"Toot! Toot!" chirped The Kid.

"Toot? Toot?" The Ace replied.

"Toot! Toot!" The Kid retorted. "Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!"

"All right. All right." The Ace conceded. "Toot. Toot."

"Toot! Toot!" The Kid chirped merrily, bouncing up and down in his seat. "Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!"

The Ace reached into the breast pocket of his old Nam flight jacket and withdrew a tiny cylindrical glass vial of crystalline white powder, about three-fourths empty.

"We've already tooted over a gram and a half," declared The Ace.

"Toot! Toot!" The Kid insisted. "Toot! Toot!"

"You realize, of course," said The Ace, unscrewing the tiny glass vial's little black plastic cap, "the only reason I'm giving you this is because it means I get some, too."

"Toot! Toot!" chirped The Kid. "Toot! Toot!"

The Ace dug some white powder out of the tiny vial with the cokespoon attachment on his Swiss Army knife. He leaned over and held it directly below The Kid's left nostril.

"Bombs away," The Ace declared.

The Kid inhaled sharply through his nose. The white powder disappeared.

"Toot! Toot!" chirped The Kid.

"Toot-toot to you, too," The Ace toasted, doing up a spoonful himself."

"Toot! Toot!" The Kid exclaimed. "Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!"

"All right. All right already," said The Ace, holding another heaping cokespoon beneath The Kid's right nostril. "Fire two!"

The Kid inhaled sharply through his nose again. The white powder disappeared.

"Toot! Toot!" The Kid chirped merrily. "Toot! Toot!"

"You sound like some kinda bird," said The Ace, doing up another spoonful, recapping the vial.

"A Coke-A-Toot," said The Kid.

"Ah, yesss..." went The Ace like W.C. Fields, pretending he was tapping an ash off one end of the glass vial. "Whilst exploring through the Estonian Mountains... My companions and I discovered a rookery of the rare, tropical Colombian Coke-A-Toot."

"Toot! Toot!" chirped The Kid. "Toot! Toot!"

"We recognized it immediately by the size of its beak, its deviated septum, and its unmistakable mating call..."

"Toot! Toot!" chirped The Kid. "Toot! Toot!"

"It was delicious... Under glass...."

The Ace pressed the tip of his nose with his forefinger and took a nice long deep breath through his nostrils. He exhaled slowly, smiling as pleasant sensations rippled outward across his face.

The Kid glanced instinctively across his instrument panel, then back out through the windshield. The sky was starting to lighten up ahead, approaching dawn. He smiled at the thought. Last night, they'd been going west, into the setting sun. Now they were returning, heading east, into the rising sun.

That sounded like a good excuse to get high.

"More drugs." announced The Kid."

"More drugs?" said The Ace.

"More drugs," The Kid declared.

The Ace reached into the flight bag between their seats and pulled out a little plastic baggie of marijuana which contained enough fine, dusty powder to roll maybe one skinny little joint that wouldn't burn right.

"All gone." said The Ace, holding the baggie for The Kid to see.

"Well!" huffed The Kid, "This is another fine mess you got us into!"

The Ace drew his face out like Stan Laurel, fingered the top of his head.

"Why don't I get some more?" The Ace suggested.

"Yes," The Kid agreed. "Why don't you do that?"

"I will," The Ace insisted, playing with his imaginary tie.

Unbuckling his seatbelt The Ace slid out of the co-pilot's seat, lurched through the passageway leading from the cockpit into the cargo compartment of the old Flying Joint, which was loaded with bulky burlap sacks.

The Ace tore open the handiest burlap sack he could find, reached inside, broke a great big chunk off a fifty pound bale of marijuana. He held the handful of short, stubby yellowish looking buds up to his nose and inhaled gently, like a wine connoisseur savoring the aroma. It was real "The-Stuff-Dreams-Are-Made-of" Colombian Gold.

Lurching back down the passageway into the cockpit, The Ace strapped himself into the co-pilot's seat again, took out the Flying Joint's log book, opened it up in his lap.

The Kid glanced over to see what The Ace was doing, squirming slightly in his seat, wetting his lips.

The Ace began methodically cleaning the marijuana, picking out the stems, crushing the buds one by one, stripping them against the grain between his fingers, fluffing all the compacted chunks, meticulously rolling out all the little seeds.

He was really getting into it.

The Kid kept glancing over, checking The Ace's progress.

