Klint and I go back to 1972. After 25 flights, he had a shootout with the DEA in the California desert. It left 26 holes in his Aero Commander.

It was time to fly, after a series of delays that spanned two months. The Mexican Feds and our connection had a shootout, then a rainstorm had our landing strip under water. Then there was a problem with another dealer taking some of our connections’ not-yet-harvested crop. All the petty stuff that happens that you stay fed up with and never get used to. The drive from Coronado to Palm Springs was uneventful. I arrived at this little bar, where I was to meet Klint and Alan.

Klint was his usual 15 minutes late. Forty minutes behind schedule, Alan showed in his 944 Turbo with Miss Palm Springs. The three of us went over the plan backward and forward: times, places, and alternates in case of emergency. We had several drinks to the upcoming venture, then departed. By 6:30 I had checked into the hotel and went for a Jacuzzi. After that I lay around for a while and tried to relax, my thoughts drifting to a time when I was quite young. It was a hot, bright summer day, I was walking down a dusty cow trail, I WAS THIRSTY! Maybe I had stayed in the Jacuzzi too long. Anyway, it was time for dinner.

I returned to the cockpit. The smell of Alan’s blood filled my nostrils.

Tom Voss

I met Alan and Miss Palm Springs at Pal Joey’s. Alan and I had met for the first time in mid-February. He did like to flash: beautiful women, best wines, finest food. Not to mention his cars, off-road vehicles, houses, pool. He had Miss Palm Springs’ total attention — he was going on about some import business. Alan had told me that he was a British subject and on one occasion had shown me his passport from Her Majesty. He was an ex-British Commando, ran guns in Africa. After a sad ending for some of his friends, Alan thought that a firing squad was too much to pay. He headed for South America to explore the drug trade, since penalties there were not as severe. Later he met Klint in Mexico, then moved to L.A.

Klint and I go back to 1972. After 25 flights, he had a shootout with the DEA in the California desert. It left 26 holes in his Aero Commander. He kinda gave up the flying end of the business. The grapevine got us back together.

Dinner was great. Miss Palm Springs was gorgeous. Alan kept having the waiter bring one more bottle of the finest the French had to offer.

At 10:30 p.m., I excused myself and walked back to the hotel. The night air was cool, sky full of stars. To the west and north the mountains were snow-capped. The weekend crowd from L.A. had gone, streets were empty. The only sound was my boot heels on the sidewalk and a dog barking off in the distance. I lay in bed, unable to sleep. What was it? There was a feeling of uneasiness. Was it Alan with whom I had never worked before? Klint had worked with him for over a year. Maybe it was that I would be flying with Alan instead of flying alone. I didn’t know and couldn’t put my finger on it.

Monday 26 April

Sleep had come and gone, light and restless. I lay there looking at shadows on the wall. The five a.m. wake-up call came, and I ordered coffee from room service, finished my shower, got dressed, packed, and was on my third cup of coffee when Alan knocked on the door. Alan was still wearing the clothes he’d worn at dinner, shirt wrinkled with lipstick on the collar, tie in his coat pocket, no socks. He looked like he had been the main course at a Roman orgy. Thinking out loud, I said, “You look like shit!”

“Thanks, old boy, you should have been there.”

“Did you get any sleep?”

“I really don’t know. However, I was in a state of euphoria for several hours, does that count?” British humor, I hate it.

Driving to the airport, Alan assured me that he was quite chipper and all was well. We were in the 402 Cessna and taxiing past the tower at 6:10 a.m. Air traffic controllers were in the tower even though the tower wasn’t in operation until 7:00 a.m.

I completed the pre-takeoff check list, then rolled out on the runway. The 700 h.p. produced by the twin engines hurled us down the runway — 80, 90, 110, 125 liftoff, gear up, climb power setting. After liftoff, I established an en route climb speed of 140 knots and turned to the southeast. We were passing through 4000 feet. Ahead in the near distance, the Salton Sea came into view, off to the right Mt. Laguna and the Mt. Laguna RADAR! Alan asked, “Should we be concerned about being seen on their screen?”

“We’re on their radar screen, count on it, and all they can do is watch us disappear down into Mexico.”

“When we come back, then we worry about being seen."

“Whatever you say, old boy.”

We leveled off at 9500 feet, crossing the International border between the United States and Mexico, penetrating Mexican air space at Mexicali. By 7:20 a.m. we were over EI Gulfo, just southeast of Mexicali. In the old days there was so much smuggling going on in the area that the pot pilots called it “EI Gulfo International.” Alan unfastened his seat belt, entered the passenger cabin, and began going through some of the boxes that we loaded before departing. El Gulfo slipped behind us in the distance. Our course was flying down the west coast of Mexico and on our right was the Sea of Cortez. I engaged the auto pilot, commonly known as "George." I looked out in all visible directions to check for any unwanted followers. Alan continued to go through boxes, “George” was busy making altitude corrections, making a buzzing sound for each correction.

