Rain unto Death

by Alex Ryan

  El Rey waited patiently at a payphone on the outskirts of Ensenada. He was visibly shaken up, with two days of beard stubble. Finally, the metallic green Lincoln Continental came for him and the rear door opened.

  As soon as he got in the back seat of the car, he was sandwiched between two men – Julio Valdez, and his top lieutenant. Both were smiling. As was his own driver. "Julio, what are you doing here?"

  "We are going for a ride." Valdez said, with a big smile.

  "What is the meaning of this? Why are these men in my car?" He shouted to the driver.

  The driver turned around and smiled. "I got a new job. One that actually pays money."

  The sedan drove several miles up into the dusty mountains as the dusk started to set in. El Rey did nothing but sweat and plead the whole time. Finally, the car stopped, and the two men got out.

  "Take your pants off." El Rey complied, dropping them to the ground and stepping out of them.

  The driver popped the trunk open, and Valdez held up a familiar box. It was a matching set of Colt Single Action Army pistols, which were said to have been used in an historical dueling match.

  Valdez handed him one of the pistols, and walked behind him. "Walk ten paces, turn around, and draw."

  The shivering El Rey nervously stepped over the sand. Was it nine? Was it eleven? He spun around, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger. Nothing.

  "What is the meaning of this?" El Rey demanded.

  "Look down."

  It was El Rey's own snake from his reptile tank. An Australian Death Adder. The one he used to taunt and torture because he could, in safety. It struck at his bare legs. Repeatedly. Valdez collected the unloaded pistol from his convulsing body, placed it back in the box, and closed the trunk.

  "Let's go now."

  "What now?" Will Lattimore asked as he stood outside of the motorhome.

  “I guess tac ops can stand down now until the next need.” Rex replied. “I think Agent Maples and I need to plan on taking a trip down to Mexico City to see if we can get any leads on that missing aircraft. It’s about all I can think of. Thanks gentlemen, and I’ll see you guys on the other side.”

  Leroy and Champ stepped out of the motorhome. “What about the girl?” Leroy said. “Cut her loose? We need to get on the road soon.”

  They all looked at each other. Nobody seemed to have an answer. “She’s dead meat here, El Rey or no El Rey.” Rex said.

  Lattimore spoke. “That’s what I figured. She has a passport. Problem is, El Rey has her papers in his place.”

  “What are you thinking, boss?” Champ asked.

  “We can’t just leave her here. That wouldn’t be right.”

  “Aww shit, Boss is starting to go soft.” Champ went back into the motorhome.

  “Well,” Kirsten said. “That’s your business... but, just so you know, if she had a valid Brazilian passport, she can get it replaced easy enough through the Brazilian consulate. Unfortunately, the closest one to a US border is in Monterrey, and that is by Texas.”

  “And then, there is the problem of getting her a visa to the States.” Lattimore replied. He stuck his head in the motorhome. “Boys, we got a mission!”

  Kirsten and Rex returned to the Buick. “You want to drive?” Kirsten asked.

  “Nah, I enjoy being able to dose off as you dodge stationary objects alongside the road.” Rex replied.

  “Did you see the way he looked at me in that conference room?”

  “Who?”

  “Lattimore. He practically raped me with his eyes.”

  “Just in the spirit of full disclosure, my eyes didn’t exactly have pure thoughts the first time I saw you either. And they still don’t.”

  “Do you think she’s going to be in good hands?”

  “She’s in a whole hell of a lot better hands than she was, or ever will be, otherwise.”

  “Where to now?”

  “Back to San Diego. Let’s ditch this thing and book some tickets to Mexico City.”

  “God, this is a huge airport.” Rex said in amazement as they walked down the long, cavernous terminal past the various gate sections. “And they would have to park us at the very end.”

  “Former Ranger and you’re complaining about a little walk?” Kirsten asked.

  “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. Look, there’s a help desk.” Rex walked up to the desk. A uniformed woman smiled. “I’m trying to find an aircraft broker that is someplace here in the airport.”