The Ace pushed his sleeves back, loosened his fingers, took out a pack of JOB Sup-Air cigarette papers, pealed off five papers, put the pack down, picked up each paper, one by one, folded the bottom half back into quarters along the center crease. When this was done The Ace took out his Swiss Army knife, unfolded the tiny scissors attachment, carefully started snipping off the ungummed corner of each paper.

"Would you just roll a joint!" The Kid erupted, suddenly.

"What?" The Ace replied, surprised.

"Why can't you just roll a joint?" The Kid demanded. "I wanna get stoned!"

"Mellow out," said The Ace, rolling his eyes in disdain.

"Why can't you just roll joints like normal people?" The Kid demanded. "Oh, no! You gotta be Picasso! We're just gonna BURN the motherfucker!"

The Ace motioned for silence. "Look..." he explained, "as long as I'm part of the drug culture, I'm gonna have a little drug culture."

"If you want cut corners, why don't you just buy the papers with the corners cut?"

"Because," The Ace replied, "I don't like rolling with those papers. These have nicer texture."

"Shit," declared The Kid, rolling his eyes. "Texture!"

"At least my joints don't look like beached whales," snapped The Ace. "And they burn even. And they don't explode. Or fall apart so you gotta hold them together with a roach clip. You're just jealous 'cause you're still rolling two paper joints."

"I just wanna smoke a reefer," said The Kid. "That's all. I just wanna get high. Is that too much to ask?"

"Well... Then cool it." said The Ace. "Let me roll."

Fuming, The Kid cooled it, staring out the windshield, checking the instrument panel, drumming his fingers while The Ace proceeded to roll, carefully sprinkling just the proper amount of the cleaned dope along the crease in the paper, folding it over, rolling it slowly, tightly, precisely, perfectly cylindrical, then crimping and twisting the ends so it would hold shape.

The Ace inspected his handiwork, beaming proudly at the joint as he held it out so The Kid could admire his artistry.

The Kid snatched it from his fingers, crushed it in his hand, threw it to the floor.

The Ace did a double-take.

The Kid told him: "I don't like that one."

Rolling his eyes, The Ace shook his head in disbelief and consternation, rolled another, taking even longer this time. When he was done he struck a match, lit this one himself, taking a couple nice, long hits before passing it to The Kid.

The Kid took a long, deep, soothing hit, held it for a few seconds, exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. The Ace waited. The Kid took another hit. Then another. The Ace waited for The Kid to pass the joint back. The Kid looked at him, made a face, like "Yeah! Right." So The Ace rolled a third, which he lit, proceeded to smoke himself.

About then The Ace suddenly realized how long they'd been listening to Derek & The Dominoes. He reached down under his seat, pulled out a case of stereo cassettes.

"Whatta ya wanna hear?" he asked The Kid.

The Kid knotted his brow, nibbled his lower lip.

"Led Zeppelin," The Kid decided.

"Already heard it," The Ace replied.

"Machine Head," The Kid declared.

"Too heavy," countered The Ace.

"Who?" The Kid asked.

"Who?" inquired The Ace.

"Yeah," said The Kid. "Who."

The Ace took out Who's Next, stuck it in the tape player, cranked the volume. He slid back in his seat, stared out his window, at billowing clouds he could now make out along the horizon, backlit by the approaching dawn, listening to Roger Daltrey sing about the "teenage wasteland" in "Baba O'Reilly."

The Kid glanced instinctively across his instrument panel, then back out through the windshield. The sky was even brighter now.

"Toot! Toot!" chirped The Kid.

"Toot? Toot?" The Ace replied, brightening a bit.

"Toot! Toot!" The Kid retorted. "Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!"

"Well," said The Ace with a devious smile, reaching for the vial of coke, "we certainly don't wanna crash, now, do we?"

•  •  •  •

It was a glorious morning in Central Florida. The kind that made you glad to be alive.

The Reverend Buck Powers, Jr. had been awakened by the angelic choir at precisely 5:45. He washed and dressed. Then he was served his usual breakfast before he settled down to watch the sun come up over The Promised Land, World Headquarters of The Buck Powers Crusade Foundation, Inc.

Now wearing slippers and a silk smoking jacket, Buck Jr. lounged peacefully in his favorite easy chair in his private study, feet propped up on his father's old Bible (the one that started the entire Crusade), a sizable tome on a stubby wooden stool, paging through a dog-eared hardbound volume of Art Linkletter's Kids Say The Darnedest Things.

