ed had been chasing Diane for some time and seized the opportunity to jab Ed in the gut and twist it. That's right, Sarge, I've been preflighting more than the tail of the airplane.

Ed's grin wavered, but he recovered quickly and turned to his buddies. Yeah, I'll bet, he growled over his shoulder.

Diane's face reddened, but she looked at Mick with a tilt of the head and raised eyebrows. She decided to capitalize on his comment. Does that mean you're taking me flying? she asked.

Mick's tone went more serious as he avoided the naughty connotation. I don't have my license yet, but as soon as I can, I'm game. Mick sat back down next to Diane and gave her the obligatory scolding glance. That wasn't the best way to get a flight with me.

Perhaps.

The atmosphere in the truck calmed down, and Ed lit another cigarette.

He eyed Mick as he took several more drags on his Marlboro before speaking. I've been wanting to talk to you about your flight training.

What about my flight training? Mick responded, a little surprised.

Well, what are you gonna do with it?

Mick thought for a minute to formulate what he wanted to tell these guys that wouldn't sound like a pipe dream. I suppose I hope to make a living out of flying someday.

Think you'll have a chance with the airlines?

I hope so since that's where the money is, but with all the Vietnam jockeys getting out and their buddies already holding key positions with the airlines, it's a pretty long shot.

So what's plan B?

First is usually instructing then hauling skydivers or maybe crop-dusting or pipeline inspection, but before I can do any of that, I've got to get 250 hours of flying in. Eventually though, I hope to get a charter service started.

And your pay here's about four hundred dollars a month, half of which goes to that car you drive. I'm guessing another hundred to take this, ummm, ‘lady' out once in a while. Ed nodded slightly toward Diane.

Mick chuckled and nodded. Maybe.

It'll take a long time to build flight time with that income. Ed hesitated before adding, I hear you need to get a four-year degree before airlines will hire you as well.

Mick nodded again. That was the real stickler, the reason he wasn't flying one of those A-10s right now—he struggled with school.

Ed watched for the hopeless expression on Mick's face to signal it was time to introduce plan C. As Mick stared at the floor deep in thought, Ed figured the time was right. I know some guys who would front some money for your flying if you'd fly for them when you're rated. No degree required.

Really, would I be paying 200 percent interest?

No interest and enough to live well and get your own flying service off the ground. Probably wouldn't even have to pay it back in money.

If it's that good, why don't they get ex-military pilots like everyone else?

Because it's…well, it's illegal!

Chapter 1

Year 1992, nine years later…

Mick looked over the loading data as he walked to his Beach 18, one of several airplanes he had acquired over the last eight years. He especially liked this vintage aircraft because it accommodated the specialized purposes needed for his type of business, like throwing things out during flight and landing on unimproved fields. The Cessna Caravan had near the same performance but didn't do as well on dirt as the tail-dragging radial engine twin Beach did.

Mick fit the description of a PAX (the acronym for passengers on air transports), that is he was five feet eight tall and weighed 170 pounds. He had brown hair with a red tint, which he kept parted on the left and trimmed off the ears. He also wore a red mustache most of the time. His favorite outfit was a Nomex military flight suit, but during the heat of the summer, he wore shorts, polo shirts, and tennis shoes with a brimmed hat of some sort.

Diane was a longtime friend from Mick's air force days. They would have married, but in his business, families are liabilities. Diane had been with him from the day in the step van when he said yes to being a drug courier, and they had kept their relationship covert, under a mutual understanding for her safety. Diane stood five feet seven with short brown hair and brown eyes. She was a solid but curvy woman of Italian descent and provided a good friend Mick could talk to without reservation. Mick had built a house and hangar specifically to allow Diane to come and go undetected, and he made sure she was well off at her own place. Diane had other relationships come and go, but she always stayed friends with Mick.

Mick's real name was Timothy McLaughlin, but he only heard that name from the IRS or the FAA. Both of which he kept his distance from.

Today, Mick thought his cargo seemed odd. He had transported people to and from Mexico and beyond, but in the past, it was people weighing in excess of 150 pounds. This time, it was four people who were all between ninety to 120 pounds. Clearly youth or women. That made him uneasy.

For eight years, he had successfully transported product from points south to the US, and he had managed to keep clear of the law and have a relatively clear or at least translucent conscience. Now he sensed that might be challenged.

Mick's hangar, intentionally at the extreme edge of airport property, had a secret tunnel connecting to his house. He used it mostly when transporting illegal products within the borders of the US, where no one would be searching his airplane unless they saw him loading it with suspicious cargo. With the tunnel, no one could see the planes being loaded or unloaded. Only Diane and his liaison agent, Ed, knew about it. Now Ed was suggesting he use that tunnel to load this cargo of small people.