His British passport read “Alan Wintworth,” but I wondered who he really was. It didn’t make any difference. In this business rarely does anyone ever use his real name. A gnawing in my gut, that something wasn’t right, came hack. I couldn’t put my finger on it. What was this feeling? What did it mean?

“Say, old boy, care for something to eat? “

“What do you have?”

“Let’s see, we have bananas, oranges, apples, some roils, and fried chicken.”

“I’ll have a banana, thanks.”

“We have water, apple or orange juice, and four cases of Budweiser.”

“Water, please. Why four cases of beer? Why not Cokes or...?”

“Oh, we have two cases of Pepsi, but you don’t want those. Sugar, you know.” And so it went, as the big engines pulled us deeper into Mexico.

All gauges were in the green; each engine was burning 12.5 gallons per hour. The time was 8:20 a.m. I measured the distance from El Gulfo International to a point that was some 89 miles north of Guaymas, 186 miles.

“Hey, Alan, we’re doing 186 miles an hour — no wind. Indicated airspeed and density altitude shows our true airspeed is 186 miles per hour.” As I sat there playing pilot, Alan asked, “How do you like it?”

“Like what?” I asked as I turned and saw a pistol tucked away in a shoulder holster. “What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a Browning, 19-shot, 9mm, semiautomatic handgun.”

“No shit, what do you need it for? If this operation is something you might need to shoot your way out of, I don’t want to have anything to do with it!”

Alan laughed. “Just fly this crate, will you?” Then he began going through the boxes. He was struggling and swearing at a box he couldn’t get open. I looked back and complained that he was shifting the load and causing the plane to be unbalanced, out of trim. Alan called out, “Stowing fuel filters,” as he continued to rearrange the aft cabin.

9:45 a.m. We were approaching Bahia Keno. We had been airborne three hours and 30 minutes. The main tanks were down to a quarter so I turned the electric transfer pumps on to pump the 50-gallon nose tank into the mains.

“Hey, Alan, I’m hungry.”

“What do you want?”

“Chicken breast or thigh, apple juice to drink.”

He brought chicken and juice, then joined me in the cockpit for lunch just as we were passing “Catch-22,” an airstrip about 90 miles north of Hermillo. I said to Alan, “That’s where they filmed the movie Catch-22!”

Alan was mildly interested. “That’s good, when will we be at our destination?”

“Well, we’ll be just about over Culiacan at 11:10 a.m. and we’ll be over Mazatlan 35 minutes later; touchdown at our destination at noon.”

I was eating my second piece of chicken when I noticed that Alan was semi-tangled in hid shoulder holster straps. He was trying to take his shoulder holster off, so I pulled the strap down his left shoulder, causing the pistol to fall out. Alan put the pistol in the side pouch, then went to the rear cabin.

Chicken and juice gone, I went back to playing pilot. I pumped the wing locker tanks into the main tanks and flew on. No matter what happened, we now had to go on to our destination; we didn’t have enough fuel to make it back home.

There wasn’t another airplane in sight, and I hadn’t seen one all day. I had an eerie feeling about the whole trip. The sun wasn’t bright. There was a high layer of cirrus, the clouds that come before a storm. I looked off the right wing tip, and in the hazy distance I could see Baja.

I thought of the last 13 years and wondered why I ended up being a smuggler. I never planned it, at least not on any conscious level. The trips, the places, the names, and the nightmare all seemed to run together. I almost wondered if they really happened, and at the same time, I was wishing they hadn’t.

Alan showed me 2000 rounds of 9mm and 7.62mm ammunition, 1000 rounds of each. “Presents for our Mexican friends,” he said. “Look, we even have new fuel pump filters, a double-filter system.”

“That’s great, Alan.” I thought of the twin Aztec and the right fuel lines, so full of water and dirt the engine wouldn’t start after I had landed at Mulege four years earlier.

Alan joined me in the cockpit. The 350s droned on. We moved at a rapid rate down the Mexican coastline.

Alan sat quietly, gazing out the window. I felt that sick gnawing in my gut again. I monitored the engine gauges and flight instruments; everything looked good. Culiacan could be seen ahead, off in the distance.

It was 11 a.m. We were slightly behind my ETA of 11:20 a.m. over Culiacan. I checked the ground speed. We were flying 198 miles per hour true airspeed. Our ground speed was 193 miles per hour. That meant a five mile-per-hour head wind. I knew that we had enough fuel to get us to our destination. I also knew that if there were any problems, causing us to be unable to land, I would have only enough fuel for another hour and 45 minutes of flight. Then I would have to land where I could.

Once, nine years ago at El Gulfo International, the Mexicans had a vehicle breakdown and didn’t meet me with the load. That was no problem, because I had enough fuel to make it back home with fuel to spare. But these 1200-mile trips into the interior could be touchy if we weren’t met with fuel.

