Page 107

CHAPTER 105

TIAGO GARZA SAT in the copilot’s seat aboard the multi-million-dollar Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter. Below them was the Pacific coastline. The pilot followed that beautiful, divided pathway of sand and sea, along the edge of San Diego, passing over the cities of Encinitas, Carlsbad, and San Clemente, which were so far below, they looked like handfuls of small wooden blocks tossed along the coastline.

Garza was not mechanically minded, but the pilot, his childhood friend Enrique Santos, had been trained by the US Marine Corps. He handled the collective, the throttle, and the pedals that controlled the blades and rear rotors. In short, Enrique knew what he was doing, and Garza liked to hear him talk about the bird itself.

Garza had learned that this particular Black Hawk was able to fly a long distance, about 1,600 miles, without having to refuel. This was excellent, since the Black Hawk was stolen, and stopping for fuel could end their mission.

However, if they used their fuel wisely, they could travel far. As Enrique had told him, the chopper had special auxiliary fuel tanks mounted to external stores support system wings. This bird was loaded.

But as Enrique also had explained to Garza, all helicopters by their nature were somewhat unstable. So, extreme care had to be taken when lifting off and landing.

Now Enrique was jabbing a finger at him and then touching his headset, indicating that Garza should put his ear gear on so that he could listen to and communicate with him, cutting out the aircraft’s racket. Garza clapped on the headset.

Enrique said, “Good man.” And then he pointed out land features, asked after Garza’s comfort, and told him that there were sandwiches and a thermos of cold water between their seats. The soft, choppy sound of the blades and the sunny view of the Pacific gave Garza great pleasure, and then his eyes closed and he caught up on some missed sleep.

Sometime later, when Garza had lost his sense of time, he felt a hand on his shoulder and came out of a deep dream. Paco, who was Enrique’s nephew, was in the seat behind him.

He said, “Sorry, Senor Garza. We are almost there.”

Garza saw it. The meandering route of the American River. And beyond that, a collection of buildings enclosed by a stone fence all the way around. They were only minutes away. Just minutes.

Garza opened the thermos, slugged down some water. Offered it to Paco, who drank deeply and handed the thermos back.

Enrique was too busy. He pulled up on a lever, and the chopper’s altitude dropped.

“Tiago,” he said, “look down and see what God made.”

Garza pulled his phone from his pullover’s pocket and snapped off some shots of the magnificent waterway and then spotted the walled cluster of buildings where they would be landing soon.

“Paco,” he shouted out to the boy behind him. “Cue the music.”

As the opening bars of Johnny Cash’s greatest hit filled the cabin, the chuffing of the rotor and the blades sounded more like the chugging of a train rolling ’round the bend.