The Last Flight of the Ariel
By Joseph Dylan
edited by
Allen Hatcher
Copyright 2015 Joseph Dylan,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2569-6
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Dedicated to Bill, Colleen and Mari
Also dedicated to Bill Robinson and Paul Jensen
And especially to Allen Hatcher
And for my brothers in arms: Harry Brown
Kevin Cleary
Winter Wright
Peter Zuccaro
And to Emily Yuan and Carla Liu
Chapter One
Perched on the tarmac of the Miami International Airport was the Helio Super Courier. Looking like a sparrow hawk surrounded by sparrows, it gleamed under the torturing, tropical Florida sun. Tapered like a Champagne flute, its main purpose was to take men and supplies to short, undeveloped airstrips in the jungles and the mountains. As such, it was designated a STOL aircraft (Short Takeoff and Landing). With a Lycoming 480 Engine, capable of producing 295 horsepower, it was powerful enough to haul a thirteen hundred pound payload a thousand miles at nearly a hundred and thirty miles an hour. These numbers were straight out of Jane’s Aircraft of the World, a book that Paul Hewlett kept on the office desk of his condominium in Miami. Though beguiled by planes, he could no longer fly, because he had to surrender his pilot’s license when he was convicted of driving under the influence of alcohol as a teenager. It was his only brush with the law. Though the state eventually expunged his record, the FAA did not. Having his driving license taken away for a year paled in comparison to losing his flying license for good. However, he did keep up with flying by reading flight magazines and exploring regional airports. His favorite airstrip was at Miami International, for there, sooner or later, anything with wings flew through. But he always stopped to check out this particular Helio Super Courier. Owned by Skeeter Davis, it had Ariel discretely stenciled in small black letters on the vertical tail. Right below Ariel, in smaller black letters, was the name Davis Aviation. According to those who would talk to him, gossips or instructors, Davis did some things most pilots wouldn’t.
The plane was as airworthy as any F-18 you’d find on the deck of the Eisenhower. It was white with Ferrari red on the engine cowling, the wing tips and the vertical stabilizer on the tail. It had a soul, unlike the other planes at the Tamiami FBO, the fixed base operator. At airports across the States and overseas, FBOs were the refuge of private pilots who lingered in the lounge, buying their coffee from the FBO owner, while sipping on their coffee and getting stale sandwiches from their vending machines. It was here that the pilots plotted out their trips, checked the weather en route, called the flight service, filed flight plans and to a large degree lived between legs on their flight route.
This time Hewlett had come for more than a look. As always, the sight of the Ariel made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He got out of his vintage BMW and walked across the tarmac, towards the hangar. The waves wafted up from the macadam, its surface feeling as hot as a frying pan in hell. Though he was on not far from being on the cusp of forty, only the crow’s lines about his eyes belied his age. Like the stockbroker he was, he was conservative in all appearance. His face was clean-shaven, his hair cut well up above his ears, the part on the side. Furthermore, he was wearing a freshly pressed pair of beige Dockers pants, an IZOD navy polo shirt and Top-sider shoes. Though the sun above was delivering enough heat, it was the absorbed heat from the macadam suffusing up from and through the thin rubber of his Top-siders that made it worse. Slender to the point of being gaunt, Hewlett preferred to be perceived as thin and elegant. He glanced back at his car and smiled without moving his lips. The antiquated and corroded BMW had seen better days, but it was his. It was virtually all he got out of the divorce. In the settlement, she was awarded the condominium in West Palm Beach; she was awarded the Mercedes; and she was awarded the timeshare apartment loft in Aspen. Married scarcely less than ten years, it had been a tumultuous relationship for the majority of a decade. They had accumulated as much as some couples did in a lifetime. For a year of great sex and general pleasantries associated with most marriages, it all ended in divorce documents in which she listed his dependence on alcohol and illicit substances. What divorce from a man didn’t list abuse of some form? With it, she added mental cruelty. What divorce didn’t list mental cruelty? It was a given. The heat of hot, simmering sex had long ago gone cold, even freezing, before he appeared before the judge with his wife on the other side of the bench. He let that stand for fear that the SEC would dig deeper into the illicit substances and strip him of his license in the stockbroker’s profession. It had been less than a year since the judge’s decree, but it was still not over. At least not for him. Nor was it over for his wife who plagued him with demand after demand trickling down to him like a not quite vertical waterfall in Colorado. It was just the devastation of the divorce. No children, fortunately, were entangled in this separation.
It wasn’t whim that brought him here. Jake Townsend, his partner, had recommended Skeeter. He was once a young man pounding the pavement of Miami as a police officer. Now Davis was rumored to haul cocaine out of the mountainous jungles of Colombia. Kudos for Davis also came from Scruffy Brewer. Brewer was his best friend and had also been a cocaine dealer since the days when cocaine was easier to get than a parking ticket. Davis had transported product for Scruffy at least a dozen times. He had transported coke for Jake but once. Providence and the skill in handling the Ariel had kept him out of the grip of the DEA. Jake told him that once the DEA had a case against him for transporting cocaine. But Davis had a shrewd and seasoned lawyer and the case was thrown out. The legal fees, it was rumored, had cost Davis the better part of a year’s earnings. According to Scruffy, and verified by his cousin, Davis had served two tours of duty in the Vietnam War: one flying Phantom jets against the Viet Cong and one year hauling brave, almost forsaken and nearly forgotten soldiers into hostile territory in Huey helicopters. Among his bona fides, were years of flying mercenaries in and out of sub-Saharan Africa. One year it would be soldiers fighting for the republic; the next it would be troops on the other side of the conflict. According to Townsend, Skeeter Davis had but two true loyalties: first, to himself and second, to the greenback dollar. According to Brewer, these were his allegiances, but they included protecting his friends and providing service that was second to none. For Jake Townsend and Scruffy Brewer there was no one else they truly trusted. In their business, trust was everything but always came with a healthy dose of paranoia.
Knocking on the door corroded by the salty air, there was no answer. Finding it unlocked, he entered. When he shouted out, no one answered. Dangling from long black electrical cord was a naked sixty-watt bulb, providing little light. Each time the electrical fan carved out its arc, the naked bulb would gently sway in the hot, dank atmosphere.
Stepping in from the brightness of the outside sun into the relative darkness, all he could see was the tall and lean silhouette of a man. A man he presumed to be Davis. “I see you let yourself in,” grumbled the man.
Detecting a note of irritation, Hewlett protested, “The door was open.”
“No, the door was closed. It simply wasn’t locked.”
“A fine point,” replied Hewlett.
“I’ll begrudge you that.” In his arms he cradled a small motor composed of steel and aluminum with copper wiring that had to be heavier than it looked.