Getting Back on the Horse

We stand for a moment, looking at that envelope. Can't be good news.
"Open it?"
Lou shakes his head just slightly.
"Man... I just want to get my kite down out of that tree and head back to the compound."

I put the envelope back into the satchel and then look in the side pockets for anything that might tell us who the skypilot might be.
"Nothing but this envelope."
"So we need to pull these pieces out of the cockpit to find out who this guy is?"

With much trepidation we start to push and pull on the wreckage. The body is in a tropical shirt and slacks. Lou calls it first... probably a lawyer. After wrapping our hands in some of this guys clothing from the carry-on, we are able to free enough of him to check the pockets. Not the afternoon I was looking for.

"This is either a wallet, or a large colon polyp."
"Lou... "
He is elbow deep in wreckage when he withdrawls his arm, a bit bloody, but I am sure it is all his. In his hand is a thin billfold.

"Well?"
Lou opens the billfold and pulls out a two gold cards and an Oklahoma Drivers License. All of which held the name Alan Stinkle.
"Stinkle? Stinkle... Stinkle... Where have I heard that name?" Lou tips his head like a dog.

"You have heard it in the middle of Goldfarb and Abramowitz. He is one of Antonelli's lawyers." I look at the mess in the crumpled metal... "Was one of his lawyers."

Okay, I realize that we have had some down time since last year. I realize that Antonelli is a very good friend of ours. I realize that we may be two of the only six people on the planet that have gone back in time... I think. But I am done with this shit. I just want to stay here in the jungle. Get back to flying cargo in Abby, drinking beer, smoking the occassional Walker.

Lou gestures to the satchel and hands me the wallet to put with the envelope.
"Let's not open that until we get back home. I don't want any bad news without a buzz."

We are unable to get Lou's kite out of the tree without another twenty feet or so of ladder so he can grab the drop line. Even then I doubt it will come out of there unless we tow it out, and then it won't be worth a damn.

The truck surprises me. It starts and sucks up all the water Lou pours into the overflow bottle, but gets us home just the same. This little incedent reminds me that we need to fix the damn radiator. I pull it onto the pad near the hanger.

After two cold beers, a short story of Lou's miraculous flight, and a couple of pulls on the hula-girl bong Lou brought back from Hautulco, we decide to open the envelope.

I undo the string from the little windy things on the back and pull out three sheets of paper. The heading on each is Goldfarb, Stinkle, and Abramowitz. That will have to be changed.

I read the first page and then hand it to Lou, who waves it off. "I don't want to read it. Just give me the hilights."

"It's from Chris and his mother."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"They need our help."
"Like I said... "
"The Bahamas."
"Better."

Lou holds the cold beer up to his brow and rolls it across his forehead for the cooling effect. He can read between the lines.
"So they want us to meet them? Where have they got that monster anchored?"
I look at the cover letter, then up at Lou... "Cuba".
"No shit?"
"Playa Santa Lucia."

I look at the next page. This one talks about the history of the Clarok, the ship
Timandra that sank on the voyage to Buenos Aires. The deep water salvage that took place. All of this part of the tale we had heard aboard Chris' mother's yacht. What we didn't know is all recent discovery... part of the Clarok shipment that never came to light when Bear was making arrangements to salvage the artifact. The last page is of the Bahamas and a couple of outlying cays with one circled... Samana Cay.

"That's it? Hell, they could have sent that on the back a postcard." Lou takes a pull off of that beer until just foam slips down the sides of the bottle.
"They send a lawyer all the way up here, without warning, to tell us this little bit of crap? Hell... if he hadn't wrecked I might have shot him if he actually landed."

I grab the papers up and shake my head.
"Well, that can't be all. He wouldn't come all the way up here... with just this."
I look at Lou, "They know we like a little more meat with our messages by now."

Lou cracks another beer, "You sure you checked every inch of that bag?"

I have left the satchel inside the hanger. While retrieving it I also grab the carry-on bag for good measure. We empty the contents of both on the table and spread it out.

"Clothes... " Lou shakes each shirt, under garment, pair of socks, "socks... this guy was wearing socks out here in the jungle. If I could have found his feet I bet he had black socks and sandals."

The satchel has a few other documents, none of which seemed to have anything to do with the Clarok. I check for a false bottom... nothing. The sides of this leather satchel are thick, but one might think it is just the hide. I pry back the seams on one side but find it is tightly stitched. The other side, however, proves to be a little more revealing.

"Here we go." I manage to get the tip of a fingernail in the stiff opening under the border. With a quick thrust I get my fingers in the breech and pull open the hidden side panel. Inside is a copy of an old map. It is non-descript... an island, trees, a stand of rocks or statues or something, some kind of barbaque spit, and a few landmark items like broken trees and strange trunked palms.