Alan asked, “Is that Culiacan we’re passing?” “Yes, we should pass over Mazatlan in 25 minutes or so and start our descent 15 minutes later to our destination.”

“Good. When we get there, you take care of the fuel and oil. Walk the strip, check it out. I haven’t been there in four months.”

I always walked the strip — call it superstition or whatever. Pilots are a strange breed.

The coastline was five miles off our right wing. Shrimp boats were working the shallow coastal waters north of Mazatlan. The flat coastal plain stretched 40 miles to the mountains off our left wing. It was spring; the plains were green and lush.

We passed over the west end of the Mazatlan airport and Alan came alive. He tuned Mazatlan tower in and looked out for traffic. When we were clear of the airport traffic area, he said, “All right, old boy, turn 25 degrees to the right and fly to the shoreline.” I did.

We reached the shoreline, and I turned left and paralleled it. “All right, Alan, show me the way to the strip.”

“Fly straight ahead, follow the road down the coast. We’re 35 miles away.”

I kept the same power settings, turned the auto pilot off, and started a 500-foot-a-minute descent. This increased my airspeed to 215 miles per hour.

Alan said, “When you come to a highway that runs east to west...”

I interrupted, “Turn east, fly until we come to a bridge, then turn north.”

“You’ve been there.”

“Yep.”

We were down to 2500 feet when I turned to fly east over the highway. The bridge was in sight. Alan pointed out a big sandy area.

“See the slight dog leg to the left, then straight along the tree line? That’s it.”

“I recognize it, Alan, I’ve been here before.” Over the bridge I turned north, descended down to 500 feet, leveled off, and flew the length of the strip at 235 miles per hour. Halfway down the strip, I saw a two-ton stake-bed truck and an LTD Ford.

Alan said, “That’s them, we’re in there.”

I made a sharp pull up to 1000 feet in order to bleed off some airspeed, reduced the power, and opened the cowl flaps. As I passed the approach end of the strip, I put the gears down at 160 mph. I made a turn that put the runway off my left wing, then asked Alan, “What’s the outside air temperature?”

“Ninety-two, watch your airspeed.”

I lowered the flaps to half, then turned to final approach, lined up with the strip a mile from touchdown. I held the altitude at 700 feet until a quarter mile from the end of the strip.

Alan said, “You’re too high, reduce the power."

“Not yet, Alan.”

It was hot, the air was thin. I did the final cockpit check: fuel selector switch on the main tanks, gears down, flaps half down, mixture full rich, props full forward. As I was over the approach end of the strip, I moved the flaps to the full down position touchdown and held the nose wheel slightly off the ground until we were just passing the Mexican ground crew that was waiting to load us.

“Damn, that was smooth. I thought for sure you were going to be too high.”

I smiled, looked at Alan and said, “There’s good, then there’s great.” I laughed as I taxied back to the stake-bed truck. Outside, the temperature was 95 and in the cockpit, 110 degrees. I opened the pilot door, which wasn't standard in the 402s; it had been added.

The outside air felt good. When we reached the truck, I pulled the mixture control back to idle cutoff, and the props turned to a slow stop. The silence was deafening. My ears were ringing, my ass ached, and I tingled all over. It was 12:20 p.m. We had been in the air six hours.

Alan released his seat belt and went out the cabin exit. I completed the post-landing check, shut off all the electrical equipment, put away my charts, and went out the pilot door. Alan was talking to three Mexicans who had met him at the door as he stepped out of the airplane onto the ground.

The Mexicans were dressed in their typical style: heavy starch in their jeans. Western-style shirts and boots, straw hats. Each had a mustache and a pistola in his belt. The Mexican who embraced Alan as I slid off the wing to the ground looked to be the man in charge. In the smuggling chain of command, he would be called a lieutenant. Then the other two shook Alan’s hand. I left them to their business. I had more serious things to take care of.

I have the standard four-hour-range kidneys. However, I do manage to stretch the range to five, and on rare occasions such as this, I can get six hours, with considerable discomfort.

Having relieved myself, I returned to the 402. The Mexicans were drinking Budweiser. Alan and the Lieutenant were going over their records and inserting figures into a calculator. The two who were with the Lieutenant looked at me and nodded, as if to say hello.

I returned the nod and walked over to the truck that had eight 55-gallon drums of fuel on it. There were three more Mexicans, one watching the other two install new filters into the fuel transfer line.

Alan continued with the Lieutenant. I removed the caps from the fuel tank and made sure that they were on properly and tightened after refueling.

