“OK. OK. What’s happening now?”
“Now, I’m watching from behind a boulder up above the Camp. Eric, I’m really worried about Dan. There’s about ten of ’em down there, and I think Hess is a psycho.”
“He is. Believe me. Look, I’m on my way. I’ll grab a plane at Torrance Airport and get up there. But it’s going to be three or four hours, at least, by the time I get to the airport, fly up there, grab a rental car and find you. But that’s still quicker, way quicker than driving from L.A. to Santa Barbara on a Friday evening. That could take past midnight.”
“Roger that. But either way it’ll be dark by the time you get here. So, make sure you arrive with some serious help, not alone. Ten on two are bad odds, no matter what. Wait! I just had a great idea. My uncle and his sons could meet you at the airport.”
Ridge stared at his phone in disbelief. “Uncle Cho? We don’t need him. We need a show of force.”
“Not Uncle Cho! Uncle Sand. The ex-Hmong fighter, remember? The lineman on CIA choppers. And you remember his sons, don’t you?”
“Got it, yes, of course,” Ridge said, thinking, How could I forget any of them? Sand had saved Ridge’s ass in Laos again and again. His twin sons—Terry’s cousins, Trong and Tam—were in their early-20s by now.
Terry continued, “Uncle Sand has been training them in the traditional ways of fighting for over fifteen years. They’re strong as hell and even smarter. The latest generation of Hmong fighters. And they’ll be more than happy to get in the fight for Uncle Cho. And to save my ass and rub my nose in it as a bonus.”
“That’s a lot of motivation. I’m sold. Have them meet me at Torrance Airport in two hours. About 6 p.m. Hopefully, I’ll have a plane ready to go by then. And Terry, I’m bringing my satchel and Sig. Maybe my 9-millimeter too.”
“Dress for success, buddy. I have no idea what to expect, but it won’t be good. And watch the weather. Black storm clouds rising fast here.”
CHAPTER 65
As soon as Terry hung up with Ridge, he called Uncle Sand’s house. No answer. Damn it all to hell, thought Terry. I don’t have his cell or the twins’ numbers. Maybe Uncle Cho has ’em.
Terry called Uncle Cho by speed dial. But his uncle turned out to be in one of his moods. Rather than just give Terry the numbers, he insisted on knowing what was going on. Terry pleaded. But then he realized it was gonna be easier just to fill him in on the details. Anyway, Terry’s cell signal was going intermittent. So after explaining what was happening, Terry agreed to let Uncle Cho contact Uncle Sand and the twins.
“Make sure they get to Torrance Airport on time,” said Terry.
After Uncle Cho assured him it would happen, Terry hung up and turned his attention back to the camp. He couldn’t see Dan, or even that poor sap, Two. Terry assumed they were both still in the Big Tent, where he saw Hess and the others drag them while he was on the phone.
Getting his butt from depositions in downtown L.A. to Redondo Beach on a Friday afternoon was hell. A big goddamn headache and Ridge was so hyped up and worried and anxious that it was tough keeping his cool. He was, once again, like in a bad dream, creeping down the freeway in a 400-horsepower road chariot. This time it wasn’t Terry’s Vette, but his own baby—a black Porsche 911 with turbos, rag top, and six-speeds forward. Ridge couldn’t help but love having to clutch every few seconds in stop-and-go traffic. So very practical. But late on Friday afternoon, it didn’t matter what car he drove because L.A. traffic was the same—freakin’ unbelievable. So, as he crept along, he used the time to call Charlie Dunkle, of Dunkle Aviation at Torrance Airport, to explain what he needed.
“Eric,” Charlie said before Ridge could say a thing, “we got in the report on the Cessna you brought down in that field. Turns out it was fuel bugs.”
“What?”
“Fuel bugs,” repeated Charlie. “A fungus, known as Cladosporium resinae.”
“Is that the stuff we called ‘kerosene fungus’ in the Air Force?”
“That’s it.”
“But I thought that only affected jet fuels—and only in tropical areas.”
“We did too. That’s why we called the FAA. They brought in the National Transportation Safety Board to investigate the whole thing. NTSB confirmed it was fuel bugs. Much less common in aviation gas than jet fuel, according to them, but it can occur in avgas. The inspectors showed me the brown sludge in your fuel system. And the smell—oh my god—putrid, like sulfur.”
“Shit. What happens next?”
“They investigated the avgas fuel supplies here at Torrance. And up at Dryden. Found nothing. So, the report concludes that the root cause of fuel contamination is ‘Undetermined.’”
“Undetermined?” Ridge slammed on his brakes to keep from hitting the car in front of him. “You’re kiddin’ me. That’s not very satisfying. But what about the bird?”
“We went into the fuel system including the tanks. Removed all visible growth. Not a pleasant job, let me tell you. Then we applied a biocide throughout, to kill any microbes. Good news: Everything was inspected and approved. The plane’s back on the flight line.”
“What about costs?” asked Ridge, as he shifted into second and crept forward again.
“All covered by insurance. But if you feel like giving a bottle of your favorite tequila to each of the three mechanics who did the cleanout, I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”
“You got it,” said Ridge. “I’ll have my secretary send over three bottles as soon as possible.”
“Super. Get it to me, and I’ll get it to them. By the way, you knew Rueben, right?”
“Sure. He was the one who picked us up.”
“He really helped my three mechanics with the cleanout. Was extremely interested in the whole operation and what the fungus did. Even took notes and pictures.”
Ridge smiled. “Well then, I’ll make it four bottles of tequila.”
“No need. Rueben quit right after that. Disappeared. Hated to lose him.”
Ridge frowned. “Sorry to hear that. He wasn’t with you very long.”
“It’s how it goes. Get someone good, and then they take off.”
“Again, sorry for the whole mess, but thanks for all you did. The fourth bottle will be for you. But now, I need to switch gears. I’m in a helluva pickle. Need a bird to fly up to Santa Barbara. This evening.”
“This evening? All my planes are either gone or committed to other pilots. Even 3-2-1 Alpha. It’s the weekend for chrissake.”
