dESPair THC 010

Acquisition of dESPair THC 010

Originally, DHC-2MkIII number 1692 was registered as N1944 but is was wrecked, salvaged by KenmoreAir Harbor. The Seattle, Washington, USA based seaplane operation served the Pacific Northwest. They completely refitted N1944 and replaced the Pratt & Whitney PT6-20 with a 750 bhp flat-rated to 600 bhp PT6-135 turbo engine and registered the plane as N9744T.

N9744T was stolen from its moorings in Naniamo, B.C., Canada by a party of
five desperate looking individuals witnesses could only describe as ....
"like, really weird dudes man. Yeah, like they were wearing hip waders, eh?

An' like, these lethal looking skinny rods with like, some kinda handle
thing on 'em, eh? Oh yeah, an' their faces were like hidden, eh? by these far out looking caps. So cool, eh? Looked like this fish was like sticking out of their heads, eh? Yeah, the head was stickin' out the front and the tail was like hanging out the back, eh? An' they had like a ton of beer, eh? Yeah, it was like, Molson Canadian, eh? I love that beer, eh? So they rams the Beaver so full, eh? her sides are like, burstin', eh? Then they go to take off but she's so heavy, eh? So next thing, eh? all this stuff comes out the plane. I guess we're gonna' grab it, eh? Well, hey man, it's like just floatin' there an' all, eh? But they didn't chuck no beer, eh? So after they like dump all this food, eh? they gets off an' lucky too, eh? 'cause they just cleared them trees, eh?"

Not much to go on but the RCMP mounted a big air search the next morning and eventually found a party of five fishermen bound, gagged and lashed to a mountain of Molson Canadian beer but no Turbo Beaver. It seems our fishermen felons had been jumped by a pair of Ussie wielding desperadoes. All that could be determined from this first lot of sorry thieves was the desperadoes were foreign and one of them kept repeating .....

"Caramba, de Don, she be plenty pissed... si, muy caliente!"

They made off with the plane AND the fishermen's "chapeaux de poisson".

The Mounties broadcast an APB to Interpol and the local police forces with what little information they had but the Turbo and the hoods seemed to have vanished. Oh there were rumored sightings in Alaska, then the Steppes of Russia and finally the trail went cold around the jungles of Borneo. The odd report turned up of illicit, clandestine activities, mostly in the drug and sex slave trades but no one ever caught sight of the Turbo or the thugs. However one of the "chapeaux de poisson" surfaced in a seedy Hong Kong back street bar.

I have a friend, a giant of a man really. He's tall, a good 6 ft. 7 or 8 inches, his hands are the size of tractor seats and his physique is as imposing as a brick wall. He's as black as night and his eyes seem able to see your very soul. But when he smiles you feel a warmth that would compete with that of a mid-summer sun. His heart is as big as the man himself but you'd best not cross him. I called him Small Sam. The rest of the world called him Mr. William S. Tiny or "SIR". And here we sat ... waiting.

How'd we come to be in this particular Hong Kong bar? Well, Small Sam
worked for an insurance company in the Claims Investigation Department in Toronto, Canada. Me, I was there because I flew floatplanes... DHC floatplanes. We had all the latest surveillance gear and two, honest to God, "chapeaux de poisson". This remarkable head gear is not easy to come by and were ours at considerable expense and not a little effort by Small Sam's company purchasing officer. You see, these caps are only worn by a select few and have become a symbol of recognition, not to mention status.

So here we were, disguised as "Molson" swilling sportsmen complete with our
haberdashers' nightmares, lurking about this smoky den of inequity hoping
that our fish would rise to the bait.

We were about to call it a night when a skinny, toothless character sidled up, directed our attention to a table deep within the shadows and told us that the two gentlemen would like a word, then he turned and melted back into the filth from whence he came. Our hosts sported identical caps to ours and nodded curtly as we took our seats. I kept my poker face from betraying the fact that I recognized these two as the Turbo thieves. A long conversation ensued wherein we each revealed our bona fides and ended with a contract being drawn up with the devil. We were to ferry the Beaver and a very lucrative cargo to Gibraltar. The police were getting close and when they learned I was a pilot and Sam a, shall we say, soldier of fortune, they figured we were their salvation. We'd make the Turbo disappear and they'd head off on their own. A price was set and the deal struck but first Sam and I had to prove ourselves, "make our bones", they said.