He was waiting for The Word Of God.

Buck Jr. followed this same ritual religiously every morning seven days a week because he never knew when The Word Of God would come and he had to be ready if The Lord should beckon.

Some days He called. And some days He didn't. Buck Jr. never knew when The Word Of God would come. But when The Lord did beckon, Buck Jr. had to be ready. Instantly. So Buck Jr. kept himself constantly in a state of perpetual readiness. When The Word Of God came, he could don the mantle of The Lord and sally forth into the Valley of Death on a moment's notice.

When The Word Of God came...

Buck Jr. looked up from his book, stared out his window, past the huge steel transmission tower shaped like a giant cross, at the sky in the east. It was starting to lighten up.

He wondered if The Lord would call him today.

Maybe he'd know, thought Buck Jr. – by sunrise.

•  •  •  •

The sun hadn't quite risen yet, but there was enough light in the sky for The Ace and The Kid to make out the west coast of Florida along the horizon up ahead.

The Gulf of Mexico slid by smoothly, quickly, only two hundred feet below, like one big asphalt freeway.

The Kid suggested: "Let's do a toot before we take off."

"Why don't we wait and do it after we take off," The Ace replied.

"I got a better idea," countered The Kid. "Why don't we do one toot now, and another toot after? How's that?"

The Ace mulled it over momentarily. "Sounds all right to me," he decided finally, reaching for the vial of cocaine. A thought occurred to him. He asked: "Shouldn't we be getting clearance pretty soon?"

"Good idea," The Kid agreed, reaching for the microphone of the Flying Joint's radio. "Marco Island, right?"

"Yeah. Marco Island," The Ace nodded, unscrewing the vial's black plastic cap, digging out some cocaine with the cokespoon attachment on his Swiss Army knife. Reaching over, he held it below The Kid's nose.

"Bombs away," declared The Ace.

The Kid inhaled sharply through his nostrils. The powder vanished.

The Ace started digging out another spoonful of cocaine.

The Kid pressed the transmitter button on the mike. "FJ 714 calling Air Traffic Control," he called, as The Ace snorted a heaping spoon of cocaine. "FJ 714 calling Air Traffic Control. Come in Air Traffic Control. Come in."

The Ace dug out another spoon of coke, reached over, held it under The Kid's nose.

"This is Air Traffic Control," crackled the Flying Joint's radio. "Come in FJ 714."

"Fire two," The Ace declared.

The Kid inhaled sharply through his nostrils. The white powder disappeared once again.

"Come in FJ 714," said the Flying Joint's radio. "This is Air Traffic Control."

The Kid knotted his brow and wrinkled his forehead, took a few short, careful, tentative breaths through his nose, like he was smelling something funny. He looked at The Ace, who was busy digging out another spoonful of cocaine for himself.

"That was the same nostril," said The Kid.

"What?" said The Ace, carefully raising a heaping spoon of coke toward his nose.

"I said," said The Kid, "that was the same nostril. You just gave me two toots up one nostril."

The Ace laughed. To his consternation the wind from his breath scattered the spoonful of cocaine into the air right before his eyes.

"FJ 714. FJ 714," said the Flying Joint's a radio. "Come in, please."

The Kid glared at The Ace, who didn't notice, too busy digging out another spoonful of coke, chuckling to himself. The Kid waited until he was raising the heaping little spoonful ever so carefully toward his nose.

Then he told him: "It's not funny."

The Ace laughed again, and once more the wind from his breath scattered the cocaine into the air right before his eyes.

"You know what that feels like?" The Kid demanded.

Hands out, The Ace replied: "It can't be all that bad."

The Kid opened his mouth to say something. The radio cut him off.

"FJ 714. FJ 714. Come in, FJ 714. This is Air Traffic Control. Do you read me?"

"Look..." The Ace reasoned, "why don't you just get clearance. And as soon as we take off, I'll give you two toots up the other nostril. Okay?"

The Kid knotted his brow and nibbled his lower lip.

"I promise," said The Ace, crossing his heart. "Honest."

"FJ 714," said the Flying Joint's radio. "We are not receiving you. Repeat. We are not receiving you."

"Well... Okay, I guess," The Kid conceded finally with lingering skepticism. Still he pressed the button on the microphone. "Air Traffic Control," said The Kid, "this is FJ 714. We read you loud and clear."

