Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

The second call he made was to Daggett Flight Service, a charter flight operation located at the airport. Sol had reserved a small plane. He’d asked that a pilot be standing by upon our arrival there in a matter of minutes, said we were in a rush, explained to the dispatcher that the sun was low in the sky and we didn’t want darkness interfering with our little sightseeing tour.

The Cessna 182, like an aluminum bird ready to soar, was poised on the tarmac a few feet from where we parked the limo. A guy who must have been the pilot was doing a walk-around inspection of the small, single-engine airplane.

Before Sol and I hopped out of the limo, he told Cubby to head back to Downey, drop the Deacon off at the office, then drive to the airport in Fullerton. “No need for you guys to wait around here. After our little look-see, we’ll have the pilot drop us off there,” he said. “Faster that way.”

The pilot, a lanky guy wearing an orange jumpsuit, ambled over to us. He had a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap plopped at a jaunty angle on his head. Tufts of blond hair jutted out beneath the blue cap.

“You the guys that reserved the 182?” the pilot asked.

“Yeah,” Sol answered and pointed to the airplane. “Is she ready to go?”

“Just need a credit card or cash deposit.”

Sol handed him an American Express gold card.

“You said you’d be doing some sightseeing,” the pilot said. “Not much to see out here, just a bunch of rocky canyons and dry lake beds.”

The pilot looked at the credit card and started to tuck it into his side pocket, but he stopped and looked up when Sol said, “Yeah, that’s what we want to see, a dry lake. Rattlesnake Lake.”

“Oh, hey, I don’t know about that,” the pilot said. “That’s restricted airspace. There’s a military base there.”

“The base is closed, been closed almost ten years.”

“Yeah, but they never took off the dang restriction. Can’t fly closer than fifteen miles to the place.”

“Now look here, young fella-by the way, what’s your name?” Sol stuck out his hand. “Mine’s Sol and that’s Jimmy over there.” He pointed at me.

The pilot pumped Sol’s hand. “Name’s Del. How ya doin’, Sol?” He waved to me. “Jimmy.”

“Well now, Del,” Sol slipped into his backslapping, suede-shoe salesman routine. “Jimmy over there is a lawyer, see.” Sol turned to me. “Show Del your card, Jimmy.” He put his arm around Del’s shoulders and whispered in a conspiratorial voice “Listen, son. Jimmy’s going to give you his approval-in writing, mind you. Always get it in writing, my boy.”

“I dunno, Sol…” Dodger Del adjusted his baseball cap, tucked his unruly hair back in place. “It’s kinda illegal.”

“Look, Del.” Sol pulled the kid in closer and leaned into him. “Not only is Jimmy going to give you a nice letter, I’m going to give you a thousand dollars.”

“Well, hell, it ain’t that illegal. Let’s go!”

The next thing I knewwe were in the Cessna screaming down runway 22.

Del, his eyes fixed forward, pulled back on the yoke and the plane lifted off the ground, zooming skyward at 120 miles per hour. A gusty side wind kicked up and the right wing dipped, but Del had it under control; a quick twist of the wheel leveled the plane. I sat next to the pilot up front and Sol had the back seat to himself. He glanced out the side window as we climbed, the ground receding below us.

We both felt it would be a good idea to scope out the base from the air before I went barging in looking for Robbie. Having come this far, there was no question about me getting onto the base, if for no other reason than to prove-or disprove, as the case might be-our thought that the base was now, in reality, the teen drug center. A bird’s-eye view of their security seemed prudent.

My stomach lurched when the plane nosed over and leveled off at a few hundred feet above the dirt. Because we were now level, the Cessna picked up speed rapidly, the airspeed indicator high on its green arch. We flew at thirty degrees on the compass, the town below drifting away behind us. The view ahead was of sweeping flatlands surrounded by jagged mountains and rocky hills, all in various shades of brown and shadowy grays.

Del cranked the wheel to the left. The plane banked at a forty-five degree angle, and we shot around the steep slope of a ridge towering in front of us. Another jerk on the wheel, the Cessna smoothed out, and we raced above a narrow but deep canyon with a dry rocky riverbed snaking through the bottom of it. Del pushed on the control wheel; the airplane dove. Then, a couple hundred feet above the cliff’s edge, he pulled back on the yoke. The G-force pinned my butt to the seat for a moment before the plane leveled out again.

The sensation of speed was awesome, the sight of the multi-colored canyon rushing by below us breathtaking. The terrace-cut walls of the ravine were natural frescoes etched in the granite, carved by a river that had died a million years ago.

After a few seconds, Del said, “Gotta take her down, fly under the radar.”

“Whoa,” I said, “down where?” It looked to me like we were skimming the cliff tops as it was. But he didn’t say anything, he just pulled back the throttle and pushed on the control yoke, and the plane descended fast. I glanced at Sol in the back seat. I thought he’d be worried, but he seemed okay. He was flipping through a Playboy magazine that must’ve been on the seat.

When we got closer to the ground, the apparent velocity increased dramatically, the scorched desert floor rushing by us at an alarming rate. Glancing at Del, I noticed his face streamed with sweat as he twisted, turned, pushed and pulled the controls, maneuvering the small plane through jagged-edged canyons as we raced into and out of one dry lake basin after another. It was hairy and a little frightening, the aircraft jerking and bouncing, and I tensed as the plane veered off to dodge a large boulder that I hadn’t seen until it was zooming past my window, missing us by a millimeter.

As I sat there being yanked about like a rag doll in the mouth of an angry pit bull, I grew worried about Sol. I’ll admit I was a trifle nervous about the flight myself-having taken a few flying lessons, I knew the stress limits of these types of aircraft-but I figured that Sol, having no experience, would be scared out of his wits by now. Any moment, he’d beg to cancel the flight.

Then, suddenly, I smelled smoke.

But after a moment’s reflection, I knew nothing was wrong with the plane. The aroma came from the burning of Cuban tobacco. Sol had lit a cigar.

“Hey, Del, we must be getting close to the base,” Sol shouted in the pilot’s ear, leaning forward, cigar in hand. “Can’t you get a little lower? Need to get a good look.”

“You’re the boss!” Del replied, and looked at me. “Don’t ya just love it?” He nudged the yoke forward. Down we went, another ninety-nine feet. We couldn’t go lower than that. We’d only been about 100 feet above the ground when Sol made the suggestion.

“Yeah, it’s terrific,” I said, as we swerved to miss a jackrabbit.

The Cessna screamed inches above a dry lake bed, moving like a full-blown Indy car going 160 mph. Yet, out here there was no racetrack, and directly in front of us was an ugly ridge of large rocks. The plane nosed up; we climbed, and shot through a narrow saddle-gap between two huge rocky mounds. When we emerged, the ground fell away and the wind-blown desert exploded with life before our eyes. The ex-military base appeared, spread out right below us, filling the front windscreen. A high chain-link fence enclosed several rows of wooden single-story rectangular structures. Guard towers stood at the boundaries of the expanse. With the fence and the towers, the place looked like a prison camp. I wondered if the guards were put there to keep people out, or perhaps, once inside, to keep them there.