  The woman thumbed through a business directory. “There are four of them.”

  “Great. I don’t suppose one of them has Wolk in the name.”

  “Spelled W O L K?” The woman asked.

  “Yes.” Rex looked surprised.

  “Wolk Aviation. They are here.” The woman scribbled a telephone number on a sticky note and handed it to Rex.

  “Thanks! I don’t suppose I could borrow your telephone...”

  The phone rang for half a minute before it was picked up. “Grupo de aviacion del Wolk” a male voice replied.

  “Senor Wolk, por favor?” Rex replied.

  “Mr. Wolk will not be back in the office until lunch time.” the man replied in English. He had a slight German accent. “Is there something I may help you with?”

  “I would like to ask about an ATR 42.”

  “Are you looking to purchase?”

  “Actually, it’s regarding an aircraft that your company sold.”

  “I see.”

  “Any possibility we can come talk to you?”

  “Sure, I don’t care.”

  “Where are you located?”

  “We’re on the airport grounds. Are you planning on visiting Mexico City?”

  “Actually, we’re here, in the terminal.”

  “I see. I’ll tell you what. You can’t just drive here. If you can meet me in the rental lot in fifteen minutes, I can drive out and pick you up.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Just walk to the end of the lot near the gate to the tarmac.”

  A Ford pickup with an amber rotating light mounted to the top passed through the gate and stopped. “Climb in,” The driver said. The man had a thin, closely shaved, white beard. “I am Hans, Mr. Wolk’s business associate.”

  Rex and Kirsten introduced themselves, and slid on to the massive bench seat of the pickup. It stopped at a large hangar, and Hans led them into a small office. “Everyone is out for lunch right now. Have a seat.”

  They took two seats in front of a metal desk. The operation was no frills. “This almost looks like an aircraft maintenance facility.” Rex said jokingly.

  “Well, it kind of is. We don’t just broker, we perform maintenance as well. So... how may I help you?”

  Rex pulled out a photograph of El Rey. “Did you deal with a man named Ceasar Castillo in the purchase of an ATR 42 several months ago?”

  Hans put his reading glasses on. “Not personally, but I did help prepare the aircraft.”

  “Did you meet the pilots?”

  “I didn’t speak to them, but I am told they were Lebanese nationals.”

  “Do you have their names?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You don’t record the names of the pilots?”

  “Typically not. Once funds are transferred and the sales and registration forms are completed, it is up to the owner to supply rated pilots qualified to fly the aircraft out of here.”

  “Do you guys sell a lot of airplanes like this?”

  “This is not a high volume business. Actually, ATR’s are uncommon for us to come by. They are pretty new. Most of the aircraft we deal in are fairly old. We have quite a few passenger jets sitting in the yard now.”

  “Those must be expensive.”

  “Some yes, most no. Many lack the required inspections and airworthy directive modifications required for international operations. Technically, half the planes on our lot are not even legal to fly.”

  “Why would someone b
uy an aircraft that isn’t legal to fly?”

  “Someone might want to outfit an aircraft for a specific purpose, and it may be more cost effective to do the compliance work at the same time rather than purchase a new aircraft ready to fly off the lot.”

  “Who typically buys your airplanes?”

  “Freight operators more than anyone else. Some third-world passenger operators.”

  “How about private individuals? Like Ceasar Castillo?”

  “Very rare. It happens. Actually, we just sold a 727 outfitted for fire bomber service just two days ago, to a private individual.”

  “Interesting.”

  Hans pointed his finger to a stack of papers. “You know... wait here one minute please?” Hans got up from the desk and walk out in to the hangar, and had a short conversation with a man in overalls. He came back in. “I thought so.” Hans sat back down.

  “It’s strange; it was a different owner that did the transaction, but the same pilots that flew the ATR 42 out of here, also flew out with the 727.”

  “Oh my god!” Kirsten said. “Two of them?”

  Rex studied the file papers on the desk. “Is this the paperwork for the 727?”

  “Yes.” Hans replied.