Alan and the Lieutenant had completed their business, and the two men who accompanied the Lieutenant had gone. Alan was taping over the registration numbers on the tail of the 402, as I completed topping off the four tanks on the left side. The Lieutenant was going through the other gift boxes that Alan had brought for him. Alan stayed busy with his taping. I rechecked the fuel caps and added oil in each engine to bring the level up to 12 quarts. The two men who had gassed the airplane moved the stake-bed truck into the high bushes that lined the strip. The men who had accompanied the Lieutenant drove up to the 402 in a dark green Dodge van. Alan and the Lieutenant asked them what was the exact weight, and Alan turned to me and asked, “Can we take 900 pounds?”

“No, we are almost 1000 pounds over gross weight, just with the fuel on board.”

“We had 800 on the last trip and didn’t use the last 1500 feet of the strip.”

At this point, I realized again why I had always preferred to fly alone, just to avoid having to explain that the last time he flew, the temperature was 20 to 25 degrees cooler and that at that time, more than likely, there was at least ten miles per hour of wind to assist in a shorter takeoff run. After hearing that, Alan said. “I rest my case.” “No, Alan, you yield.”

At that, we both laughed and all were happy with 800 pounds.

The seats in the cabin were removed from their tracks and placed as far back to the cabin rear as possible, except for the two that faced the rear and were against the wall behind the cockpit.

The men moved the van to the back of the airplane. Alan and the l.ieutenant stood by as the two Mexicans in the van opened the back doors, took out a pair of scales, and set them up. As the men weighed bags of pot, the Lieutenant and Alan wrote down each weight.

I stood at the left wing tip and watched this procedure for about two minutes and told Alan that I was going to walk the strip and check for holes or anything that could damage the 402. I started walking toward north and counted each step that I took. Usually I would lose count before I reached a hundred.

I had walked about 250 yards when 1 stopped and looked back at the 402. A chill shot through me. There was that gnawing in my gut again.

Alan and I had agreed that if we were not airborne by 1:00 p.m., we would stay the night and do the same plan, only one day later.

I found myself hoping that it would take too long to weigh all the merchandise, and we would have to stay the night. I continued my walk, stopping every so often and looking back at the 402, gassed and oiled, ready to go.

I had been here before, this same strip, twice — once, four years ago and once, six years ago. I wondered if I would ever break the smuggling rut I was in, and I wondered if it made any difference.

When I returned to the 402, the Lieutenant and Alan showed me the tally sheet and both agreed to the figure of 800 pounds. When the other two men were almost through loading the main cabin, one of them stopped and began to load the nose compartment.

“Don’t load the nose,” I said.

Alan said, "It’s all right, I told them to.” “Look, man, the plan is to land and unload and be in the air in five minutes or less, and that means the engines don’t get shut down. I sure don’t want to be responsible for some asshole walking into a spinning prop!”

“You’re not the only one to ever smuggle. I’ve done this a few times myself!”

I didn’t say anything to Alan. I just looked at him and recalled that I was told I would be calling all the shots. I didn’t like the idea of unloading the nose with the engines running and Alan knew it. I had seen pictures of what happens to a body after walking into a prop.

Alan broke the silence, “Don’t worry, I'll unload the nose myself.”

I nodded and turned and began counting as I started walking the strip from the 402 to the south end. We would be leaving soon, and I was going over the details in my head again to check and see if there was anything that had been left out or overlooked.

I stood at the south end of the strip and looked beyond the heavily laden 402 to the north end. As far as I could tell there was about 6500 feet to do what I do best — fly an airplane 1800 pounds over gross weight in the minimum amount of space or the shortest distance.

There was a tree about 20 feet tall at the south end, not much of an obstacle. But any obstacle is too much when you are that much over gross weight with no wind and the temperature high in the 90s. I started walking back when I saw the van pull away from the 402. They had finished loading. Someone in the LTD was approaching. It was the Lieutenant, alone.

It was time to go. The Lieutenant told me to get in and he would drive me back.

Alan was standing at the left wing tip when we came to a stop. “Well, how does she look?”

“Looks good. We’ll take off to the south and pray a lot.”

“Come now, it can’t be that bad.”

“No, it’s not that bad. Actually it’s worse, but I can handle it.”

“My, aren’t we cocky,” he smiled.

“No, just good.” I laughed.

Alan turned to the Lieutenant and said his goodbye. I shook hands. The Lieutenant and I didn’t speak. He looked as if he wanted to say something and words wouldn’t come.

Alan turned and crawled up on the wing through the pilot door and into the co-pilot seat. I gave one last check to make sure the cabin door was secure and locked. As I climbed up, I thought of a time on a previous trip when the cabin was full, the only door out of the airplane was blocked by 2800 pounds of pot, and I crashed, trapped inside, and the plane was on fire. Since then I’ve taken pains to make sure that I would never be in that situation again.

Once I was in my seat, I got out the charts and put them in order, then handed them to Alan. We fastened our seat belts. I checked the outside air temperature; it was 98 degrees. The time was 1:05.

I looked at Alan and said, “We should have been in the air by now.”

“Five minutes isn’t that late.”

“No, Alan, it isn’t.”