Near a remote airstrip on the outskirts of Hong Kong lived a wealthy jeweler
and his two daughters. He traded in exotic gems and the girls were said to
be very beautiful. The police suspected he headed up a drug and sex slave
ring but could pin nothing on him in spite of the fact that he kept the
company of some of societie's least desirable. If the man was a mystery,
his daughters were even more so. They were rarely seen in public and only
then when surrounded by a ring of toughs. Our job was to break into this
man's home, steal his cash and gems, grab his daughters and make our way
back to the airstrip where the Beaver'd be fueled a waiting.

Sam and I cased the joint. The heist was set for the early hours of
morning. We met with the gentlemen of les chapeaux de poisson for final
instructions. They handed us each a loaded pistol. Sam drove in silence
and I went over the plan in my mind. We arrived just after two am. The
quite of the night was broken only by the sound of the tree frogs serenading
the moon.

We struck with lightening speed, shouting and making a fearful racket. We
took the place without incident. The household was herded into the owner's
den and the girls were ordered to tie the rest up with wire we'd brought for
the purpose. That done I slapped duct tape over the mouths of all but the
old man, pointed my pistol at him and demanded the combination to the safe.
He refused. Sam grabbed the nearest girl and threatened her life with a
wicked looking knife. Still, he refused. This was not good... in
desperation I searched the room until I found it. There displayed on an
exquisite lead crystal base washed in the glow of a soft halogen spot was an
artifact I was sure he cared more about than life itself. I watched his
expression of haughty defiance change to one of pitiable pleading. I asked
gain. He hesitated. With a violent twist, I wrenched the tail from the
chapeau de poisson. In a barely audible whimper he gave up the combination
and collapsed in a sobbing mass.

Our confederates were loading the last of their cargo when we arrived.
Anxiously they demanded to know what took so long. We exchanged heated
words. I handed the leader the loot. The other thug went back to their van
for some forgotten item. Sam seemed to dawdling at our Land Rover. Then it
happened! The darkness was ripped by arc light. There were police every
where. They grabbed the thug at the van and demanded our surrender. I
turned to Sam and knew he'd betrayed us. With a shouted obscenity that was
drowned out by the gun's report I shot Sam where he stood. Before his body
hit the ground I'd shoved the leader into the plane, scrambled aboard and
firewalled the throttle. The engine growled and moments later the Beaver
rose in the air.

"You shot him... you shot your own damn friend!' the remaining thug
stammered.

"The bastard double crossed us. Why else would the place be swarming with
cops? I shouted.

"They got my partner... and the broads. Shit! The Don, she's really gonna
be pissed...."

"Quit you're whining." I cut in. "You've got the guy's cash and gems and
the cargo, what more do you want?

"You don't get it, man! She wanted those two girls, big time!"

"Well she's out of luck. Gimme that flight chart... take the yoke and try
to keep our nose out of the trees." I ordered.

We flew under cover of darkness, landing only when necessary for fuel and food. We managed to keep ahead of the law all the way to Gibraltar. "SHE" was there to meet us. And she was definitely not pleased when my co-pilot
broke the news. She seemed only concerned about the girls. The fact that we escaped with everything else didn't phase her but she was impressed with the fact I'd wasted my buddy.

She ordered the plane refueled and told me I was to fly them to Saanen Switzerland. She flipped open her cell phone, dialed, gave the receiving end "Holy Hell" and snapped it shut. I excused myself saying I needed to go to the FBO to work up a flight plan. When I returned she was perched in the right-hand seat, her thug was sitting on a crate in the back and on the seats between him and us sat two bound and gagged young women. One was a brunette, the other a blonde. I hoped my double take wasn't noticed because I recognized the blonde. She was a debutante I'd met a year or so ago. Just before she disappeared while on some world tour. I got down to the business of flying.