Mick checked his Breitling chronograph—thirty minutes till Ed shows up at the house, he figured. He always checked the plane over close as he didn't need mechanical issues on top of the demands of transporting contraband. Mick varied every flight and delivery method to keep the hounds off his tail, and he always spent a lot of time making sure the airplane was in top notch condition. Still, things go wrong, and you can't really pray for help in this business. Mick grimaced; deep down, he knew God was frowning on his smuggling, even if he, Diane, and Ed had rationalized it away. He sensed Diane felt the same way as she no longer wore the cross around her neck.

Mick stowed his flashlight and screwdriver away and hurried back to the house just as Ed arrived with the cargo. He opened the garage, and Ed drove in, sitting inside the dark tinted windows of the car until the door was closed again.

Ed stepped out and opened the back door of the SUV then helped two older teens from the car and sat them on the floor against the wall then helped two more out of the passenger's side. Three of the girls were obviously upset, but the fourth, though resisting some, seemed to be reconciled to her fate.

I didn't sign up for human trafficking! Mick protested.

I know you didn't, but this is our marching orders. Just do your job and don't get involved.

Don't get involved! How do I not get involved?

Don't do this, this is part of the business. You just haven't had to deal with it before.

Have you? Mick shot back.

This is my first too, but it's expected. And there will be repercussions if we don't.

So our clients have been trafficking for a while?

Don't act so surprised. This stuff is on the news, in movies, everywhere. Did you think Shorty's got too many scruples for trafficking?

Mick stormed back and forth in the garage, calculating what his options were.

Mick, we've been working together for a long time. Turning this down means the end for you and probably for me too. And I do mean the end. They will likely kill you if you don't do this. Come on, Mick, do you really think this is any worse than trafficking drugs?

Yeah! Yeah, I do think this is worse than drugs. Drugs are something people choose to take. They want the drugs and pay bookoo bucks to get them. These girls have been taken against their will, probably traumatized beyond imagination, and it's only the beginning. Who knows what a bastard who buys sex slaves will do to them. They're certainly not mail-order brides, that's for sure. They're going to the most degenerate scum of humanity! I've heard clients can pay big bucks so they can torture and even kill them. Ed, how can you be a part of that? Eventually they'll all be worn out and disposed of.

Ed turned away. Well, we help transport them or be killed ourselves. And, my friend, going to the afterlife for people like us is not something to rush into. Ed thought for a minute then added, I'm pretty sure we've both sold our souls to the devil. Do you think it will make any difference if you transport these girls? Damnation is damnation. Do you think St. Peter will throw another shovel of coal on the fire because we transported a few girls?

Mick shook his head. Then do it for the girls' sake. We'll burn in hell either way, but we don't want to put these girls through living hell now.

Ed turned for the door. Sorry, I'm not ready to die yet. I'm living in heaven now or at least as close to it as I'll ever get. I'll get to the devil's version of it soon enough for now I'm going to enjoy life while I can. I delivered them to you, what you do with them is your business.

Ed! Mick pleaded.

Ed climbed in the car, shut his door, and ordered, Open the garage.

As the door opened, it revealed a black suburban sitting at the curb. Though Mick couldn't see it, Ed shook his head as he drove off. The suburban doors opened, and two men climbed out. Mick tried to close the garage door, but they tripped the sensor, and the door opened again. Mick darted into the house, but one of the men caught up to him before he could get to one of his pistols. The man drew his gun, and Mick stopped in his tracks, waiting for the bullet to rip into him. But the shot never came.

So you decided to resurrect some morals, the man taunted.

I don't want any part of human trafficking, Mick replied.

Well, you signed up to work for a cartel, and that means you will transport what you're told to, period. He shoved Mick toward the garage. We need these girls in Panama by tomorrow, and there's too much heat to use the jets at the moment. So you, my man, are going to find your morals when you're done with this job.

The two men herded the girls and Mick to the Suburban. One sat in the back with his gun drawn while the other drove.

Mick noticed what looked like a police radio and police-style gun racks. He looked at the vehicle ID number stuck to the dash, then turning to the driver, he said, You guys are cops!

You might say we enforce the laws for more than one organization, the driver said.

You son of a b——!

Save your breath, drug smuggler, you're no better than us.

There's a difference, you're turncoats.

Well, we got lots of company.

What's it cost the cartel for a cop these days?

It's not like that, the gunman interjected.

Oh, what's it like?