"Roger, FJ 714." answered Air Traffic Control. "Proceed."

Realizing he never got his second, The Ace started digging it out.

Into the mike, The Kid said: "Requesting clearance for takeoff from Marco Island."

A slight pause. The Kid glanced at the coastline up ahead. It was approaching fast.

The Ace lifted a spoonful carefully toward his nostrils, did it up.

"Roger, FJ 714," said Air Traffic Control. "You are cleared for takeoff."

"Thank you, Air Traffic Control," said The Kid. "FJ 714, over and out."

The Ace knotted his brow and wrinkled his forehead, took a few short, careful breaths through his nose, like he was smelling something funny.

"Oh, shit," said The Ace.

"What's the matter?" asked The Kid.

The Ace told him: "I just gave myself two toots up one nostril."

•  •  •  •

At the Marco Island airport, Mickey Thompson, a contractor from Orlando, taxied his single engine Piper Cub toward the west end of the one concrete runway.

The Marco Island airport was a small airstrip for private planes. Beside its one short runway, a cluster of corrugated aluminum hangers, a couple double-wide trailers, a vintage gas pump which dispensed aviation fuel. A beaten old wind sock hung limp and lifeless in the soggy morning stillness.

Because it was so small, the Marco Island airport did not have it's own control tower. Like similar small airstrips dotting the Florida coast its minimal traffic was controlled by the Control Center at Tampa International Airport, about a hundred miles north.

As Mickey Thompson jockeyed his Piper Cub out to the end of Marco Island's runway, he called Air Traffic Control in Tampa, requested clearance for take-off.

"Roger, PC 227," answered Air Traffic Control. "You will be cleared for take-off after FJ 714."

Mickey Thompson peered around through the early morning gray. There was no other sign of life. The Marco Island airport was so quiet you could've cut it with a knife.

"Air Traffic Control," Thompson repeated, pressing the button on his mike. "This is PC 227, requesting clearance for takeoff from Marco Island."

"Roger PC 227," replied Air Traffic Control, slightly miffed. "You will be cleared for take-off behind FJ 714."

Thompson stared at his microphone, peered around at the sleepy little airstrip. He didn't see any other plane, wondered what was going on. He pressed the button on his mike, went to speak, then stopped. He thought he heard something. He listened. He did hear something. It was the drone of another plans, a louder, deeper, more resonant drone than his Piper Cub produced.

Thompson glanced around quickly, trying to place which direction the noise was coming from. And suddenly, he saw it. It was a Lockheed Lodestar, a squat twin-engine prop-driven workhorse, bearing down on the runway from out of the west, flying in low over the Gulf.

At first, Thompson thought the Lodestar was coming in to land. Then he noticed its landing gear weren't down. Nor the flaps. The Lodestar was also going much too fast for a landing approach. And it wasn't losing any altitude either.

Mickey Thompson watched and wondered what was going on as the Lodestar swept in low over the airstrips flew straight down right over the runway at about two hundred feet, then started climbing into the sky.

On the radar screens monitored by the Air Traffic Controllers in the Air Traffic Control Center at Tampa International Airport, a luminous green dot appeared at the location of the Marco Island airfield. The dot turned north and headed for the upper central portion of the Florida peninsula.

"PC 227," crackled the voice of Air Traffic Control over the radio in Mickey Thompson's Piper Cub, idling at the west end of the one concrete runway at the Marco Island airport. "You are now cleared for take-off."

•  •  •  •

Meanwhile, back at The Promised Land, Buck Jr. was receiving The Word Of God.

It started with this delicious little pulse of electrically exhilarating energy tingling down his spine. Buck Jr. sucked in an involuntarily breath, shivered slightly from the subtle sensations tickling his central nervous system.

Buck Jr. placed his book aside, closed his eyes to concentrate on The Word Of God swelling up within him.

It was a certain awareness, a metaphysical perception, which seemed to grow and intensify with every breath. Buck Jr. could actually sense it becoming stronger and stronger. Spreading. Growing. Intensifying.

Buck Jr.'s entire metabolism seemed to be racing. He could sense little pulses of energy shooting swiftly through his limbs, leaving tiny trails of tingling nerve fibers. His whole being seemed to glow. To radiate

Buck Jr. became acutely aware of his own breathing. It was such a fascinating process. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Buck Jr. detected the beat of his own heart. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins.