Our flights were done as before, under the cover of darkness. Along the way I found out that the girls I'd been lead to believe to be the Hong Kong jeweler's daughters really belonged to the Don. Apparently he'd kidnapped the girls when they were about nine or ten and had used the them to control my co-pilot. In order to assure the safety of her girls, the Don had been forced to supply the merchant's sex slave trade with fresh stock.

No longer a young woman, the Don was none the less quite attractive. Her eyes being her most stunning asset. They gave her face a look that was at once alluring and brutal. The eyes missed nothing. One second they were scanning my gauges the next, they caught the fertive motion of the thug's hand stealing its way up, under the blouse of the blonde behind me. In an instant she was out of seat. The thug was screaming and writhing with pain. In vain he tried to stem the flow of blood from his nearly severed wrist and collapsed in a state of shock back onto his packing crate. The Don deftly cut the bonds of the wide-eyed blonde, pointed to the First Aid kit and ordered her to do what she could for him. The Don returned to her seat and said nothing more. It was all over in less than a minute. This was not a woman to annoy.

The amphibian's tires yelped as they touched down on the concrete runway at Saanen, Switzerland. It was just before dawn. It was quiet as one would expect of a small airport still wrapped in the arms of sleep. I reversed the engine. The Beaver slowed to a crawl and I eased up in front of the dESPair hangar doors. Her eyes flashed at me. They searched.

I yawned and stretched, then turned and said "Come on, let's see about
getting the plane out of sight before this place wakes up." She nodded,
opened her door and stepped out onto the float. Her eyes darted everywhere.
She was on full alert.

"What's up?" I asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Don't know." was the reply and she pulled a 9 mm Glock from her jacket.

I followed suit. Together, armed and on guard we opened the dESPair office door and slipped inside. All was still. I began searching for the hangar door switch and she disappeared into an adjoining room. Moments later she was prodding a man along with the barrel of her gun. He was sleepy eyed and wearing only black socks and frilly, silk undies. Rubbing his eyes and pulling himself up to his full stature, he twisted the ends of his moustaches into place and indignantly announced "I, am Emperor Sir Habakuk, CEO of dESPair Air Services International, commander of dESPair headquarters of Bern Belp. What do you mean by busting into my premises in such an unmannerly fashion?"

"Shut up and open the hangar doors." was her reply.

The man in the silk shorts obediently opened the doors and helped draw the Turbo Beaver inside. The door closed. She stood in the half gloom of the vast hangar. Her eyes darted between the two of us. The bright overheads snapped on.

"Drop it!" boomed a familiar voice from directly behind her. A massive black hand grabbed her gunhand before she could swing the Glock on her attacker.

"Welcome to Saanen... what took you so long?" asked the smiling voice of my
good friend Small Sam.

The rest of the story is a bit anti-climactic, I'm afraid. The Swiss police took away the Don and her thug. The blonde and her companion were restored to their families. The Hong Kong merchant's cash and gems were impounded along with the Beaver's cargo. That in itself was a significant bust. It seems that I'd been flying around a shipment of counterfeit "Chapeaux de poisson" which if distributed could have caused a major calamity on the world stock exchange.

What became of the Turbo Beaver? Well a Kenmore Air agent came out to the dESPair hangar and determined it needed to be returned to Seattle asap, for a complete overhaul. Since I'd been flying her over half the world he contracted me to fly it to dESPair Norway's hangar at Sandefjord Torp where it would be crated and shipped to Kenmore.

I was on layover at Bern Belp, dESPair International Headquarters when I received the call. It was the blonde heiress's grand mother. She wanted to thank me for saving her grand daughter and to express her gratitude. She told me she had bought and registered N9744T in my name.

I said, "Thanks."

As a footnote to the story you might like to know that the Don's two
daughters now work for me at the dESPair International: Canada offices. I promised her I'd look after them. Their names are Desperella and Esprit. They have adjusted quite well to their new home and I think you can see from the photos below that I have my hands full watching over these two.