And there it was again, that feeling. Not that five minutes was that much late. It was that everything was just a little late or out of sync. Alan read the check list, and I performed every item as he called it out. We began our taxi roll. As I turned the plane around and started taxiing for the north end, Alan gave a thumbs up sign to the Lieutenant. As we rolled along I did the run-up on each engine and cycled the props. Alan asked, “She all right?”

“Yep, looks good to me. I only wish that it was 30 degrees cooler and the runway was paved and another 4000 feet longer.”

“Do you think that it is really going to be that close?” I pulled out the flight computer and figured the density altitude was just under 11,000 feet.

“Well, Alan, 6500 feet to take off an airplane that thinks it needs 11,000; not to mention that we are still 1800 pounds over maximum gross weight. The only reason we will get off is because this machine has turbo chargers, and like I said, a prayer wouldn’t hurt.”

I turned the 402 around at the extreme north end of the strip and asked Alan if he was ready.

“Yep. You?”

“Ready. When we’re even with the LTD, if we aren’t going at least 90 miles an hour, let me know and we’ll have to abort takeoff.”

“You got it. I’ll call out the speed as we approach the LTD.”

“Well, that’s us leaving.”

“Let’s.”

I pushed the throttles forward and we were rolling. I could feel the weight as we started our roll. All the gauges were in the green.

Alan said, “60—70—75—80—” and just as we approached the LTD, “—85.”

When he said 90, we had already passed the LTD. All I needed was another 30 mph and we would be airborne. Two-thirds of the strip was used and Alan said, “ 115.” “Put your hand on the gear handle, and when I break ground, bring the gear up.” “You got it.”

I could see the 20-foot tree. It looked to be 50 feet.

Alan called out, “128.”

“Here goes.”

I pulled back on the yoke, and as the overweight 402 slowly eased off the grass and dirt strip, the stall warning was screaming as though in agony and the engines groaned under the strain. Alan cycled the gear at the precise moment the wheels cleared the ground.

“Gear up.”

At that moment the nose of the 402 took off the top two feet of what had just become an 18-foot tree. The stall warning was still screaming, and our airspeed had dropped to 120 mph. “Alan, close the cowl flaps!”

“The engines will heat up if you have me do that.”

“And if we don’t reduce all the drag we can, we will more than likely crash!”

The cowl flaps were closed, the 402 sank about 40 feet, and the airspeed increased slowly to 130 mph. We started a gradual climb at 300 feet per minute.

“Sorry to question you about the cowl flaps.” “That’s okay, Alan. As soon as we reach 1500 to 2000 feet, we will open them back up.”

The engine temperature was creeping up slowly. Alan seemed to be a little pale, and he touched me with his hand and said, “You know, I wouldn’t have made it.”

“Come on, Alan.”

“No, I mean it. To start with, I would have taken 900 pounds. And I wouldn’t have used all the runway. I thought that she would have taken off sooner, and 1 wouldn’t have thought of the cowl flaps causing that much drag.'

“Is that the closest call you’ve ever had?” “Yes, my only other problem was a flat on the left main of my old 206. There she sat, loaded with pot and a flat tire.”

“Where were you when that happened?” “South of Guadalajara on a mountain top, five years ago. Other than that, it’s been smooth as silk.”

I said, “I should have been so lucky. I’ve lost two planes in Mexico; the first with an engine failure, and the second a crash-and-burn due to car gas and an overload, too tail heavy.”

We passed Mazatlan at 1:35 p.m. Alan was eating chicken and drinking apple juice. I trimmed the 402 and engaged “George” to action. We were level at 8500 feet heading north. All there was to do was to let the two engines pull the Mexican coastline past us and hope that all would continue to go smoothly.

The engines droned on. It was a bright day with a little haze. Alan slept. I had passed the rich farm land of Culiacin and was over the desert that ran right up to the waters of the Sea of Cortez.

Alan woke up when I took the chart that was on his lap. He yawned and asked, “What time is it? I must have been out for quite a while.”

“Yep, about two hours and 15 minutes. You should stay home tonight and get some rest,” I laughed.

“Not me, old boy. I’m going to be out with Miss Palm Springs.”

I told Alan that we had an eight-mile-an-hour quartering tail wind and were flying at a ground speed of 198 mph. Soon we would be starting our descent in order to be at 200 feet over Bahia de la Jorge, on the west coast of Mexico, 100 miles south of Yuma, Arizona.

Alan took the chart. He looked over the route he’d flown several months ago.

I had used half the main tanks and the auxiliary tanks were down to fumes, so I changed to the 50-gallon nose tank. We were at 8500 feet and could see Baja off our left wing through the haze and glare of the afternoon sun. Somehow three hours and 20 minutes had managed to slip by. We were level at 200 feet over the center of Bahia de la Jorge, when Alan told me to turn to a heading of 035 degrees.