And, all the time, with every beat of his heart, with every breath of fresh air, Buck Jr. could actually feel The Word Of God swelling up within him.

Buck Jr. swallowed. He felt the lump slide down his throat and fall off into space – like Wile E. Coyote going over the cliff in the Roadrunner cartoons. It fell and fell and fell and fell. Buck Jr. felt that queasy sinking sensation swelling up in the pit of his stomach, like he was riding a roller coaster. Then it hit, way down in his abdomen, and shock waves rippled out through Buck Jr.'s body, causing him to shudder, break out in goose pimples, tingling all over, then subsiding.

Buck Jr. opened his eyes. The room seemed the same, only different somehow, like Buck Jr. was looking out at the whole world from inside a goldfish bowl.

Then he heard it. The angelic choir. Pure, high pealing angel voices blending into sweet waves of heavenly harmony. Swelling. Becoming louder and louder. Enveloping Buck Jr. completely until he almost felt as if he were swimming in it.

Suddenly, the center section of the study's polished mahogany bookcase swung open, revealing a narrow passageway leading down a flight of stairs.

Buck Jr. rose from his chair, walked through the hidden doorway. The bookshelf swung closed behind him. With the sound of the angelic choir preceding him, beckoning, leading him on, Buck Jr. continued down the passageway. Another door slid open automatically as he approached. Buck Jr. walked through this doorway into a secret subterranean chamber. The chamber's door slid shut behind him.

A section of the chamber wall slid open, revealing a spotless white flight suit hanging in a small, bare closet.

Buck Jr. removed his smoking jacket, hung it neatly in the closet, donned the white flight suit, zipped it up. Slippers came off and he slid his feet into white leather boots. Knotting a flowing white silk scarf around his neck he tossed the end gallantly over his right shoulder. Then Buck Jr. pulled a white leather aviator's cap over his head, letting the strap hang loose beneath his chin, slipped a pair of mirrored goggles down over his eyes. Finally he stretched his fingers slowly, dramatically, into a pair of white leather gloves.

As Buck Jr. finished suiting up the closet door slid shut.

He turned to a golden cross on the wall, bowed his head in silent prayer.

Another door slid open, revealing an even larger underground chamber.

In the center of this chamber was a pure white Fokker D Triplane. An insignia on its fuselage depicted a screaming bald eagle clenching a flaming gold sword in one claw. Under the rim of the cockpit, five marijuana leaves had been stenciled in green paint.

Buck Jr. strode masterfully across the subterranean chamber and climbed into the Fokker's cockpit.

There was a loud click and the hum of machinery. A powerful hydraulic elevator started lifting the Fokker from the floor. The ceiling parted above, revealing blue sky overhead. The white Fokker D Triplane emerged into daylight, at one end of a secret airstrip hidden deep within the orange groves surrounding The Promised Land.

Without Buck Jr. hitting the ignition the Fokker's engine coughed and sputtered into life. Buck Jr. reached forward, over his windshield, pulled the bolt back on the twin fifty caliber machine guns mounted directly behind the propellers. Then he grabbed the stick and gunned the throttle. The white Fokker D started creeping down the runway, gathering momentum, speeding faster and faster. Buck Jr. waited until he felt the wings start to lift. Then he leaned back with the stick. The Fokker rose off the ground.

Buck Jr. waited until he'd climbed to several thousand feet in altitude, then turned a knob on his instrument panel. A square section slid to one side, revealing a tiny radar screen. There was only one luminous green dot on the screen. Buck Jr. studied the dot, checked his compass, threw the Fokker into a roll, started climbing into the sun.

•  •  •  •

"Toot! Toot!" chirped The Kid.

"Toot? Toot?" The Ace replied."

"Toot! Toot!" The Kid retorted. "Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!"

The Ace mulled it over for a moment, then held up a finger. "I got something better then Toot! Toot!"

"Better than Toot! Toot?" gasped The Kid in disbelief.

With a dramatic flourish, The Ace reached into the flight bag between their seats and pulled out a battle of chilled champagne.

"Alcohol?" The Kid shuddered, aghast.

"Hey. Don't knock it," said The Ace as he began undoing the wire holding the bottle's cork. "It's legal."

"I wanted to do up a noseful before we land," The Kid pouted.

"Really?" The Ace replied, indignantly.

"What's wrong with that?" The Kid inquired.