  “May I take a look at it please?” Rex took the folder, and thumbed through it. It was an unpainted, plain aluminum 727 with no logos. Canadian registration. Purchased by some American corporation. Funds were wire transferred. Purchasing representative was Nassir Al-Hasan.

  “I need to make a photocopy of these documents.” Kirsten said, flashing her agency credentials. “And I need to send them by fax to my office. I wonder if they have another flight crew running around?”

  “Anyway, I think not, to answer your question.” Rex said. “I suspect there is only one flight crew. I think what happened is they decided the ATR was compromised since the discovery of the anthrax production facility in Sonora hit the news. This is their plan B. And I think they’re going to be moving real fast.”

  Hans flagged down a secretary on her way in to the office. “Lupita, can you please photocopy this packet and fax it to wherever this lady needs to send it?” He turned to Rex. “What’s going on?”

  “We believe these individuals are Middle Eastern terrorists, who are planning an attack on a major city in the United States, by using an aerial sprayer equipped aircraft to deliver a large quantity of biological agents.”

  “Dear god.” Hans cleared his throat.

  “Okay. Let me ask you. Let’s say, you’re a terrorist, and want to fly a 727 in to the United States. How do you do it?”

  “You don’t just jump into a large passenger jet, start flying it and cross the border. If you try, you probably wouldn’t get very far. You have to have a flight plan. A 727 would be on an instrument flight plan.” Hans replied.

  “Let’s up the ante. Let’s say, you know that your flight plan will probably be rejected, and very possibly military forces on the very airport from which you wish to depart may surround you. Then what?”

  “Hmm. I think I would probably try to spoof a scheduled airliner.”

  “Spoof it?”

  “Yes, use its transponder code, and its call sign. Scheduled airline flights have standard call signs, like say, United flight 332 or Aeromexico flight 2187, and the transponder code is a four digit identifier assigned by air traffic control prior to departure.” Hans thought further. “That would be fairly difficult to do... Perhaps you might try to shadow a similar aircraft.”

  “Shadow?”

  “Fly close enough behind it that radar will either not pick it up as a separate object, or the operator will disregard it as signal noise. But that is all in theory. In practice, pulling either of those off would be fairly improbable.”

  Al-Hasan read the newspaper. El Rey has gone missing, and they suspect that his disappearance was the work of the cartels. Liftoff time was scheduled to be tomorrow, at precisely 2:45 p.m. local time.

  Those young kids. You tell them that they will each get twenty virgins for their sacrifice, and what do they do? On their final night before their great mission to Allah, they drink alcohol and screw twenty whores. But who was he to judge? It was they who were making the sacrifice, not him. They couldn’t come back if they wanted to. Once the containers were unsealed, and the tanks loaded, any occupants of the aircraft, regardless of where they were located, even on the flight deck, would be exposed. And you can’t possibly fly an aircraft wearing isolation suits. There is no way to talk on the radio. Which is no matter, as even after the contents are dumped, the aircraft would succumb to a final, symbolic ballistic mission.

  The information leak still bothered him. Who knows what is waiting for them on the other side of the border. In hindsight, using El Rey as the patsy was a mistake. As a result, there was a needless major expenditure of funds.

  First Sergeant Wilson took a seat to the right of Captain Wood’s desk. There was a knock on the door. “Come in.” Woods said.

  A Ranger, in his dress green uniform, walked through the door with his beret under his arm. “PFC Chang reporting as ordered, sir.” Chang nervously saluted.

  Wilson returned his salute. “Chang, take a seat. You know why you are here, correct?”

  Chang sat in the creaking wooden chair in front of the desk. “Yes sir.”

  “You blew the piss test, it was positive for THC, and the MPs found a marijuana joint stashed under your locker. What do you have to say about that?”

  “I fucked up sir, no excuse.”

  “We have a problem here. It seems to be a pattern around the battalion, and it seems to be centered on my company. My goddamned company. You see, it isn’t just your problem, it’s my problem. See where I’m going with this?”

  “No sir.”

  Woods drew forward in his desk and stared at Chang directly in his eye, and held the stare. “Chang, who is your source?”

