Ridge bit his lip. “But, it’s kind of an emergency. I’ve got to get to Santa Barbara tonight. Can you check with the other rental guys at the airport? Please call my cell if anything comes up. Anything, OK? I’ll fly a damn blimp if I have to.”
“A blimp?”
“Kidding. But you get the picture, right?”
“I get it. I’ll do the best I can. But this is unbelievably short notice on a Friday. It’s almost 5 p.m. I can’t promise you anything’s left. But I’ll try Santa Monica Airport too. Maybe they can ferry a bird here. I’ll try my best. That’s all I can say.”
“That’s all I ask, Charlie. Thanks. I mean it.” Ridge hung up. He gaped at all the bumper-to-bumper cars in both directions on the twelve-lane 110 Freeway and cursed. Then he started thinking about the Cessna fuel-contamination finding. Strangest thing ever. Really strange. No. It was fucking inexplicable.
At 6:30 p.m., Ridge arrived at the apartment. Mister and Pistol met him at the door. Mister, in particular, groused until Ridge emptied a can of Tasty Tuna into his bowl. Pistol was more than satisfied with a few chew-bones. Ridge quickly changed to blue jeans and a black and white Hawaiian shirt. He put on a green flight jacket without insignia, leftover from his Air Force days. Then he rushed to the north balcony to see if the hummingbirds needed food. They were gone. Both tiny birds and the little white eggs. Gone. Only an empty nest and eggshells remained. Ridge searched left, right, all around. Nothing. Gone as quickly as they had arrived. With a pit in his throat, Ridge reasoned, Gone to better things. But damn, I’ll miss ’em. Memories only, but after yesterday’s call with Peters, maybe that’s all I need. They’ll be fine. And right now, I gotta focus. Got to get to Terry and Dan. Pronto.
Ridge rushed back inside, grabbed his satchel with the Sig Sauer .357 Magnum and got his 9-millimeter Beretta. Stuffed it and three magazines into the inside-pocket of his flight jacket. Might come in handy. Just then, his cell vibrated. A voicemail. Charlie Dunkle had called, saying: “Eric, found something. Give me a call.”
Thank God. But when he tried to call back, there was no signal. That’s how it was in L.A. on a Friday evening. Cell towers were overloaded. He decided to try Charlie again when he got to the car. Saying “Adios” to Pistol and Mister, Ridge rushed down to the parking lot. After jumping into the Porsche, he tried Charlie again. This time it went to voicemail: “Be there in twenty minutes,” said Ridge. “See you then.”
Traffic was still terrible. Even on surface streets. Ridge brought up the top on his car when dark clouds overhead started to sprinkle. But beforehand, gazing up at the sky, he concluded the rain looked local. Clouds were moving fast to the East. Inland. Good.
It was about 7:30 p.m. and misty when Ridge finally pulled up to the beige metal hanger with the ‘Dunkle Aviation’ sign out front. He jumped from the car, ran into the rear door of the hangar, and dropped his jaw. Looking through the building and the large main doors out to the runway, Ridge saw Charlie Dunkle, four other men, and…a Huey helicopter. No other bird in sight. And one of the four men huddled around the chopper was none other than Uncle Cho, with his black medical bag in hand.
“Charlie, what’s this?” Ridge asked.
“This is Terry’s Uncle Cho, his Uncle Sand, and his twin cousins,” said Charlie with a grin.
“No, I mean the bird. What’s this—a Huey helicopter? Don’t ya have anything with wings?”
“That’s it,” said Charlie. “And, let me tell you, I pulled in some big favors to get ya this on such short notice.”
“Jesus. There’s nothing else?” said Ridge, hoping against hope that Charlie could find something besides the whirlybird.
“Eric, there’s nothing else available. Not tonight.”
CHAPTER 66
Ridge had a helicopter rating. But he didn’t want to tell Charlie he wasn’t current. Ridge hadn’t flown a Huey since ’Nam. Army pilots at the firebases had traded him chopper time for a chance to fly his fixed wing aircraft. Oh yeah. It was fun. He did it plenty. But Ridge couldn’t take a steady diet of whizzing around whump-whumpwhump in a bird without wings. It just wasn’t natural.
Charlie looked at him. “You’ve got a chopper rating, right?”
“Oh sure,” said Ridge, thinking it time to bend regulations a bit. “Just a little rusty, that’s all.” Then Ridge studied the band of men around him. As always, Uncle Sand looked tough as nails. Ready to go. The twins were short, solid muscles, all-business. All three were dressed in black pants, and black shirts with outside pockets and epaulets. Their jungle boots, also black, had canvas sides.