"Let me see that, Jake." Lou takes the map and gives it the once over.
"This could be anywhere. No clue with the exception of this shipwreck here, and that might just be artwork to show a reef or something."

He tosses it back to me. I look at it again.
"Your right. I don't see anything here that would indicate a location."

We have an atlas on the shelf. Since our first encounter with Antonelli's people we have dog-eared the pages off of Puerto Barrios. After leafing through the eastern side of the Carribean, I find Samana Cay. It's maybe 30 miles back from a horseshoe shaped sliver called "Crooked Island" which is in turn about 170 miles from Cuba.

"Well... that treasure map doesn't look like any part of Samana Cay." I spin the treasure map on the table next to the atlas as though I were trying to find a fit for jigsaw piece. No matter how I turn the map, the land-mass does not fit the shape of any part of Samana Cay.

"Maybe it ain't Samana Cay." Lou turns the atlas toward him and puts his finger down on Playa Santa Lucia.
"I'm thinking we find out some of the missing pieces of the puzzle when we meet Antonelli and his mother." He shakes his head slightly. "That woman is a little scary. It's like they say... they make an offer that you can't refuse."

We take a little time of silent reflection. Are we really going to go do Cuba and get neck deep in this shit again. At least it isn't to go on some fucking mind trip again. Not yet anyway.

It is a ten minutes before we say another word. Lou packs the Hula Girl again and we take several hits before looking at each other.
"Well, Nancy?
"Jesus."
"Look, Jake, Antonelli is our friend... and he needs us. That is enough for me."
I crack my fourth beer and take a pull.
"Yeah, I know."
"It's Cuba, man... I always wanted to go to Cuba."
"Yeah, Cuba, and then what. The last time we ran into pirates we all got shot and had a boat sink under us."
"Well, me and Jerry got shot. You got scratched."

My hand goes to my ear.

We are well on our way to being totally fucked up. The Hula Girl dances five or six times more before we hear Abby's engines as Jerry does a fly-by. That is the nice thing about the local shit, it doesn't paralyze you. We walk out with a cooler packed with cold beer, and the little Hula Girl, packed with Nogales window box.

There she comes... those big, beautiful radial engines putting along like a highway line of Harleys parading by. Jerry gives a wave out of the window and slides her in through the gates.

Lou and I close the compound gates and throw the padlock on. You wouldn't think that was necessary, not out here in the jungle, but it is peace of mind to have the compound locked down. Since we brought our gold money back from Mexico we have a pretty nice solar powered security system here at El Corazon that will light up this place at night if something really big comes through the fenceline.

The side door opens and Ollie's big mug is smiling. He jumps down and grabs the two of us by the neck and gives us a playful shake. When he sees the cooler and the Hula Girl, you can tell he can't decide what to do first.

"You two are like... what? Ten sheets to the wind?" Jerry smiles and hops down out of Abby. I open the cooler and hand him a cold one.

"I deliver freight in the jungle all day and all you have to give me is... light beer?"

I feel a little beer eject out of my nose on that one.

"So what's the haps, gentlemen?" Jerry takes a long pull on the cold beer and then waves the Hula Girl away from Ollie while the bowl is still glowing.

"We have a decision to make."

New Beginnings

So, it's been a long time since I have posted our adventures. Actually it has taken all of this time to put the past in the past. The life we lived in the minutes of our travel back from the old west put a bender on our minds that has taken all of these months to clear.

We never went back to get the gold, me and Lou. We let the others go. Done that, been there... if it turned out different we didn't want to know. Our share would be safe with Antonelli. We wanted to get home to El Corazon, to see Jerry... to fly once more in Abigail. It took three days for us to make contact with Jerry through the airport radio to Tapia. He was confused and a little pissed off that he had to make a run all the way down to Puerto Barrios when we had a perfectly good aircraft sitting right at the airport. But we had to see him, to have him fly us back... at the controls. This nightmare of three minutes that saw Jerry dead and us bleeding out at the controls of Abby was too recent of a memory. You wouldn't believe how real it felt, the detail... the pain.

So we have Jerry come pick us up like a couple of spoiled kids and fly us back to El Corazon. I fought the urge to hug that fucking hippy. It would be weeks of night terrors and a few screams that cleared the monkeys out of the compound and shut that jungle noise down for ten minutes at a time. That is how real it was.

But with everything, time heals those wounds. Someone once likened the death of a loved one to a sharp-edged stone in a flowing river. After a while those sharp cutting edges dull with the passing of time until they are as smooth as the last trip to grandma's house for Christmas dinner.

I can only speak for myself. I would spend entire days sitting outside the fenceline on an old plane wreck... tail section. The verticle and horizontal stabs sit at a pretty comfortable angle and provided a good meditation spot. I never have been into that kind of thing, but when you have visions like those from Anahuac, it isn't easy to put them behind closed doors.

