 |
| New cover, updated on Amazon this month (Kindle price $0.99) |
Air-Am, from the novel Boystown: The Cocaine Highway
By edRogers
[In the previous chapter, published here on October 18, James Hamilton had enlisted in the US Army to get away from a Colombian drug cartel. But things became confused, and Chapter 23 ended with Hamilton sitting alone on his bunk attempting to sort out what had happened. “Two days ago, all I wanted was a place to hide. What was I doing in this outfit? Why promote me to a warrant officer?...I was sure there was a puppeteer pulling strings, and I was the puppet.”]
The next six weeks were hell. The fun times the crews had before my arrival stopped. We ate, slept, shit, and pissed in our planes. Moreover, when we weren’t flying, we were in one class after another. They pushed two years of training programs down our throats and made us chew each bite.
T-Bone was a damn good pilot and was able to drop in on those homemade airfields with little effort, but we were three weeks into the course before he let me try a landing. You never forget your first. I came in low over the valley. My hands were so wet, I was afraid I’d lose my grip. The runway ran up-hill. The trick was to land as you climbed out of the valley. Gravity would slow your air speed, and you needed less of a runway. However, it was all in the angle and the speed. Roger had been right when he said there was no room to fuck up. I hit that first one a little hard, but I didn’t kill us and that was good. Once the plane stopped, I climaxed the landing by throwing up out of the window.
Captain Valenzuela was our instructor. He was a relentless bastard with no life outside of the Army. He drove us night and day, and was always in our face and always screaming for more. They issued us rifles and we camped out for two days and nights while we qualified with the M2 carbines. They also issued us forty-five side arms. Everywhere we went, Valenzuela ran us and, although he ran with us, he was in a lot better shape than I was.
The last two weeks he eased up and our flights became navigational exercises. We would fly from Ft. Lewis to Moses Lake, Washington, which was in the middle of the state. There we fueled up and headed to Portland and out to sea. From a dot on the map we turned north and came home. They would give us the wrong maps sometimes just to see how we handled the problem. After years of picking my way across Mexico, one radio station at a time, T-Bone and I always were the first plane home.
Week six, they came in with our orders. We were to leave by way of Flying Tiger Airline to Hawaii, where we would pick up our newly outfitted C-7 – better known as “The Caribou.” It was a flying boxcar, which could land and take off on a postage stamp. The size was smaller than the C-124. However, the two planes handled about the same.
We left Hawaii, and ferried the C-7 to the Philippines. In Hawaii, Sergeant Allen had joined the crew as our flight chief. He had fifteen years in the Air Force and was just waiting to retire. This would be his last overseas mission and then he would ride out a few years stateside.
“I’ve got a wife and two kids,” he said. “If you think about acting like fools up here, remember I’ve got someplace to go after this is over.” He was a good man and knew the Caribou like the back of his hand. He was a nice fit – T-Bone and I both liked Allen.
When we landed in the Philippines we reported to a Major Tucker. We parked the planes at the left side of the field, and guards were posted to keep everybody away and they locked us in a hangar. There were crappers and washbasins in the hangar and C-rations from 1945. It all made for a fun couple of days. At last, a truck showed up with two pallets of ammo, weapons, and five Green Berets for each airplane. Allen supervised the loading and we did pre-fight.
Mayor Tucker, if that was his name, could only be described as one bad-ass motherfucker. He and four other men boarded our plane. We were almost finished with pre-flight when I felt his hand on my shoulder. I turned and stared into a green and black painted face. “Get this fucking bird in the air.” He was gone before I could protest – not that it would have done any good. Tucker wasn’t the kind of a man that looked for, nor welcomed, a debate.
Somewhere over the China Sea, Tucker came into the cockpit with our new heading. It was a base in the highlands of Vietnam – we were dark and off the radar. Our call sign was Air-Am 1147. I couldn’t help but wonder, What the hell was going to happen next? As T-Bone liked to say, “Go with the flow, baby, it’s all good.” Good, hell – I was trying to gauge the odds of Tucker getting me killed just as T-Bone whispered, “Does this mean we’re not in the Army anymore?”