“Right to 035 degrees," I repeated.

I had to climb gradually because the terrain was going up. I managed to stay 800 to 1000 feet above sea level, which kept us 15 to 40 feet above the ground at 200 mph. Alan had me turn this way and that as we made our way to the border, staying tucked in behind low hills and down in canyons to keep out of the eye of radar.

After a while Alan couldn’t take it anymore and said, “Look, old boy, if you don’t mind terribly, I would like to take a try at a bit of low-level work myself. But only if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, sir, do be my guest, please!”

“Thank you, thank you.”

I told him that there was just a slight bit of nose-up trim and he took the controls. He flew a little high at first and gradually worked his way down to a respectable level that most smugglers would have been proud to fly.

“Not had, not bad at all.”

“Why, thank you, old boy, perhaps not the master’s smoothness, but not bad, if I say so myself.”

Alan pulled up sharply after almost taking off the top of a giant barrel cactus, or the right wing.

“Rather close, don’t you think, old boy?”

Alan laughed at me and said, “Precision, old boy, precision!”

We crossed the border east of Yuma. In the distance off our left wing, I could see Marine F-4 Phantom jets making their approach into Yuma’s joint civil and military airport.

We had made a series of turns that had taken us from northwest, through north to northeast. The border was behind us, and we were crossing over Interstate 8 some 15 miles east of Yuma. The time was 6:20 p.m. We had flown 11 hours out of the last 12.

I turned west and looked from the nose to the left wing and then turned through north to east and checked from the nose to the right wing to make sure that we didn’t have anyone following us, then turned back to our course.

After we were well inside the border I climbed back to 8500 feet. The 402 had burned off 1200 to 1300 pounds of fuel and we were moving at a ground speed of 205 mph. Alan had the final chart we would need before we made our drop. He pointed out Interstate 10 and said that Blythe should be over in that direction, so I turned to the direction in which his finger pointed.

We flew over the Colorado River and passed to the north of Blythe. The time was 6:55 p.m., April 6, the first day of daylight-saving time. As far as I could tell we were about 20 minutes from the road we were to land on; in 25, maybe 30 minutes, we would run out of enough daylight to land. Then we would have to land over the headlights of a vehicle of some kind.

Alan was quiet. The sky was red as though it was on fire. I said, “Looks like we’re flying into the gates of Hell. What will Satan have to say when we crash his gates?”

“The sky is on fire, all right" was Alan’s reply. I tuned the number one radio to the frequency that was pre-arranged, called the man who was supposed to be on some mountain top, and there was no answer.

Alan said, “We’re a bit out of range, old boy, I do believe.”

“You’re right, or as usual some asshole isn’t awake or where he should be.”

“He’s there all right, don’t worry.”

We flew on. The bright red of the sky had darkened to a blood red with shades of purple starting to show. We were losing daylight fast. We passed over Kelso at 7:15 p.m. I called again and made contact with the radio man on the mountain top. “How does it look?”

“Uh, okay — no wait, there’s somebody coming. I lost him, his radio transmission was broken.”

“Well, is there someone coming or not?”

I turned to Alan and asked, “Who the fuck is that asshole?”

“Relax, old boy, everything is okay.”

I thought that if I heard Alan say “old boy” one more time I would throw him out of the 402, but only after choking him. We circled way to the north of the road we were to land on. Five minutes had passed and we were down to last light; if I didn't land soon it would be dark. “Hello, are you there?” I asked in a calm voice. “Yes, I’m here.” I could hear his transmission more clearly now.

“Well, that’s good. Is the reason that I’ve been circling gone yet?”

“Oh yes, it’s gone. You can bring her down now.”

“Well, thank you.”

I turned to Alan and said, “If he has anything to do with this operation the next time, I’m not flying.”

Alan didn’t reply to what I said, lust as well; I was tired and edgy.

“Klint said to land toward the west when we came out and looked at the road several weeks ago.”

Alan corrected me and said, “We always land to the east.”

“Great, to the east it is.” I wasn’t up for any big discussion on the matter. I did the pre-landing check and made the landing.

Alan said, “Great landing, guy. lust like the big kids."

“Thanks, dude.”

The touchdown was smooth. Before I brought the 402 to a complete stop, Alan released his seat belt. As soon as I was stopped, I opened the pilot door and Alan scrambled across me, onto the wing, and slid off the backside. He went to the cabin door, opened it. and started throwing trash bags of pot off to the side of the road. I set the engines at a thousand rpm’s and listened for any word on the radio.

Klint wasn’t there yet, and I was wondering where in the hell he was. Alan continued to unload. I called the man on the mountain, “Where’s Klint?”

“I don’t see him, isn’t he there?”

“No, damnit, he’s not here!”

“I’ll call him.” He and Klint were talking on a different frequency.