It's like, ‘join us and prosper or oppose us, and we will wipe out your entire bloodline.' You see, there are no rules for the cartel, so there is no way for the cops to win. They own judges by the same means. Prosecutors, congress, they got everybody by the shorthairs, and our laws ensure they can keep their grip. So we put on this charade to keep the public pacified and give the illusion of a safe and orderly society. But the crime bosses are the real puppet masters. The general population are like cows being herded from one green pasture to the next and fed sweet corn while being milked by organized crime. I, like you, decided to be a milkman instead of a Holstein. Besides, every person who uses illegal drugs is a traitor to this country as much as we are, whether they're a bum or a rich party queen. It finances the greatest threat our country's ever had, the cartels. Just as traitorous as donating to the Taliban.

Mick thought about that whole concept. It was mind-boggling. I can think of a difference, he said. The cartel needs a prosperous population. The Taliban wants to annihilate us.

That's beside the point here.

So if what you're saying is true, it's too late, the cartels already run the country.

That's what I'm sayin'. Jefferson had it right when he said, ‘Our laws are totally insufficient to govern anyone but a God-fearing people,' or something like that.

The driver asked which hangar was Mick's and followed his directions, parking next to the building.

Mick was weighing out his options. He could run right now by himself, leaving the cartel to figure out how to transport the girls without him. That would end his career and his life, at least as Tim McLaughlin. He could be a hero and try to save the girls. Again, that meant losing not only what he'd been working eight years to build, but he for sure would have a price on his head if he succeeded. Or he could go along and keep his nose out of their business—he was just delivering goods. What the cartel did with them was not his concern. Obviously, he couldn't rely on the law to protect him after being on the opposite team for so long and the cops being so heavily infiltrated. He'd be dead inside of a week.

One of the men saw Mick was too deep in thought and took him by the shoulder. You can't overthink this, just keep focused on flying. Don't talk to them. Don't look at them. Don't think of them. It's their misfortune. Don't make it yours.

Mick sensed the guy was actually trying to help him. How can I do that? I've got to be with them all day.

Listen, I don't know how you got involved with the cartel, but for us, we've got little choice. Life or death! Not just for us but our kids, wives, parents, etc., depending on how pissed you make them. We didn't know when we came to work at the DEA that this is how it works, and once we were made an offer, it was too late. You cooperate or you and your family get hosed. You don't even have the option to turn it down and leave the agency. So we are like many German soldiers during WWII who didn't like what was being done but couldn't escape it alive.

Mick looked at the sadness in the agent's eyes and nodded his understanding. He didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do. Load 'em up, he finally mumbled.

Mick opened the hangar doors after the girls were cuffed to their seats. He towed the airplane out of the hangar then cranked the engines and taxied to the end of the runway.

Smuggling had changed over the years. Early on, Mick had established complex methods of working cocaine in and money out, but as the cartels got more powerful, it became more a matter of timing so that the airplanes arrived at customs when the right agents were working. Of course, a certain amount had to be sacrificed to the officials to keep up the charade, but Mick had not been caught because he still used his own methods of smuggling instead of playing the new game, always weary of the cartel's motives and methods. That is why he figured they wanted him to take this load. However, humans required different methods of smuggling than packages. People couldn't be kicked out the door in a capsule over a drop zone. And people couldn't be left submerged for a day or two offshore or in the bottom of Lake Mead until he could come get them. So the cartel had left him in a lurch by expecting he could deliver people just like he did packages. The people he'd transported before hadn't been forced participants. But he decided playing along for now was the wise option.

Chapter 2

The throaty radial engines roared as Mick climbed away from the airport. He enjoyed flying an airplane with radial engines; it felt like a connection with the golden age of aviation. He prided himself on his ability to dead reckon his position, wind, and ground speed, and even though he had modern means of navigation, he still used the methods of the early aviators to entertain himself, educate and connect with his past. However, he was so familiar with this territory he didn't need to look at any navigation instruments while it was daylight. Even at night, he just kept track of the cities as long as it was clear enough. But today, his mind was not on flying.

Mick broke the first commandment the agent had told him, he looked back at the girls. Now he couldn't get their forlorn faces out of his mind. What must be going through their heads right now? How does a person handle that kind of fear?

Mick leveled off at seventy-five hundred feet and nosed toward the southeast, then he throttled back to economy cruise. He needed to think, and he hadn't had time to. No doubt someone was watching his progress on the cartel's side of things. If he went as planned, he would refuel at a dirt field a hundred miles north of Durango, Mexico. He could use a dozen or so different places, but he was told which one it would be when he was an hour away. Cooperating officials only went so far, and it was better if you could just avoid the need