“The hell if I know what’s going on, but I’ll tell you one thing – that Major sure looks like Army to me.” I turned on the small light on the dish and began to plot our course. “I’ll tell you something else T-Bone. Men like that Major, trouble will go out of its way to find them, and God help us if we’re close by when it finds him.”
“Hamilton, you need to look on the bright side,” T-Bone replied, with a twinkle in his voice. “We’re not in the Army anymore…we’re Air-Am.”
“Keep living in that dream world, just remember what the Army gives you, they can take away.”
We circled the small fire base at 500 feet and came in from the west. The compound consisted of four GP tents for the troops’ sleeping quarters. In the middle of the compound were two round-topped metal buildings, which were used for airplane maintenance. To the left of the field were two command tents, each sitting next to a bunker surrounded by sandbags. Four gun emplacements covered the field, two at each end. In the distance, I could see the barbwire, which marked our boundaries. The possibility of being in combat had crossed my mind, but it wasn’t real to me. It was something that would happen later…far down the road, and I’d be ready for it. As we taxied down that dirt runway, I realized I would never be ready for it.
Although we had spent a few days in Hawaii and the Philippines I still wasn’t prepared for the heat of Nam. Texas and Mexico couldn’t compare to the suffocation of Vietnam. The sun had been up for about an hour before we landed, and already the air was like a wet blanket. It covered you, and there was no place to hide that it didn’t follow.
We taxied to our parking spot and shut the engines down. T-Bone and I walked down the back ramp and stopped to talk to Allen. He stood by the ramp and hollered at some enlisted men to get the shit off his airplane.
“The airplane is all yours, Sergeant,” I said, as we came abreast of Allen. He started to salute. I reached out and stopped his hand. I had seen my share of John Wayne movies. “I don’t think that would be a good idea in this part of the world.”
“I guess, you’re right, Sir. I’ll have the plane ready to go by this evening.” Then he turned his attention back to the unloading crew.
We noticed the others headed toward one of the command tents. I didn’t feel right about being an officer. Hell, I hadn’t been in the Army more than a couple months. I knew nothing of Army life and now T-Bone seemed to think we were no longer in the Army. I really wanted to know what the hell was going on.
As we walked along, I asked T-Bone, “How do you feel about being an officer?”
“Didn’t you get the new orders? We’re not in the Army. We’re part of the Air-Am Team. The Airline of the Stars.” T-Bone had a deep baritone voice, and when he laughed, you couldn’t help but laugh along with him.
“What’s so funny?” Roger asked as he and Dorsey caught up with us.
“I’m not sure” – I hollered over the roar of a flight of jets that were headed north – “but I think T-Bone believes he is the first black pilot for a major airline.”
“You do know, Air-Am is not part of American Airlines?” Dorsey asked.
“Fuck all of you. I know I’m not in the Army and that makes me happy.” T-Bone threw back the flap on the tent and we entered. A small fan moved the stale air around the enclosed area, but the sides needed to be raised. The base remained blacked out at night, but in the heat of the day, they rolled up the tent sides in order to allow what little air there was to move through them.
Major Tucker and a short man stood at the map on the far side. The man with the Major looked familiar, something about the way he stood. A civilian sat at the table alone.
“Let me see your orders,” said the civilian. He took the papers and threw them in the garbage. “As of today, you are all non-persons. The real you is back in Ft. Lewis Washington. If anyone ever asks you if you have been to Vietnam, your answer will be, “No, I spent all my time in Washington State.” He looked hard at each one of us. “Any other answer and you will find yourself under the stockade.”
There was a map on the wallboard behind him. He got up and pointed at an area that covered three countries. “We supply aid and firepower within this circle. Get to know it. It’s your new home. We fly support for the Green Berets and covert missions for the C.I.A.”