Lou, on the other hand, has been a rock. Some time ago he was able to reckon with death and the sights of mutilation and destruction. I know it haunts him... I can see it in his eyes. Just for a second there is a pain in those eyes that is quickly sheathed, hidden like a dagger that has just cut the throat of God. I feel his pain, it is deep... but sudden, like a chilling flood water that will consume you in an instant. I think he worries about his soul. But I know his heart, and God will know as well. The world is full of bad men and things that go bump in the night. Believe me, God put people like Lou on this Earth to let us sleep at night and wake to see another glorious sunrise.

So, enough of this shit. What has been going on all these months? Well, not all that much that you might find interesting. Abigail was down for a month for a complete inspection, prompted by the fact that we had to change out a cylinder on her starboard engine after she sucked a valve. We really missed having Naomi on hand. It took two weeks and a whole lot of time on the shortwave to arrange to have her brought up here. But once she was on deck, the parts runs started. We flew sixteen sorties out to the coast to pick up parts. It would have been nice to make it all in one trip, but that isn't how it works with these things. You get one thing fixed and then find another. I think it was just Abby's way of getting back at us for putting her in harms way so many times.

Most of the time it was Jerry on the parts runs. He and Ollie would fly for parts while Lou and I turned wrenches. There was plenty of cold beer, marinated pork and chicken from the girls at the cantina in town. Aside from the usual problems... fasteners not coming out, bolts snapping off, there were unique jungle issues that only we face. Monkeys stealing wrenches and parts, beer and food. It is funny at first, but then... after the tenth time, it becomes trying at best.

They stopped doing that after Lou threw an old grenade to one of them. He found the thing in the corner of some box in the hanger that he brought back from Santa Cruz so many months ago.

"Here you go you fucking monkey." He pulled the pin and threw it. That monkey must of thought it was a treasure because for a moment or two he was victorious at keeping his buddies away. Then there was a messy explosion... then nothing. They didn't come around after that.

Once Abigail was back in the air with a fresh motor and everything else running like a Swiss watch, we tried to get back to normal. It was lucky that Ollie was here with us, ready in an instant to take a run with Jerry when we didn't feel up to it.
The fact is that none of us need to work again. We have enough gold to spend in six lifetimes. With the prices today... hell, they are almost twice what we got in Mexico City so long ago. It is a fortune, we know. But we aren't the types of people that have cared all that much about the money side of things.

Lou took a run out to his old stomping grounds at Santa Cruz Hautulco two days ago. He came back with a case of Cuban cigars, ten bottles of Havana Club Dark, and an orange hang glider with a motor and a helmet. Just one more thing to break his neck with.

"Course I know how to fly it. Damn thing flies itself, Jake."
"You better stay close."
"What now?"
"Stay close... to the ground and to the compound."
"You're not my mother, Nancy."
"Thank God for small favors."

I look back over my shoulder at the PowerWagon. There is a small plastic bucket under the radiator that catches whatever coolant is left in the system every time we stop. She took a hit out on a Jungle Mart parts run a week ago and we haven't found the time to braze it or find a replacement. If he goes down anywhere but here, it will be a short ride or a long walk.

"Don't sweat it, Nancy. I'll just take her up and catch a thermal right over the compound."

There is an hour at least of set up and staging as he checks and rechecks the glider assembly. I would have helped, but I know Lou... he doesn't want to be bothered when he is in this mood. So I find a lawn chair and a grab a couple of beers.

Finally, after triple checking every connection, Lou heaves the glider up and checks the way it balances. He actually dawns the helmet, which is a sign of personal growth for Lou. He sees me looking and then flips me off. Still, though, the Lou I knew would rather piss in that helmet than put it on and admit he is infallible.
Even as I am thinking that last part he yanks the helmet off and throws it my way in defiance.

"That's a bad move."
Once again the finger.
I crack a beer and settle back for the show... or so I think.
"Nancy... come start this thing."

This thing looks like a combination of box fan and leaf blower. He is in a hanging harness so the motor will be at his back to give him thrust. There is a kill switch on one of the handles. He checks to see that it is on.
"Ignition on."
"Funny."
"Just pull the fucking starter."

I set the choke and pull the handle, hard so it jostles him.
"Easy, Nancy."
After about five pulls it sputters. I ease up on the choke and pull it again. That did it, the motor comes to life. After a moment or two I take the choke off and we let it run for a minute.

I give him a tap on the shoulder. I point to the helmet and Lou nods. Good, I don't feel like spoon feeding him when this flight turns him into a vegetable.
After he straps on his safety equipment I settle back into the lawn chair and watch the show.

