"Mira, mira," said Ken to the soldier while pointing in the direction of the approaching lights. The soldier looked under the airplane in the direction Ken pointed. He extinguished, very carefully as not to damage it, his cigarette, put the butt in his pocket and stood facing whatever was coming, rifle in hand.

A small Army truck stopped a few yards away and a mustached man wearing a pistol holder came out followed by the driver, a tall, black soldier armed with a rifle. Ken didn' t like their looks, and neither did Tony who kept pumping gas with one arm, the other holding onto his gun.

The kid snapped a big salute and stood at attention, but the new guys past by, ignoring him. The pistol man stood behind the wing and motioned Ken to come down. The rifleman stood behind the pistol man, his weapon at the ready across his chest. Tony kept on pumping gas, his gun hidden behind his big chest.

"Si," said Ken, and the pistol man started talking Spanish, fast.

"No españ ol. No comprende," said Ken.

The pistol man became agitated at Ken' s answer. "Money," he said and his thumb and index rubbed each other in greed. "Dollars. Much dollars."

According to the Colombians, everything was taken care of. Why was this guy asking for money? wondered Ken.

"No money, no pesos," said Ken shaking his head vigorously from side to side. Ken put his hands into his jeans and pulled the pockets out. Only lint and used ticket movie stubs came with them.

The pistol man' s unfriendly face became angrier. He reached for his holster and had started to pull his pistol out when a hammering of automatic fire passed Ken by his side and struck both the pistol man and the rifleman. Blood splattered on Ken' s face as the Cubans fell dropping their guns. Ken looked back and saw Tony holding his gun at the hip. He saw him pointing his gun at something further to the right, behind him. Ken looked that way and saw the kid with his rifle in his hand with a face as surprised as his own.

The kid dropped his rifle and put his arms up. Tony ran toward the Cubans on the ground, still wriggling like worms, and kicked their guns out of their reach.

"Quick! Get his gun!" yelled Tony while gesturing towards the kid. Ken ran, picked the kid' s rifle and returned.

"Take the damn thing!" Ken yelled half scared, half angry, giving the rifle to Tony. "What in hell did you do this for?"

"Do you want to rot in a Cuban jail?" shouted back Tony.

Bouncing headlights now approached from the same place the two greedy Cubans had come, three or four trucks, who knows how many soldiers, a beehive buzzing with Tony' s gunshots.

"We need to get the fuck out of here!" shouted Ken. In a frenzy they pulled the fuel hose from the tank, closed the tank and rolled the drum out of the way.

"Get in there and crank that mother!"Yelled Tony. Ken jumped into the Beech, ran sideways towards the cockpit and sat on the left seat. Shit… shit… where' s the fucking flashlight?… Here…Fuel on… Mixture rich… Master on… Fuck the check list… Shit… Throttle, not much, don' t want to flood it…Come on, come on…

Sweat dribbled down Ken' s forehead. The small flashlight stuck in his mouth shone a red light over the instrument panel where his quick fingers bounced from switch to switch to the center pedestal were the prop and engine controls were. The left prop started to turn agonizingly slow. Ken felt in the marrow of his bones the strain in the starter as each prop revolution went by under his red light shining through the Plexiglas of his side window. The starter hummed and the prop spun, faster and faster.

Shit… Come oooooon…

The engine popped and fire shot out from the exhaust pipes. Give it power, slowly. Oil pressure is up. Right engine now… Comeooooooooooon baby.

"Let' s get the fuck moving!" Ken heard Tony shouting from the tail section. At that moment a distant cracking noise came over the noise of the running engine, and tracers started to draw paths of fire in the humid night. A report of automatic fire came from the tail section. Ken figured it was Tony hanging out of the door returning fire into the incoming headlights.

The right engine caught. Ken advanced the throttles with full brakes applied; once the engines reached full R.P.M., he released the brakes and aimed the Beech' s nose straight ahead between the marker lights for a take off that would have to use only over half the available runway. The tracers converged on the plane until the airframe shuddered and clinked with the impact of bullets striking aluminum.

Shit… Ten degrees of flaps… The old Beech roared down the runway heading into a solid darkness filled with unknown obstacles, but Ken had no time to ponder that; they were taking fire from the Cubans, and all that mattered was full power. Balls to the wall, now!

Twice Ken tried to lift off, but the heavy plane settled back on to the ground as the runway lights quickly and forever disappeared behind him. At the third attempt the plane remained airborne. Ken retracted the gear and kept the airplane in ground effect, rushing towards a darkness he remembered contained a line of palm trees beyond which awaited the ocean. He flicked the landing light on just in time to see the trees growing bigger by the second. He pulled on the joke gritting his teeth and praying for enough speed to clear the palms. The scrapping noise of vegetation came through his feet but the old plane cleared the tree wall in one piece. Ken lowered the nose and skimmed the top of the waves at full power, heading for Florida followed by a whirl of sea spray that rose on his wake.

A few minutes passed before he could release his shaky sweaty hands from the yoke. He thanked God it was a clear night and the horizon had a sharp edge to tell him which way was up. He climbed to 500 feet, throttled the engines back to cruise power, trimmed the aircraft, and checked his instruments. All needles stuck in the green. Fuel gages read almost full, so he was not leaking fuel, at least not in huge amounts. Fucking luck.

"Tony?" Ken yelled in the direction of the tail. No answer.

"Toooony!" Ken shouted many more times, but no answer came from the rear. The airplane felt tail heavy, so Ken knew that Tony was back there. No autopilot; not even an old fashion win-leveler; the instrument panel had an empty space where the autopilot was supposed to be. Flying the old plane at low altitude demanded Ken' s constant attention, and he could not release the yoke to check on Tony.

It would be a long trip, and Ken felt sicker by the mile.

The Good Samaritan

Debbie' s van rides westward on I-20, flanked by flat expanses of cotton fields. Her windshield is dusty, and the sunset diffuses its rays into a fan of golden light slathered across the glass where the wiper' s path is demarcated by a lighter hue. The road stretches and shows the way to a dying sun, and Debbie tries to catch up with it, but she can' t.

Like many other things she had always tried to catch up with, this one also slithers out of her reach, she thinks. But not to worry; tomorrow, the same sun will pop on the east, then it will vault to its zenith and will catch up with her. Things always turn out fine, one way or another, she tries to convince herself.

She does the speed limit, no need to attract nosy cops. A big Buick stands still on the freeway' s shoulder. A white haired old man, dressed in his best Polyester, is looking under the hood. A white haired old lady stands beside him, and both look lost, like if they were gazing at some incomprehensible riddle that had usurped the engine' s place.

Debbie pulls off the highway, stops, and backs up to where the old couple stands like shipwrecks on a raft in the middle of the ocean.

"Hi there," says Debbie as the old man approaches her window. "What' s the problem?"