The word C.I.A. began bells ringing in my head. I turned toward the table as Maj. Tucker and my old friend Jones turned around. Jones still wore his big dark-rim glasses, but the black suit was gone. He had replaced it with Army olive-drab. He smiled as he headed toward me with his hand out. “James, I’m so glad to see you could make it to our little party.”
I could feel every eye on me. They wanted to know how I knew this C.I.A. spook. Even the Major looked surprised. “I thought you were dead,” I said.
Jones took my hand and as he pumped it, he asked, “You thought I was dead, or hoped I was dead?”
“I was there when the house blew up.” I shook my head. “I don’t see how anybody could have gotten out of that alive.”
Jones released my hand, smiled, and headed toward the door. He pushed the tent flap open and said, “You men get settled in. James, we’ll talk later. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
The Private that stood outside the command tent directed us to our GP. The large-group tents could sleep up to twenty people if need be. With only nine men, there was ample room. One end was our home and the other belonged to our crew chiefs.
I knew now who was at the other end of those strings, and the thought of fighting the Colombians was looking better all the time.
Roger was the first to ask, “How the hell do you know that C.I.A. guy?”
I pretended not to hear Roger and became busy rolling the sides of the tent up. It was a waste of time as little or no air passed through the open space. I pushed the netting away from the cot and stretched out. Gentry walked over and was the next to ask, “Well, how do you know this guy? And why didn’t you tell us what was going on?”
They gathered at the foot of my bunk. T-Bone pushed his way through and stood between the other crews and me. “If he feels like telling your sorry asses the story, he will. Until then, get the fuck out of his face.”
“I guess you don’t need to know,” Dorsey intoned. “Could it be, Hamilton told you a long time ago?”
T-Bone made a move toward Dorsey and I knew I had to end it before there was a fight. “Just hold on,” I shouted. “There isn’t much to tell. He was mixed up with some bad-ass Colombians in Mexico. The Colombians blew up his house. I thought he was dead…that is, until we walked into that tent. Now, you know as much about it as I do. If I find out anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“What the hell were you doing with the Colombians?” Kimsey asked.
“Too long of a story,” I said, “Maybe over a case of beer one night…I’ll tell you about Mexico.”
This satisfied them and we all stretched out on our cots. None of us had slept in twenty-four hours. Even the heat had to take a backseat to fatigue. Hours passed in the hot tent as the sweat soaked our clothes and the canvas cot. Only the strong smell of fresh paint woke me.
From our tent, the C-7s were but a short run from our bunks. Men crawled over the planes with paint cans and spray guns. The white bodies, painted with black, green, and brown paint, blended into the background. All markings and numbers were gone. They had become non-airplanes, flown by non-people. What a crazy fucking world.
I walked out of the tent. A large canvas bag hung from a tree limb next to the showers. I pressed the lever and listened to the water run into my canteen cup. I took a drink of the warm water and poured the rest over my head. It helped a little. The sides of the command tent were rolled up and I could see Jones. He and the other civilian were busy with the maps spread out on the table. I walked slowly toward the tent and I hoped Jones would look up. But I had to knock on the pole before I got his attention.
“You got a minute?” I asked.
Jones looked up and seemed happy to see me. “James, come in.” He turned to the civilian and said, “This is an old friend of mine. We did some work together in Mexico. Toby, this is James. James, Toby.”
“Hi,” I mumbled and Toby returned the greeting.
Jones came from around the table. “I’ll be back after a while,” he said to Toby.
He took my arm. “Come, I’ll buy you a cold beer.”
At the end of one of the metal buildings, I could hear the motor of a generator. A bar of some sort materialized from the twilight and there were fans and a cooler for beer. It looked like heaven on earth. It reminded me of a bar with only one girl sitting in it…she’s always the most beautiful girl in the place. The Vietnamese bartender opened two cans and poured them into glasses for us.
Jones held his glass high. “Welcome to Vietnam, James.”
