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.
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.