“Hi, Mr. Ridge,” said Tam. “Uncle Cho filled us in, and our gear is on board. We’re ready to rock ‘n roll.”
Looking in the chopper, Ridge saw two huge duffle bags. “What’s with the sacks?”
“Essentials,” said Trong. “Terry told Uncle Cho it might get hot in the mountains.”
Understanding his point, Ridge turned to Uncle Cho, dressed in a black suit with an open collared white shirt. “Thanks, Uncle Cho,” Ridge said smiling, “for getting this altogether on short notice. We’ll be headed out soon.”
“I’m going,” said Uncle Cho.
“No need for that. Terry and the four of us can handle things.”
“I’m going,” said Uncle Cho.
Looking at Uncle Cho’s determined eyes, and not having time to argue, Ridge bit his lip and nodded his head. “OK then. You’re goin’. Let’s mount up.”
As the four Paos climbed into their seats, Charlie asked, “What about a flight plan?”
“No time,” said Ridge. “I’m going low—below radar—feet wet across the ocean and up the coast. We’ll use GPS to find our destination. Just log us out, OK?”
“You got it. But be careful.”
Ridge jumped into the pilot’s seat, reminding himself it was like riding a bike. Uncle Sand took the co-pilot’s position to his right. Then Ridge checked the back. The Twins were strapped in, facing him. Uncle Cho in the seat across from them had his back to Ridge. But he was belted in, head cocked toward the open side door. Ridge thought he saw a smile at the corner of Uncle Cho’s face. Shaking his head, Ridge strapped the checklist to his upper leg and started throwing switches. “Ready to crank,” he yelled to Charlie on the ground.
Charlie shouted back, “Clear!”
The blades overhead cranked slowly. Then they caught. The whump-whump-whump brought back memories. But with little time to dwell on the past, Ridge lifted off. Then, inside a second, the whole chopper bent forward. And bolted straight at the hanger. Ridge thought he could hear Charlie yell, “Holy Shit!” By tilting left and gently pulling, Ridge got her back on course. To boost Charlie’s confidence, he circled and gave Charlie a grin and a big thumbs up as he passed overhead in a left bank. Then they were off, but to what? Ridge had no idea. Using the headsets, he confirmed everybody on board was OK, and said, “Hang on. We’re in pursuit.”
Climbing to 500 feet, Ridge headed west past Torrance Beach, and took a right. Then he held at 500 feet, and flew feet wet up and around the coast. The dark clouds were well above them. And they seemed to be dissipating. In fact, over the ocean, the night was beautiful. A half-moon shined through cloud openings on the left, and lights of the Beach Cities bounced off cloud bottoms to the right. As white surf broke below their feet, Ridge took a wide swing to the left around LAX Airport. He then pointed like a laser beam at Santa Barbara. The bird made a helluva racket and shook like a mix-master but flew well. Ridge was glad there were enough headsets for everyone, with cushy earmuffs to deaden sound. Keying the intercom button, and using the mic, he asked his crew, “Everything OK?” Seeing a thumbs up from everyone, he added, “Next stop, Terry.”
As night fell, Terry had more and more trouble seeing what was going on in the Camp. He climbed down closer and saw men running around with night-vision goggles. They reminded him of high-tech two-legged anteaters, with straps over their heads and long optical noses jetting out from eye level. Terry decided it was some type of training exercise, because three men with goggles seemed to be hunting down three others. Then a big black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the camp. The driver, who looked like the bald guy with Hess earlier in the day, jumped out and ran around to open the right rear door. A short, stocky man in a long black trench coat stepped out, followed by another taller person dressed in black. It was too dark to see anything else—except Baldy escorting both to the Big Tent.
Later, additional lights came on around the tent, and Terry saw Two stretched out on the ground by ropes and four stakes. Then a couple of men lit a fire in front of the Big Tent. As it began to roar, Terry could see better. Two had duct tape across his mouth and looked terrified. Dan—was nowhere in sight. Then Terry’s phone began to vibrate. When he answered, Ridge said, “We’ve lifted off. Headed at you. Should reach the airport inside the hour. How’s Dan?”
“Don’t see him right now” whispered Terry. “But I don’t like what they’re doing to the other guy, Two, the security guard we duped back at the judge’s house. He’s staked out on the ground, by a campfire, near a big tent.”
“Doesn’t sound good. My plan was to land at Goleta Airport and drive into the mountains. I already reserved a 4-wheel drive with a nav screen. But that’ll take too long. Maybe I oughta fly-by first. Could be there in, say forty minutes.”
