J. Curtis - Calexit - The Anthology

Staying low, he flew more or less west, downhill, and trimmed the plane and did his checks. His center of gravity was okay, if not good, and his engine gauges were all where he expected them to be. As he broke five-hundred feet, he set the flaps for ‘CLIMB’, turned off the booster, and set the prop for 2000. He pulled back the throttle to twenty-eight inches of manifold pressure and trimmed for an airspeed of eighty knots. Set the rear tank to burn off first so he’d have a better CG later.

He itched to turn the plane and look at what was happening with Riviera, but wanted to get as far away as fast as possible. So he flew, straight and level, downhill to stay as low as possible to hide in the terrain instead.

Soon enough, his radio came to life.

“Daniels! Was that you in that plane?”

He didn’t answer.

“Got a helicopter now, we’re gonna get you, asshole.”

He chose not to respond. Let Diego stew.

Then his phone rang. Since he had the Beaver trimmed out and it was, essentially, flying itself right now, he looked. Sure enough, Riviera.

“Yes?” He answered.

“Ah, I hear that it was you in the plane. Land immediately.” He could hear some chatter in Spanish in the background, but couldn’t make it out

“No. You can take whatever you want, Riviera, I’m leaving. For good.”

“I’ll have the chopper force you down.”

“If he can find me.”

With that, he terminated the call.

“Look for the chopper, Jack. Tell me when you see it, and where.”

With that, he turned to his flying. Low and as fast as the old Beaver would go, he continued more or less west at 1500 feet AGL. He normally cruised at between 110 and 125 knots for fuel consumption, but today he was at 155 and wishing he had more. He was dangerously close to max speed, and the air was turbulent, making the ride rough and everything shake.

“I see him! Low, almost behind us, climbing to the north.” his son said.

He looked down and back, picking out the Bell Jet Ranger and chuckled, “Him, we can outrun… Relax a bit, but keep looking”

With that, he slid the Beaver behind a ridge, and went down to 500 feet above the ground.

He slid down the mountain, hiding in ridges whenever he could. Soon though, he saw another plane, obviously looking.

Shit, shit, shit.

He kept to the draws and as low behind ridges as he could, warping a path east and south as terrain forced him to. He had to get past the “old” state line (now a national border) to be safe, and when he got close, he had to make sure that the U.S. Border Patrol knew he was coming. The other trips he had made he’d gone over low and slow and (generally) at dusk, and simply hadn’t bothered. But this time, with pursuit, he intended to make sure they knew he was coming.

If he made it.

He just kept flying.

While they flew, his son gave him the story, all in a rush:

“I went over to the Martins, like we talked about. Wanted to see ’em one more time, and to say goodbye to Ms. Martin and Joe. It’s only four miles by the high path, and I can do that easy. Just after I got there, was having a drink of water with Mr. Martin and Joe in the barn, when three big trucks busted down his gate and pulled up to a stop. Mr. Martin pushed us into the barn and told us to go out the back, so we started to. But then the men knocked him down with their rifle butts and kicked him and Joe ran to help his Dad and they knocked him down too. I hid and watched and they handcuffed ’em both and slapped ’em around. Then they went into the house and pulled Ms. Martin and Dawn out and pushed them to the ground too, even though they were women. They weren’t very nice. I wanted to do something, but I figured if I even tried they’d handcuff me and beat me up too. So I stayed hidden. I remember what you told me about going off half-cocked, so I didn’t. I mean, there wasn’t anything I could DO!

They went into the house and started pulling all sorts of stuff out and putting it in the trucks. Stuff like their good Grandfather clock and a bunch of their silver and Ms. Martin’s jewelry and such. I thought they were only supposed to take food!

Then they started taking all of their food from their pantry closet and they even made Mr. Martin and Joe help. Mr. Martin didn’t want to, but they smacked him around until he did. They filled up one truck and part of another. They didn’t leave hardly anything! Then they talked and let Mr. Martin and Mrs. Martin and Joe and Dawn get a drink from the outside faucet. They drank Cokes from the fridge in the house. They were coming for the barn and I hightailed it out the back but one of ’em saw me and they all took off after me. I ran as fast as I could and got onto the trail from their house to ours. I hid in the brush and they went past me. That is when I turned on the phone to call you and warn you but I had no bars and couldn’t. So I remembered what you taught me and climbed a tree, you know the big pine by the bend near the stream? The really tall one? Yeah, I was up high in that and hidden and had a signal and was gonna call you and then your text came through and I called you and you answered and I told you what happened and then they were coming back so I shut off the phone and waited until they went past and then climbed down and hightailed it towards home. I had to hide twice more, they had a guy who was pretty good tracker so I had to leave a false trail and even took off my boots to leave less prints. That broke the trail for him, so I moved as fast as I could and then I got your text to go to the plane but I was moving so fast I couldn’t answer you. Then I heard the plane so I put my boots back on and ran as fast as I could and you know the rest.”

He paused to take a breath and Daniels said gently. “Good thinking, son. You did exactly right. There wasn’t anything you could do for the Martins, and you came home when you could. Maybe we can help the Martins later, after we get on the ground.”

Daniels turned his attention back to flying. While he flew, he told Jack the story from the minute the alarm went off. Until Jack, relaxing and winding down from his stress, fell asleep

His other trips, he’d gone south, then east, passing north of Kingman to get to Jim’s ranch. The border patrol hadn’t been spending too much time looking for, or doing anything about private airplanes until a week or so ago.

He was planning on going to Sun Valley airport in Fort Mohave, if he could. He knew people there, and if the Border Patrol would let him, he could spend the night and refuel. But he had to get there first.

He had one hundred twenty miles or so to the new border, then another thirty or so to the airport if he didn’t have to detour too much for terrain. He’d never flown this low along this route until today. He’d be at the airport in a bit over an hour at these speeds, unless the US Border Patrol made him land sooner. Or he was forced down by whoever was looking for him under Riviera’s orders.

He passed the time, gently following between ridges, staying as low in the valleys as possible, going as south as he could, trying to get south of Death Valley. Each mile farther made him feel more confident. An hour into the flight, he was south of the valley and moving well west. He was approaching the border. About twenty miles to go.

He saw it, the chopper. It was travelling south, higher than he was. He chopped the throttle, slowing to nearly stall speed to hide against the terrain below. The chopper passed slowly in front of him, left to right. He could see the occupants in the door were carrying what appeared to be rifles in their arms, and it wasn’t the helicopter that had originally tried to catch him. It was a goddamn Gazelle, which was significantly faster than he was.