  Chang was silent. He glanced nervously at First Sergeant Wilson.

  Woods held up the Article 15 paperwork. “Right now, I have this written up to bust you to PV1, and dock your pay for a month, plus all the admin things you’re doing outside of UCMJ action. Give me your source, and I’ll go easy on your stripes, and just dock you some pay.”

  “Like I told the MPs sir, I got it from a club off base.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Chang sat silently.

  Woods took a pen, signed the papers, and threw them down on his desk. “All right Chang, as you wish. Remove your stripes prior to evening formation, and you’re restricted to billets on special detail until further notice. That is all.”

  Chang saluted, and left.

  “Need anything more from me, sir?” Wilson asked.

  “I know goddamn well someone is rotten in this unit. I’m going to find them.”

  “I find that hard to believe, sir. We have the finest troops in this man’s Army. Lee would have been proud.” First Sergeant Wilson walked out of Woods’ office, closing the door behind him.

  The hell did he mean by that? Woods asked himself, as he stapled the forms together. Then he realized, in his haste and frustration, he had accidentally stapled a purchase authorization request to the Article 15 forms. General Lee? Wilson comes off as a redneck.

  He fumbled around in his desk drawers, looking for a staple remover. He found one in the back of the top drawer, and managed to drop it in the open lower drawer, loaded with accordion files.

  He pulled the accordion files apart, and noticed the paper. He pulled it out. It was a single sheet of plain paper. It was a list of names, anywhere from three to five names per platoon. Some were crossed out. Some were underlined. Some were underlined and crossed out. Some were neither. Some had left the service. Two were circled, with exclamation points. Mueller. Starr.

  There could only be one person that possibly could have made that list of names that had no explanation whatsoever. That was the previous occupant of the desk in which he sat. Captain Tyrell Lewis.

  Interesti
ngly, there was one name in particular that stood out. Actually, it stood out not because it was on the sheet, but more so because it wasn’t. The list of names encompassed maybe a third of the company total. Usually, when you have a list of names with circles and crossed out lines like that, it’s a bad thing, not a good thing. Lewis’ killer, Alex Dahl, was not on the list.

  He scanned the list again. Chang’s name wasn’t on it, but then again he was fairly new to the unit. First Sergeant Wilson’s name wasn’t on it, but none of the platoon sergeants were.

  There was something really weird about the exchange today with Wilson. It seemed like he was hiding something. There was that one country western bar that Mueller, Starr, and a couple of the others like to patronize. Woods decided to pay it a visit that night. It was a Friday. They would surely be there. He wore the baseball cap drawn low to hide is face, and sat in a corner at a barrel table. Sure enough, there was Wilson, surrounded by Starr and Mueller, high-fiving each other and taking turns buying rounds of drinks.

  It is one thing for a corporal and a buck sergeant to whoop it up with the platoon sergeant, but Top is always off limits for personal fraternization. No, something is going on.

  Chapter 10 – Unthinkable Countdown

  All available strike capable fighters in the southern United States were on high alert for mobilization. Low level patrol sortie missions along the Mexican border were scrambled on a rolling basis. Two F-104 Starfighter aircraft armed with nuclear equipped AIR-2 Genie missiles were strategically placed at Davis-Monthan and Laughlin Air Force bases, kept at the ready for immediate departure.

  They called him “Dutch” at the club. He didn’t hang out at the clubs where the tourists and the college kids partied. He hung out at the Casita De Palo. He was an American, but he spoke Spanish. He probably could have gotten a higher paying job at the major air carriers, but he had that dark spot on his record. Plus, Ensenada held a special attraction for him. He couldn’t chase tail around the rural suburbs surrounding DFW. People were nosey and they talked.

  Dutch was a pilot at heart, but he never really made it. Because of that one minor drug incident, the Class 1 medical he requires to qualify for the airlines would be an impossibility. It was a limiting factor in qualifying for air traffic control. He did find the niche though. He was a dispatcher, hired by Air Mexicali. He lived in Dallas and worked in Ensenada.