The Daisy Ducks (25 page)

I went back inside, got the Browning and a battery
lantern, and followed the tracks, holding the automatic down at my
side as I walked. The tracks disappeared down the mountain. I didn't
follow them, mostly because they weren't clearly visible in the
undergrowth and dead leaves of the wooded mountainside. An expert
could have followed them, but not me. So that's where the visitor had
headed. Where had he come from? I went back to the camper and looked
around. He had come from out of the woods behind the campsite, walked
around the camper and stood awhile, and then walked over to the far
end of the campground and gone down the mountainside where there was
no trail. Why? Why go where there was no trail? Of course, I knew
about the old trick of walking backward in the snow. The visitor
could have sneaked around the campground in the deep woods, then
walked backward to the camper from the far end, giving the appearance
that he'd gone that way. But whatever his true direction or motive,
it seemed as if he were just passing by and looked at the camper out
of curiosity more than anything else.

I heard the baying of a hound in the cold air. Then
another, and another. A pack of hunting hounds on the run. What were
they after? Bear? Coon? Boar? Or didn't they know? Were they just out
enjoying the air and the new snow? Their voices became higher
pitched, punctuated with sharp cries and yelps. They had something
treed over in the next valley. Was anyone with them? There were a lot
of questions I didn't have time to answer. I unhooked the rig and
pulled out of the campground. If Mr. Hardesty saw the tire tracks, he
might be curious about where I went in the dead of night. But if the
snow kept falling, I knew that by the time I got back with my
forgotten gear, it would cover them. And if by some chance my
nighttime visitor hadn't wanted to be discovered, he would have
reasoned likewise: that the falling snow would obliterate his tracks
too. But I had arisen at two-thirty and seen them.

Handling the camper rig on those slick mountain roads
was no picnic. I was used to driving in snow and ice. But I wasn't
used to a four-ton truck, and I certainly wasn't accustomed to the
steep grades and hairpin turns as well. I eased down out of the
campground in first gear. When I reached the highway, I kept my speed
under twenty-five. I had the roads all to myself and turned off on
the little highway leading to the Royce place. Almost immediately, a
patrol car with its blue light winking was behind me. Although I had
no official reason for alarm, a cold sweat formed on my head and
neck. Like most Northerners, I'd heard stories about the law in small
southern towns arresting passers-through on trumped-up charges and
holding them for a few days in intolerable conditions. But the police
car swept right around me and barreled down the road. At the fate he
was going, I hoped he had studded tires on his cruiser. Two more
bends and I saw a solid line of winking blue lights. A state highway
patrolman with a lighted red wand waved me over.

"Been a wreck up yonder," he said. "Where
you headed this time of night?"

I answered that I thought I was lost. I was trying to
get up to Knoxville, Tennessee. The trooper squinted at me and asked
for identification. He wasn't buying. I showed him the papers,
including the rental agreement. I was perfectly willing to play the
dumb, lost Yankee. And of course I pointed out that I was a
physician. Americans trust doctors. The trust is often not deserved,
but it's there. Still, the state trooper with the weather-wizened
face and the hillbilly twang was not impressed. He stared at me
keenly, then looked at the papers, then back at me, then the papers.

Finally he wrote my name and tag number in a
notebook, then gave me directions on how to proceed to Knoxville the
sensible way. I managed to back up to a wide spot on the shoulder and
turn around. As I slipped the rig into first gear, he came up to my
window again.

"I just wanted to ask you what you's a-doin' out
on these mountain roads in the middle of the night in a snowstorm,"
he said.

Now that was a good question, a damn good one. I
don't know why rural Southerners are so often portrayed in the media
as stupid and comical. Tain't so, friends, at least with the mountain
people. What they may lack in formal education is more than made up
for in cleverness, sagacity, and dogged determination. I had to think
of an answer that would satisfy him or there was no telling what
would happen next. I started to explain, and as I did so he reached
into his jacket pocket and drew out a gold foil pouch with the name
R.J. Gold on it. He opened the pouch, took out a dark plug of
tobacco, bit off a big hunk, and settled it snugly into the pouch of
his left cheek. His eyes softened, glazed over, in the ecstasy of it.

My explanation went like this: I was staying in a
nearby campground and could not sleep, so I had decided to make an
early start over the mountains to see Knoxville and Gatlinburg, which
I had planned earlier. I had apparently taken a wrong turn, because
this road looked too small to be Highway 129. I sure was thankful he
had set me straight on how to get there. Yes sir! He thought awhile
and took out the notebook again. Uh-oh. "Now, lessee. What's the
name of the campground?"

I told him, and he wrote it down. And then it was
impressed upon me, if it hadn't been already, that I must play it as
straight as possible with this man or I would find myself up to my
neck in quicksand.

"Now I know John Hardesty, and believe me, I'll
check on this. Thank you for answering my questions. You can see why
I was curious. It don't make a lot of sense for you to be traipsing
over the mountains in this weather. It's bad here, but it's pure hell
further west. My advice is that you head back to Hardesty's and stay
put till she clears. But then you can do what you want —"

I eased away from the roadblock and headed for the
campground. If I wanted to retrieve my items, now was not the time.
But retrieve them I would, if only for the pair of
four-hundred-dollar Steiner binoculars. Maybe that could be the first
item of business when Roantis and Summers showed up.

I was back in the bunk just before five, so tired I
couldn't stay awake.

I awoke at one in the afternoon, very hungry. The
camper lockers were stocked, but I had my mind set on a New England
boiled dinner, just the thing for a snowy day. I headed down to it 
the supermarket in town. The snow was still falling, but not as
heavily. All the footprints from my nighttime visitor had vanished. I
bought the ingredients for the boiled dinner and an afternoon paper
and headed back to my site. I filled a big aluminum pot with water
and set it on the stove. When it was boiling, I put in the corned
beef, turned down the heat, and covered it. In a short time the
camper smelled terrific. I made a cup of coffee and sat at the
dinette table with the paper. It was the
Asheville
Times
, the afternoon paper. Page 1 wasn't
that exciting.

