Brown, Dale - Independent 04 by Storming Heaven (v1.1) Page A

windscreen in horror. “Joining my outfit is looking like a
better idea all the time, isn’t it, Mr. Krull?”
                 “No
shit... Captain,” he responded. The Stork grinned, showing the newcomer his few
remaining tobacco-stained teeth. Cazaux turned off the telescopic nightscope he
had been using to monitor the ATF agents’ approach, then handed it to Krull,
who placed it carefully into a padded case. “I never did care for them white
boys anyway. Fuck ’em.”
                 “You
work hard and keep your mouth shut, Mr. Krull,” Cazaux said, shoving the
throttles forward and picking up speed along the north terminal buildings, “and
we will enjoy a long and profitable relationship. I don’t care what color your
skin is. Cross me, inform on me, or speak to anyone about my operation or
myself, and you’ll be crow food too. That I promise.”
                 “I
get the message.”
                 “Aircraft
on taxiway bravo near the tower, this is Chico ground, hold your position and acknowledge.
Orders from the sheriffs department. Say your call sign,” the ground controller
radioed.
                 “Checklists,
Stork, checklists,” Cazaux shouted crosscockpit. He reached across the cockpit
and flipped on the engine ignition switches—if the engines faltered during
takeoff, leaving the igniters on would help to restart them quickly. “Mr.
Krull, your job is to watch this indicator. When it hits sixty, punch this
button to start the stopwatch. . You will count down precisely twelve seconds
and give me a warning beginning five seconds before the sweep hand reaches
twelve seconds, using the words ‘ready, ready,’ then ‘now’ in a loud voice when
the clock reads twelve seconds. Do you understand?”
                 “What
the hell for, man?”
                 “I
told you, keep your mouth shut and pay attention, Mr. Krull, and you’ll do fine
in my organization,” Cazaux said. “Do you understand what I just told you?”
                 “Yeah,
yeah, I got it.”
                 “Very
good. This is an acceleration test, Mr. Krull. You see, we’re not going to take
the long runway—we’re taking the short runway, one-three right. The twelve
seconds is our safety margin—we have twelve seconds to go from sixty knots to
one-twenty. If we don’t do it, we won’t take off. Simple enough.”
                 “Then
we better make it, man,” Krull said, “because whoever’s chasin’ us ain’t gonna
be too happy about us set- tin’ off a stick of dynamite in their faces.”
                 “True
enough. Oh—hit that button for me right there, if you would.” Krull reached
over to a small aluminum box mounted atop the glareshield above the instrument
panel, took a look at Cazaux, who was busy with the checklists, and at the
Stork, who was grinning with complete mirth at him. Krull hit the button ...
                 ...
and a ring of volcanoes appeared to erupt all around them, with huge thick
geysers of fire shooting into the sky, obscuring the buildings on the east ramp
near the control tower. One by one, private airplanes and crop dusters were
sent spinning into the air by the explosions. The explosions were set in
precise patterns, causing a rippling effect across the airport—as soon as the
L-600 taxied past a spot, the explosions would cut off the taxiway and obscure
them with fire and smoke. “Jesus Christ, what in hell... ?”
                 “It
is so pitifully easy to set explosives on airports in America ,” Cazaux said. “Offer to wash a windshield
or paint a few stripes on the ground, and pilots in this country will let you
do anything you want around their planes. But I am disappointed—only about half
of my detonators are going off. I think I’ll have a talk with those Mexican
dealers. They owe me a refund.” Krull felt as if he was in some