Shortly, Klint showed up in the load vehicle, a three-quarter-ton pickup with a cabover camper. Klint was accompanied by a tall, thin man. As soon as Klint stopped the truck, they got out. The thin man began to load the bags Alan had thrown out. Klint stood at the left wing tip and asked, “How is it?”

“So far, so good. It’s been a long day and it’s not over yet.”

We were yelling above the sound of the big Continental engines.

Klint cupped his hands around his mouth and continued, “Need any gas? We got 50 gallons.”

“No, I still have 60 to 65 gallons on board.” “No shit, that’s a first!”

Klint turned and walked over to Alan at the cabin door. I was standing still, listening for any word of warning from the mountain man. For the first time that day, I didn’t feel paranoid. Maybe it was talking to someone besides Alan.

Alan continued unloading. The thin man kept loading the camper. Klint began to remove the paper taped over the aircraft registration numbers. I listened, and the man on the mountain was silent.

We were on the ground and fully stopped by 7:28 p.m. It was now 7:36, eight minutes had passed. “Almost through,” I thought. I had always unloaded my own airplane; time went faster then.

All but the last bit of hue had gone from the sky. Klint had finished removing the paper and most of the tape, except a few patches here and there. Alan had thrown the last trash bag of pot from the cabin. As Klint approached, Alan said, “The cabin is unloaded, the seats need to be put back in their tracks and the nose unloaded.” Klint told Alan to unload the nose, while he helped the thin man load the camper. Alan nodded and walked briskly to the front of the 402 and began to unfasten the latches that secured the nose compartment door. Then he began to take the smaller bags of pot out and walk to the tip of the left wing and throw them on the existing pile. When all the hags had been unloaded except for what Alan was taking out of the nose, Klint walked to the cabin door and looked inside to make sure all the pot was removed. The thin man kept loading the camper.

The man on the mountain was quiet. I watched Alan as he returned from the wing and walked to the nose. He took two hags from the nose and walked just far enough toward the left wing tip to clear the prop.

I leaned out the pilot door — the one Alan had used after crawling over me — looked to the rear and saw Klint walking over to check the cabin for debris or any bags that Alan might have overlooked.

I turned and looked forward. Alan had just removed a hag from the nose and had it in his right hand. He looked at me and smiled a kind of smile I had never seen before. His eyes were half closed, like when you take a photograph of a friend and catch his eyes in the middle of a blink. Only Alan looked like he wasn’t there, like he wasn’t conscious. He took a step toward me and raised his arm, a hag of pot in his hand. I screamed, “STOP!" Alan’s next step walked his right arm into the propeller. As my scream echoed unheard except by my ears, Alan’s arm exploded as if it had been blown off by a high-powered rifle. Tiny pieces of flesh and bone and a fine spray of blood dotted my face.

Alan had been hit by the ascending side of the prop, and the force lifted him up and into the side of the 4()2’s fuselage. As it did, the blade caught him in the right leg and laid it open to the bone, from his knee to just above his ankle.

For a moment my breath was taken away. The first words out of my mouth were, “Jesus, oh, Jesus.” Then I turned to Klint and yelled, “Alan, it’s Alan!”

Klint had already started around the left wing tip, at first not knowing what had happened. He knew in an instant when he saw Alan struggling to get up. Alan tried to stand, but his right leg wouldn’t hold his weight. As he fell, he extended his right arm. The arm was severed just below the elbow and held only by a thin strand of flesh. He tried to break his fall, grinding the exposed bone and raw flesh into the pavement.

Klint’s face hardened. His brow wrinkled, his eyes squinted, and his nostrils flared. I could see the veins standing out in his neck and temple as the hue from the flush of his face turned pale. The thin man looked on.

Klint got Alan to his feet. He was on Alan’s left side, with his right arm around Alan’s back and under his right armpit. Alan held his right arm at the elbow with his left hand, knowing he had to stop the bleeding. He was conscious but could hardly react. Klint had his left hand on Alan’s lower left arm to steady him as he moved him quickly. I called to the thin man to give Klint a hand, but he stood at the back of the camper unable to move. As Klint walked past the left wing tip with Alan in his arms, I thought, “Put him in the camper, put him in the camper.”

I was scared. I was going to have to deal with this one myself. Klint hurried Alan into the cabin and set him in the seat facing to the rear, opposite the co-pilot seat in the cockpit. I looked over my right shoulder through the door that went into the cabin and could see Alan. Klint went out the cabin exit, closed the door, and yelled to me, “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"

“Close the nose compartment,” I motioned to the door. Klint ran to the front of the 402 and secured the door on the nose compartment. I closed and locked the pilot door and followed Klint with my eyes until he was out of the way of the wing tip. Then I pushed the throttles forward, and the 402, being light, was hurled down the road.

The last light faded. I could hardly see the road. My heart was pounding, my legs were quivering so much that I could feel my feet losing contact with the rudder controls. I cycled the gear up and trimmed the 402, then turned the control panel lights on.