But page 2 was dynamite.

A big picture, a photograph of a small plane crashed
in the woods with its tail up in the air. It reminded me of a feeding
mallard. Next the headline:  PILOT CRITICAL FOLLOWING
ROBBINSVILLE CRASH. And then the copy:

Robinsonville— A light, single-engine
aircraft loaded with cocaine and heroin crashed in a wooded area near
here early this morning. The pilot, who is in critical condition, was
not carrying any identification. He remains unconscious at Vance
Memorial Hospital. Local police and state troopers suspect that the
pilot ran into trouble trying to negotiate the mountains in the
sudden storm and attempted an emergency landing in a pasture on the
edge of town. Since the plane was being used for smuggling, police
speculate that the aircraft was flying without lights or radio
contact with an authorized tower, thus increasing the hazard.

Authorities have not yet determined the
plane's origin, except to say that it does not bear the standard "N"
prefix that identifies aircraft registered in the United States. The
pilot, who appears to be of Hispanic origin, will be questioned as
soon as possible, according to Sheriff Roger Penland, assuming he
does regain consciousness.

Concerning the destination of the aircraft,
Penland speculates it was probably Charlotte or perhaps Atlanta,
since "there would be no market for a haul that big up here in
the mountains." A preliminary estimate of the street value of
the illicit drugs was put at $1-$1.5 million, but Penland said, "It
could be two or three times that. I just don't have the experience
with this kind of thing to make a good estimate. I'm better at
judging the value of moonshine."

The plane came to rest in deep woods
bordering the farm property of William Royce. The plane's landing
gear and both wings were sheared off at impact. There was no fire and
no other injuries.

I looked at the photo again. It had obviously been
taken early in the morning, after the sun was fully up. The plane had
come to rest not far from a road, part of which was clearly visible
in the lower left comer of the picture. I recognized the place
exactly. When I was talking to the patrolman who mentioned a "wreck,"
the aircraft was less than a hundred yards away from us, in the trees
opposite the Royce farm. Of course I had assumed he meant car wreck.
Not so. And something else was bothering me even more. It bothered me
so much I found myself pacing up and down the tiny camper, my booted
feet stomping on the tiny linoleum floor of the camper.

"Damn!" I shouted.

I swore and paced for a good reason. Without knowing
it, I had caused the plane to crash. When I'd pulled that wire in the
switchbox, I had screwed up the runway lights. And if the pilot died,
drugrunner or no, I would be his killer.

That's a nice thought indeed for someone whose career
is supposed to deal with the alleviation of human suffering. I sat
down again, put my chin in my hands, and thought. Outside, the snow
was coming down again. Within five minutes, I was in the phone booth
at the campground office, placing a call to my friend at Hanscom
Field, James McGrevan. He remembered me and said he'd answer all the
questions he could.

"I'm going to describe what I saw on a field
down here," I began, "and see if you can tell me what it is
and how it works, okay?"

So I explained everything that had happened at the
Royce farm: my discovering the hidden runway lights, the power source
in the old pump house, and the electrical box and antenna. Before I
could even finish, he interrupted me.

"Okay, Dr. Adams, I know what you found. What
you ran into is a unicom, a remote-activated radio tower. This system
allows a pilot to turn on runway lights from his plane without anyone
on the ground to help him. It's for seldom-used runways or ones in
remote locations."

"That sounds exactly right. This place is
certainly remote and seldom used."

"Okay, the system is run by a radio, or at least
a receiver, which can pick up certain frequencies from an overhead
plane. The frequencies most often used in unicoms are 122.7 and
122.8. The plane, when approaching the field, switches to this
frequency. Then, when the pilot presses the push-to-talk button on
his microphone, the system on the ground activates a switch that
turns on the lights."

"I see. And once they're on, do they stay on?"

"Yes, for a certain length of time, usually
eight minutes. Then they turn off automatically. If the pilot needs
or wants more illumination—say he's forced to circle or make
another approach—he simply pumps the microphone switch again.
Presto, another eight minutes of lights."

"And the lights can also be switched on manually
from the ground?"

"Sure, by turning a selector switch."

"Well thanks." I sighed. "You've
certainly been a big help."

I trudged back to the camper with my worst fears
realized. I sat at the little dinette table and worked it out. When
I'd turned that knob in the control box, I'd switched the system on
manually. But as McGrevan had pointed out, once on, the lights were
designed to remain on for some time. The only way I could shut them
off was to unhook one of the power wires. There was probably a master
power switch for the system, but it wasn't in the box. No doubt it
was in the locked pump house.

I could imagine, in my mind's eye, the pilot coming
in low over the mountains. Probably he was running silent and dark,
using Robbinsville as his last landmark. From the lights of the town,
he would use his gyrocompass to set a course toward Royce's place. At
the same time, he'd pump his microphone button to switch on the
lights down below. But there were no lights because I had
disconnected them. Add to this the confusion and danger of the
snowstorm. The pilot had obviously overshot the field and crashed in
the woods. He was coming down low, looking for the lights that
weren't there, thinking he'd spot them any second. And then he went
into the trees before he knew what hit him.

"God, please don't let him die," I
whispered aloud.

Of course, there would be those upright citizens who
would praise me, saying that I had nipped evil in the bud. And
speaking of human suffering, how much had I prevented by keeping that
planeload of hard drugs off the street? But I didn't buy that.
Drugrunner or not, he was in the hospital, in critical condition, and
I had put him there.