He takes a couple of moments while he shifts the glider around... checking the weight I presume. Then the throttle goes up and he starts to run along. Now that alone starts me smiling, but when he gets enough lift he runs he is up and down a few times, his feet running in mid-air before touching down, then up, then down.

It isn't long before he is all the way to the end of the strip.
"WE'LL CALL THAT A TEST RUN..." I yell his way, but he doesn't hear me. I can't see his face from here, but I know the determination is cut in stone.

I hear the throttle go up and see him running, then he pops the nose of that glider up to the point that it might just stall. His feet come up off the ground by ten, fifteen, then twenty feet. He drops the nose just a bit but loses altitude so he once again flirts with a stall. Half way down the strip he tries a turn, very slow and sweeping. Good thinking to keep his climb in the middle of the strip in case he has to abort there is ample clearing to glide back down.

I'll be damned if he isn't doing it. Slowly he is climbing in this turn. He lets out a whoop as he makes his altitude. He calls down to me but I can't make out what he says. After about six or seven complete turns he is up about fifteen hundred feet and pretty small. I hear the motor cut back and he straightens up and starts on a course over the compound.

Well I'll be damned.

I am two beers down before I hear the engine stop. He has been out of sight for a while, high and nearly a mile to the southeast of the compound. He had stayed in one spot, making several figure eights... examining the jungle south of our airstrip before heading further south. I would have expected him to go toward town, drop into the cantina and make me come and get him. But that isn't the case today.

I'll be damned if I don't have to water jug the radiator on the Dodge. I fill up a couple of the empty anti-freeze jugs that are on the trash pile and throw them in the back.

She turns over slowly and then finally catches, making me work at getting her to idle. By the time I get out on the airstrip I can barely make out the "life jacket orange" fabric of the glider before it is swallowed up by the triple terrace jungle.

"Oh for Christ sake. I told him... I told him." I start down toward the end of the airstrip and try to go quickly before I run out of water.

The parts run trail at the end of the strip is nothing more than a couple of ruts competing with each other. I am buffeted hard, like a prize fighter getting pummeled on the ropes. I try to keep visual toward my last sighting. When the trail takes on a different direction, I shut the truck off and step out.

The jungle noise is at a minimum this time of day.
"LOU... " I reach in and hit the horn button, but it just clicks... typical.
"HEY LOU... WHERE ARE YOU, MAN?"

I strain to hear him, but the low hum of bug life out here might just be enough to...

"Jake?"

It is faint and far off, somewhere south east of where I am. There is enough clearing through the jungle that I figure I better take the truck as close as I can get.

As I rumble deeper into the jungle, I can see orange in the shadows above and ahead. In another hundred yards the glider is visible, caught in a rather large tree. Lou is dangling from a thin white cord about twenty feet off the ground. He looks none the worse for wear. There is blood dripping off one of his arms and he has a shoe off.

"Pull under me."
"Hello to you, too."
"Put the cab right under me."

I pull up so he is twirling above the cab and shut her down. I just get out and down he comes, after the first bounce he is on the jungle floor and there is another dent in the top of the truck that we have to push out.

"Welcome to Earth."
"Stow it, Nancy. There's something about two clicks over that way." He points deeper into the jungle.
"They're called trees... or monkeys. I don't know which of those you were looking at."

"God damnit, where is my other shoe?"

I aid in the search and we find it in the other direction. It is already covered in ants. Lou fires it back toward the truck and then beats it mercilously on the bumper until he is satisfied that the intruders have left. After he dons the shoe he is ready to go.

"You're bleeding."
"It'll stop. I think we can get the truck in through these trees."
"Yeah, just keep in mind we are probably going to run out of water before we can make it back."

I start through the trees, hoping that the trees don't choke down to nothing. I at least want a place to turn around if that is at all possible. Backing all the way out of a dead end sucks the...

"STOP."
"Jesus, you startled me. I'm right here you motherfuc... "
"Look."

On the jungle floor off to our right is a small plane, a single engine... probably a Cessna 182. There is a tear in the canopy above it from when it came through the trees and the light is shining through, illuminating this pilots last resting place.

We get out of the truck and make our way over. This is a fresh crash site. I can smell fuel, so there was no fire on impact. But that is little consolation to whomever was inside. It is a fatal impact... you can tell from just looking at it.

"Just the pilot." Lou is squatting next to the flattened cockpit. He stands quickly and starts wiping the ants away from him. The jungle has already started to claim this prize. First the ants, then the blow flies, then God knows what else.

In the passenger compartment we find a carry-on bag and a satchel.
"He was traveling light." I pick up the bags and pull them out for examination. Lou takes the suitcase and I open the satchel. What I find makes this more than just a crash site.

I remove a sealed envelope.

"Whatcha got?" Lou asks, rifling through the shirts and neatly folded undergarments.
"I don't know yet, but it has our names on it."