"Wouldn't be proper," countered The Ace.

"Huh?" said The Kid.

"Well..." began The Ace. "Look at it this way... We've been snorting coke all night, right?" said The Ace.

"Right," said The Kid.

"Why?" asked The Ace.

The Kid puzzled over it for a few seconds, then asked: "Is this a trick question?"

"No. Really," said The Ace. "Why?"

The Kid replied: "Because it feels so nice just going up my nose."

"No, no, no..." said The Ace. "That's not it at all."

"What are you talking about?" asked The Kid.

"Allow me to explain..." The Ace elaborated with a flourish, working the cork out of the bottle with his thumbs. "We've been snorting coke all night because we were FLYING. Understand?"

The Kid knotted his brow, wrinkled his forehead.

"Well," The Ace continued, "now we've gotta land. See? And it's simply not cricket, karmically speaking, to snort coke before you land. It just isn't civilized. Like red wine with fish."

The Kid eyed The Ace evenly for a moment. "Oh," he said, flatly. "That's hilarious. Now gimme some coke."

The cork popped out of the champagne bottle with a loud report, ricocheted around the cockpit, bouncing off the windshield, the instrument panel, causing The Kid to duck.

"You're nuts!" exclaimed The Kid. "You know that? You're really nuts!"

The Ace reached into the flight bag and pulled out a chilled champagne flute, which he proceeded to fill.

"Really, Kid," said The Ace. "Your lack of breeding has never been more pronounced. Now stop acting like such an uncultured lout and we can toast to the success of our mission."

The Ace handed the champagne to The Kid, who took it, automatically, reached into the flight bag and pulled out another glass.

"The success of our mission?" The Kid repeated in disbelief. "Our mission isn't even over yet. Maybe you haven't heard, but the drop is the most hazardous part of any dope run."

"I know," countered The Ace, filling the second glass. "But if the mission isn't a success, we won't have a chance to toast afterwards."

The Ace raised his glass. The Kid just stared at him.

The Ace told him: "We get busted, this is gonna be the last champagne you have in a long, long time."

The Kid shook his head, rolled his eyes, muttered something and raised his glass.

The Ace toasted: "To the lunatic fringe..."

The Ace and The Kid clicked their glasses together. The Ace downed his champagne in one gulp and nonchalantly tossed his empty glass over his shoulder. It shattered somewhere in the background.

The Kid put his glass to his lips, downed his champagne as well.

But then The Kid froze. Looking up. Into the sun.

The hand holding the glass lowered, slowly. The Kid looked down for a second, shook his head. Then he squinted back up, into the blinding glare of the morning sun.

The Ace noticed something was going on. He too looked up.

There was something – definitely something – between the sun and the Flying Joint, but they couldn't quite make out what it was. Instinctively, the adrenaline started racing through their system. They blinked their eyes real hard and looked right up into the sun again.

This time, they were able to focus in for one brief instant before the direct sunlight became too much for them and they had to close their eyes and look away. But the image of what they'd seen still hung there in the dark. It had been burned into their retinas like the imprint on a photographic plate.

Still, they couldn't believe it. For it was a plane – a pure white Fokker D Triplane, diving out of the blinding glare of the morning sun. Practically invisible. Scrunched down low in the cockpit, behind the propeller, the round shape of the pilot's head, a white scarf trailing behind, whipping wickedly in the wind.

There was no time to react before they heard the short, choppy staccato bursts of machine gun fire and bullets disintegrated the Lodestar's windshield, dancing through the cockpit in a cascade of sparks, explosions and flying glass. The Flying Joint shuddered in midair.

The Ace screamed in pain. The Kid threw the controls to one side.

"We're hit! We're hit!" yelled The Kid. "He's shooting at us! We're hit!"

The Lodestar began to lurch, violently, from side to side, as The Kid wrestled with the controls, struggling desperately. A fire erupted under the control panel. Smoke began to fill the cockpit.

"I can't see! I can't see!" screamed The Kid. "Put that fire out!"

The Ace glanced around, bewildered, looked for something he could use to douse the flames. He seized upon the bottle of champagne. Shaking it up, he started spraying the fire with the bubbly.

Through the commotion, The Kid yelled: "We're going down, Ace. We're going down!"

•  •  •  •

The Lodestar crashed in a grassy cow pasture surrounded by trees several hundred feet off a cracked two lane asphalt road with faded white stripes down the center.