Alan asked for a tourniquet; his voice was weak. I engaged George and went to him. His belt was all there was to use, so I removed it and looped it around what was left of his arm. Alan was covered with blood, his voice more faint than before. He told me to go to Palm Springs. He knew a doctor there.

“Okay, okay, hang on.”

I returned to the cockpit. The smell of Alan’s blood filled my nostrils. I checked my chart. We were about 45 minutes from Palm Springs; I didn’t think he would last that long. There were lights off to the west in front of us; it was Barstow.

“Alan!” I called in a loud voice. All he could manage was one word and it was inaudible.

“Alan, we’re going down, I have Barstow airport in sight!”

I started our descent and began the pre-landing check when I noticed Alan’s pistol on the copilot’s armrest, in an instant I threw it out the small side window.

I called the Flight Service Station at Barstow. There was no answer. The runway was in sight, I could see the lights. We encountered some turbulence. With each jolt of the 402, Alan gasped with pain. The numbness from the sudden impact of the powerful prop was wearing off and soon his agony would be more than I could stand to hear.

I called the Flight Service Station again, still no answer. The turbulence grew more intense. I cycled the gear down and lined up with the runway. The 402 had to maintain a 15-degree crab angle to keep centered on our approach. “Satan won’t let up, he wants more,” I thought. The turbulence was so rough and wind gusting so hard I literally had to drive the 402 onto the runway and hold it there. We came to a highspeed turnoff and cleared the runway still going 50 mph.

I taxied over to the Flight Service Station and brought the 402 to a stop in front of a large plate glass window. I pulled the mixture to idle cut-off, and the props whirled to a complete stop. The big engines were silent for the first time since they were started in the quiet stillness somewhere south of Mazatlan, almost eight hours ago.

We were on the ground. It was five of eight; 15 minutes ago Alan had walked into the prop.

I released my seat belt, and as I was leaving the cockpit I could see the Flight Service Station operator looking out.

Alan was stretched out on the cabin floor. There was so much blood I wondered if he had any left in him.

I went out the cabin door, walked around the rear of the 402, and into the Flight Service Station. The station operator was a woman. She looked up at me as I approached the counter between us.

“There’s a man,” I began, but my throat was so dry that my voice quacked. “There’s a man in my airplane and he has walked into the prop, looks like his arm is gone. Call someone — paramedics, hospital, anyone."

She didn’t say a word. Her eyes were wide, and I could see the color leaving her face. While she made the call, I returned to Alan. He was in pain. He called out for help. 1 had not seen anyone in so much pain in my life. I started out the door of the cabin and he cried, “Don’t leave, please don’t!”

I ran into the Flight Service Station and told the woman that Alan was fading fast. She was on the phone and repeated what I had just said to the paramedics.

I returned to Alan. He had slipped closer to death. I picked up his jacket, rolled it in a ball, and placed it under his head. Then I got my sweater from the back of the pilot’s seat.

“Alan, can you hear me?”

He groaned.

“I’m going to go, help is on the way. There’s a woman in the Flight Service Station. Help is on its way. Alan, I’m going to go. Can you hear me?”

“GO, GO,” he managed to gasp. His breathing was heavy, his face wretched with pain and his teeth clinched. There was nothing left for me to do, and he knew as well as I that the cops wouldn’t be far behind the paramedics. I made my exit. The woman operator looked out the plate glass window at me as I faded into the night.

The wind was still blowing. I could see the 402 parked in the Flight Service Station’s outside floodlights. The sand was drifting low across the airplane parking area. A big tumbleweed had been rolled under the wing of the 402 and clung to the landing gear. My thoughts raced: “Come on. Where in the hell are the paramedics?” I kept looking back to the west, waiting for them to come from Barstow. I started for the 402 when I saw two vehicles with flashing lights.

I could hear the two sets of sirens as they turned off the interstate, heading for Alan. The ambulance turned onto the airplane parking area and backed up to the 402. One paramedic went out the back of the ambulance and another out each door. I could see the first enter the 402. The others took a stretcher out of the ambulance. The police car had stopped in front of the 402. The cop went around to assist the paramedics. I could see the woman flight service station operator looking out the plate glass window. The police car and ambulance were flashing blue and red waves of light.

The paramedics carried Alan out. One held an I.V. The cop assisted them in placing Alan on the stretcher. Alan was in the ambulance. The cop pulled away and the ambulance was behind him. Both had their sirens on. I thought, “He’s alive, he’s still alive!”

It was time for me to go. I looked back: the woman still stood in front of the plate glass window, stunned. I walked out of that space between the twilight zone and the outer limits — the wind had stopped as abruptly as it had started. I hurried away into the night.

Klint showed in Coronado three days later with news of Alan and $20,000 for my day’s work. Klint said, “Alan told me to tell you that he was chipper and to just call him ‘LEFTY!’ ”