It was a calm night with a continual pattern of broken clouds. A full moon was rising in the east casting its bright glow. Four miles in the sky, a Coast Guard jet looked down upon the waters of the Caribbean monitoring an aircraft heading north without lights. The jet was a Cessna Citation, code named “Omaha.” It was in search of smugglers. The Citation pilot radioed to its base, “Suspect aircraft now sixteen miles south-west of Great Inagua, heading three three zero at 185 knots. Present altitude nine thousand feet, over.”

A broadcast with powering dominance replied, “Roger Omaha, we have alerted Nassau, and they are standing by. Keep us advised; Almighty out.”

In a remote farmhouse with huge towering antennas, Fred was sitting in front of a maze of sophisticated ham radios. Carefully he tuned the channel to 7527.0 and monitored the government’s transmissions. Next to the state-of-the-art Drake DR-7 system were two other independent stacks of high frequency transceivers. Fred keyed the mike and made a call to the aircraft the Citation was following, “Whiskey, oscar, seven, four, three, are you with me?”

Inside the twenty-year-old Beechcraft Excalibur Queen Air, a black-haired pilot with wide skittish eyes named Billy responded, “Like you’re sitting next to me!”

Fred was pleased he had reestablished communications. The plan was to keep in contact every thirty minutes. He and Billy had just finished changing frequencies to a lower band for better clarity as the distance lessened and to lose anyone who might have been listening. However, after their last conversation, Fred had intercepted the transmission of the Coast Guard tracking jet. Hoping his gut feeling was in error, Fred asked, “Have you seen Wendy yet?”

 “I left her fifteen minutes ago, and she was looking fine.”

Fred looked over to a map on the wall and relocated a marker just north of the Windward Passage which “Wendy” represented. The Windward Passage is the gap of water between Cuba and Haiti, south of Great Inagua. Needing to confirm his suspicions, Fred said, “Slow it down and turn to zero one zero.”

“Roger.”

Again, the usually quiet interdiction frequency broke its silence. “Target is slowing and passing through three six zero.”

The very words Fred did not want to hear. He then directed Billy to his original course and instructed him to stand by. With that the jet announced the increase in speed and the turn back to heading.

Sensing a problem, Billy became very paranoid. This time his concern wasn’t crashing in the ocean and bobbing up and down until the sharks ate him, but why Fred had called for the maneuver. Billy quickly forgot he had been awake over twenty hours and flying for nearly two thousand miles. His dejected, slumped posture snapped erect as he watched the radio for Fred’s next transmission. A few moments seemed like eternity as he stared at the illuminated digits. His voice tightened and his hand began to shake as he keyed the transmission button on the steering yoke of the airplane. Fearfully, Billy asked, “Whadda ya got?”

Fred informed him of the situation. Billy’s sphincter slammed and his eyes widened to reflect the impact. He smashed his face against the window and twisted himself trying to scan the southern sky. Seeing nothing except twinkling stars, he looked down the wing at the bright moon casting its light on the airplane. He glanced to the right in the cockpit and saw his raft, parachute, and food riding co-pilot, then over his shoulder at the fifteen hundred pounds of Colombian marijuana he was carrying. The sight ended any composure that remained and Billy lost all professionalism.

Billy called to Fred, “What should I do?  What do you think?” Without waiting for Fred’s reply, he added, “I’m going to turn back, all right?”

This display from the panicking amateur angered Fred even more than the jet bearing down upon Billy. Afraid Billy would turn back to his origin, Fred sternly yet coolly commanded, “Relax, don’t start trying to think; there’s nobody back at Charlie’s.  Just keep cool!”

“I’m gonna tune in their frequency, OK?”

Fred could feel Billy crumble and questioned the judgment of letting him fly the gig at all, but that was all hindsight now. The situation was what it was, and Fred had to make sure everyone reacted properly. He knew Billy was normally a basket case let alone under pressure like this. He also knew that Billy’s curiosity would be driving him crazy to switch to the Fed’s channel, and if they lost communication, he’d do the wrong thing whatever it was. “Keep your discipline, you’re all right. We got some options, so let’s use ’em. Above all, maintain contact with me, communication is the key. Stay on this frequency!”

His words calmed Billy for the moment because he had great trust in Fred’s ability and experience. For sure he no longer heard the “funny noises” coming from the engines that he had been complaining about. “It’s easy for you to say relax!”

“Hey man, slap yourself in the face.  It ain’t over yet!”

Billy submitted to Fred’s voice, holding on to it for security. He made Fred promise constant updates.

Two hours of gut-wrenching tension later, Billy was passing the north end of Andros Island following the pre-planned route. Fred heard the Coast Guard jet announce, “It appears they’re state bound, turning three one zero towards Bimini.”

The powerful base station responded. “Roger Omaha, Rampart informs us that Cobra One and Two are staged in Opa Locka and West Palm awaiting dispatch.”

Unfortunately Fred knew the government codes all too well. He knew the U.S. had given the Bahamian helicopters for drug interdiction and that “Almighty” was the code name for the coordination team in Guantanamo, Cuba. He also knew “Omaha” was the Coast Guard’s Citation jet equipped with tracking devices and the “Cobras” were the DEA helicopter chase units based at Homestead Air Force base. Fred learned this because he owned part of a small island in the Bahamas and had many Bahamian official friends, one of whom had made this information known.

Knowing that Almighty was active and giving commands instead of EPIC puzzled Fred. “EPIC” stood for El Paso Intelligence Center and was the main communication point for all government covert operations. His only conclusion was that Almighty was operating on a hit-or-miss theory and this time they had hit! With the information that the helicopters were awaiting them in Florida, Fred had his work cut out for him.