I nodded my head and took a drink. “This is the most God-awful beer I’ve ever put into my mouth.”
Jones laughed. “It’s 3.2 cow piss, but it’s cold and you’ll get used to it.”
I set the glass on the counter and knew I would never get used to that taste.
“Why aren’t you dead?”
Jones roared with laughter. It’s hard to believe but the asshole had become jolly. He was home at last; happy to be right in the middle of a pile of shit he could call his own.
“You come right to the point. I always liked that about you, James. I heard the Colombians are offering $200,000 for your head. Is there any truth to that?”
I picked up the cold glass and wondered if the next drink would be better. “I wonder what they would offer for you, if they knew you were still alive.” I made a face after the next drink and pushed the glass away from me. “What name are you going by these days?”
Jones emptied his glass and signaled for another beer. “Are you ready for another?” I shook my head and asked the bartender for a Coke.
“I’m here under my real name, Walter Carver.”
He took a drink of his beer, and I wondered how long it had taken him to come up with that name. I doubted Jones even remembered his real name.
“How did you get out of that damn house? When it blew, it almost killed me.”
“My houseboy saw them come up the drive. He ran in and told me a black car full of bad men was at the gate. We escaped through a tunnel behind the bookcase in the den. The Company felt it was time I moved on to greener pastures.” He waved his arms around in a circle. “Here are my greener pastures.”
The Coke was warm. I guessed that not many of the crews drink Coke. “That explains why you’re here. Why the hell am I here?”
“I tagged your name. I knew you would have to get out of Mexico eventually. However, when I got word you joined the Army…I have to say, I was blown over with delight. It was a real stroke of genius. I thought I’d be getting you out of a federal Jail. Instead, here you are.” He sat the glass on the counter and stood up. “Come let’s walk.”
The sun beat down and insects buzzed everywhere. “I was surprised when I heard you had enlisted. Then, after I thought about it, I saw how cleverly simple your plan was.” We were on the far side of the field when he stopped under a tall tree. “However, I’ll assume you didn’t count on meeting up with me again.” He tried not to chuckle, but he couldn’t help himself.
He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl upward before he continued. “It’ll be like old times. Your contract with me is still in force, only instead of Mexico, you’ll be flying for me in Vietnam. Fate intends for you to be a drug runner. Embrace it, it’s who you are. I’ve got a deal with a Vietnamese general to move opium paste to a processing plant north of the triangle. I need someone I can trust to fly point on it for me, and lo and behold, there you are”
I sat down in the grass with my back against the tree. I looked up at Jones, Carver, or whoever the hell this man was, in disbelief. He brought me halfway around the world to run drugs for him. “Are you out of your mind? Mexico was bad enough. Here everybody has a gun.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “It’s a protected flight. The North gets a cut from the drugs. They won’t shoot you down.”
I stood up and shook my head. “I’m not doing this. Send me somewhere else. I just want to do my three years and get out.”
Carver caught my arm and stopped me. “I wasn’t asking you to do this.” There was a darkness that came over his face. “I’m telling you what you’re going to be doing. And it’s not three years, you’re not in the Army now, you belong to me…it’s until I say it’s finished.”
“What if I say no?”
“You’ll be on a flight out of here tonight. I’ll dump your ass in Colombia and let them deal with you.”
“What about my pilot, T-Bone?”
Jones smiled; he was back to being his jolly old self. “Why do you think the two of you were matched up? He has people looking for him in Chicago. They want him as bad as the Colombians want you, and for some of the same reasons.”
I looked around at the airfield, the tents, and the jungle, which crept up the mountains and choked the trees. There was an ugly beauty about Nam. I gave Jones a half-hearted smile. “Nothing changes but the location.”
[The book from which Chapter 24 is taken, Boystown: The Cocaine Highway, became a Kindle book last fall. It now has a colorful new cover, but it’s still available for only $0.99. Get it for whatever device you want, including your PC.]
| Copyright © 2015 by Ed Rogers |
No comments:
Post a Comment