Within minutes four plain looking Plymouth sedans came speeding down the quiet country lane, screeched to a halt along the shoulder of the road.

Eight Agents of the federal Drug Enforcement Administration jumped out of the four cars, all wearing jackets, white shirts and ties. One Agent snipped away a section of the barbed wire fence with a pair of cutters. The Agents all sprinted out toward the plane's wreckage, hooting and hollering like schoolboys on holiday.

One Agent, however, didn't seem to be in any hurry: Michael d'Angelo, Chief of Operations for the DEA in the district. d'Angelo strolled out into the pasture like he had all the time in the world, puffing contentedly on a cigarette.

The other Agents all scurried about the Lodestar's wreckage hooting with glee. The wings had been sheared off at the sides. The fuselage lay broken and shattered, looking like a dead whale on the beach.

As d'Angelo approached, Agent Rickenbacker came running up with a piece of debris. It was part of the cowling from one of the Lodestar's engines. The edges were jagged and torn. But right in the center, surrounded by smooth metal, were two perfect bullet holes.

There was no mistaking them. They were definitely bullet holes.

Agent Rickenbacker announced: "The Winged Crusader, Chief."

The other DEA Agents all clustered around, holding huge armloads of leafy organic matter.

"Loaded with dope," declared one of the Agents.

"Smells like Colombian," said another.

"It's definitely Colombian," said a third. "You can smell it."

"Flower tops, too," added another Agent. "Bet it's dynamite shit."

"We better get plenty of evidence."

"Look," said Rickenbacker, holding out the piece of engine cowling.

"Looks like the work of The Winged Crusader," declared one of the agents holding an armload of marijuana.

"The Winged Crusader. The Winged Crusader." The other agents all nodded and mumbled amongst themselves."

"Yes, men..." announced Michael d'Angelo. "It looks like The Winged Crusader has struck again."

The Agents mumbled amongst themselves some more.

"But what are we waiting for?" said d'Angelo suddenly. "You know what we have to do. Let's put the wrap on this before any witnesses arrive."

The well-oiled machinery sprung into action. The Agents stashed their armloads of evidence in the trunks of their cars, dug out five gallon cans of gasoline. The gasoline was poured over the Lodestar's wreckage.

d'Angelo approached one of his agents. "Rickenbacker," he inquired. "Do you remember our official statement to the press?"

Rickenbacker quickly recited: "Pot plane crashes and burns Pilot error. One ton of marijuana. Street value, two point five million dollars... That one?"

"Yeah," d'Angelo nodded. "You can be public information officer today."

"Gee," said Rickenbacker. "Thanks, Chief."

"One thing, though," said d'Angelo. "Make it three point something million street value. We're still only number three in the country in confiscations. And I know those bastards in Arizona have been padding their figures."

A match was struck. The gasoline ignited and the shattered wreckage of the Lockheed Lodestar erupted into flames.

The federal drug enforcement agents all clustered around Michael d'Angelo, clutching more armloads of evidence, watching the plane burn.

Rickenbacker told them: "The Chief says I can be Public Information Officer."

The other agents weren't thrilled to hear this, started grumbling. "You again? I thought it was my turn! Hey, Chief! You promised. How come Rickenbacker always gets to be public information officer?"

d'Angelo cast a baleful glance around the cluster of agents. The muttering died out.

Rickenbacker beamed, quite pleased with himself.

Behind his back one of his fellow Agents made a smooching noise. Rickenbacker stuck his tongue out.

"All right. All right," d'Angelo admonished them. "That's enough."

Falling silent the DEA Agents watched the plane burn.

"By the way," said d'Angelo, "how many bodies were there?"

The Agents glanced around at one another, shrugging shoulders, shifting their armloads of marijuana, suddenly acting nervous.

"Well?" demanded d'Angelo, getting upset. "How many bodies were there?"

The agents only shrugged and mumbled more, started shuffling their feet, looking down at the ground.

"You mean to tell me nobody checked the cockpit?" screamed d'Angelo.

The agents didn't answer, just looked down at the ground, clutching their armloads of marijuana.

"You assholes!" yelled d'Angelo, slamming his cigarette to the ground. "Now we can't check until the fire goes out!"

Everyone turned, looked at the burning plane. Flames leaping high into the air, a thick column of blue smoke spiraling skyward...

© 1976 Jim Esposito. All Rights Reserved.