J. Curtis - Calexit - The Anthology

Just then, the stall burble alerted him to the fact that he was slightly overloaded, even though he’d been burning fuel for two hundred miles. He gently applied a bit of power and lowered the nose to get out of stall. Twelve miles to go. At this speed, ten minutes.

At about six miles to go, the chopper returned, flying up from behind him and to his left. He firewalled the throttle. His airspeed increased to one-hundred fifty-five knots, the needle hovering on the never exceed line.

He heard the shots, and the chopper moved to fly in front of him. The pilot was good, He was pacing the Beaver at a slight angle so the men could still point their rifles at him. He could see a muzzle flash or two, but the planes were separated by at least 2000 feet, so there was no way those men were gonna hit him from a moving helicopter at that range. Still, they were a threat. So far, they hadn’t hit him. Yet. He slowed. The Gazelle pulled ahead, then began reducing its speed.

He set the radio for Guard… 121.5.

“U.S. Border Patrol U.S. Border Patrol… in the vicinity of Laughlin or Sun Valley. I am leaving Cali. I am a fixed wing Beaver approximately six miles from the border heading east. I am being pursued by a helicopter with Cali state marking. Please reply.”

He tried three times, with no reply, then switched to 243.0 mhz on his handheld radio. Same message.

A reply came back almost immediately, “Aircraft calling border patrol on guard frequency, what are your intentions? Over.”

“I intend to cross into the U.S.”

“Please return to 121.5. We will inform appropriate Border Patrol personnel.”

With that, he dove, again, pushing the airframe to one-hundred sixty knots. The shudder was bad, and he wasn’t sure the wings could take it.

His dive had thrown the chopper off, and it had to dive to follow him. He knew it was faster than him, so he simply dove for the deck. He was below 3500 feet and above one-hundred sixty knots-well into never exceed speed.

As the helicopter turned to chase him in the dive, he waited, then pulled back on the yoke, feeling the g-forces as the plane zoomed upward. He was SURE he was overstressing the wings, but now was the time to do so if there ever was a time to do it. He climbed to over 6000 feet and the chopper pilot wasn’t fast enough, he overshot on his dive, and the Beaver was well above him. As the helicopter flared in an attempt to stay with him, he converted altitude to airspeed, diving, then zoom climbing again until he felt the stall buffet in the yoke. Leveling off, he checked his engine gauges. His cylinder head temp was a bit high, his oil temp was a LOT high, but neither was in the red. Just then his radio came to life.

“Beaver entering U.S. airspace. Please reply.”

“Go.” he said into the mic.

“You are being pursued?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a refugee?”

“Yes, I am fleeing Cali.”

“You may enter U.S. airspace. Be warned that you will follow all course and altitude instruction, or be shot down. You will land as specified, and be subject to Customs searches, and possible detainment.”

“Agreed.”

“State your name and the names of you passengers as well as their ages.” He complied, and heard, “Continue on course until further instructed, Mr. Daniels”

With that, the radio went silent again.

Just then, he saw the pursuing chopper fall in next to him about a thousand feet to the left. His radio squawked, this time with another, familiar voice.

“Hello, Mr. Daniels. Do you recognize my voice?”

“Yes, Mr. Riviera. What do you want?”

“You will turn around immediately, and follow OUR course and landing instructions. Or be shot down. Your choice.”

Daniels looked at his GPS. Three miles. Fuckit.

He dove the plane, rolling hard TOWARDS the helicopter pacing him and just a bit lower. The pilot of the Gazelle instinctively rolled away and dumped the nose, honoring the threat the old Beaver posed. One man got off a few shots towards him, but the Gazelle was moving in all three axes and none came near him, As the chopper veered away, the men inside had to grab for balance, and he saw at least one rifle spin away from the chopper.

He banked hard the other way, and dove again, dropping from 6500 feet to 4000 feet in just seconds. His airspeed was again at “Never Exceed” speed and the air drummed over the wings and fuselage. He pulled back on the throttle and pointed east as he dropped. He knew there was no way he could keep this up and outrun the Gazelle.

“Cali helicopter, the is the U.S. border patrol. You are about to pass over the border. You DO NOT have permission to enter U.S. airspace. Please acknowledge.”

Daniels looked up to see the strobes of TWO Blackhawks with the distinctive black paint and yellow stripe of the CBP about a mile in front of him.

The helicopter with Diego Riviera pulled up and turned to the south, running perpendicular to the course it had been on when following Daniels.

“Thank you, Cali.” came over the Guard channel. “Unless you want to claim asylum too?”

The Gazelle continued on a path perpendicular to the Beaver, paralleling the border and away from the Beaver.

“Didn’t think so” came the amused transmission from the Border Patrol

“Cali Beaver, please follow us to Bullhead airport in Laughlin. Airport identifier is IFP Do you know the way?”

“Not really, I was aiming for Sun Valley.”

“Steer 098 magnetic. The airport is on 123.9 for tower, please follow instructions. When you land, there will be a Follow Me car, please follow instructions and stay in your aircraft . Do you copy?”

“123.9, Follow Me, stay in aircraft. Roger.”

“Welcome to the USA, sir.”

With that, the Blackhawks split up, one staying behind him and the other breaking to the north.

His escort chopper stayed with him until he got his instructions and began his final. Then it broke off to orbit.

He received his instructions from IFP tower, and landed safely. As he taxied to the end of the runway, his Follow Me car appeared, and he followed it to a parking space far away from other aircraft. He followed the radioed instructions to shut down his engine and wait.

Soon three police cars appeared. Armed men got out. A man in CBP uniform came up to the plane and gestured him out of the aircraft. As Daniel’s feet touched the ground, the CBP officer put out his hand.

“I am Captain John Carstairs. I bet you have an interesting story. You’ll have to tell us about it. For now, welcome to the United States of America.”

The mountains northwest of Lake Tahoe are quiet. Her more conservative neighbors fled before the “vote”, something she would have done, had she only recently moved to the area.

But her family lived in this state for generations, her dad farming the rich soil down in the Valley like his father before him. The death of Lisa’s parents—her father from a farming accident and her mother from cancer several years later left Lisa with just enough money to buy this cabin, and land perched up against a national forest after she had left college. Moving some money into savings from her inheritance, she had restored it to a simple rustic charm by putting a kitchen in the former one-room living area, and adding on a bedroom, den, and bath.

She found it, nothing much more than a hunting cabin at the time, for sale, when she was up here. It was just north of Meadowvale and was her uncle’s hunting cabin. Her dad and Uncle Bud had taught her to hunt as a young teen. Her family was hard working, but her dad accepted no handouts, so there were lean years where harvesting a deer meant meat on an otherwise empty table. With all the regulations in California: permits, limited areas of hunting and paperwork—having to fill out a harvest report even if you didn’t USE your permit and go hunting, hunting was done out of necessity, not for sport.