CAPTURED AT JALAPA by

Ron Fox

I remember the first time I saw Gus’s Cessna 402.
It was a sleek airplane with tip tanks and good paint.
It looked fast and out of place with all of the older
“passed their prime” smuggler aircraft usually seen on
the border. I found out much later that it had belonged
to a dentist in Reno who had placed it into service with
Gus’s enterprise on the border for a share in the
profits. It was to make many trips south onto landing
areas never intended for small- wheeled aircraft. The
first time I saw the airplane, it was sitting on the
ramp near Gus’s hangar at the Brownsville International
Airport. I walked around it, admiring its lines,
itching for a chance to fly it. The first time I tried
to open the cabin door, I had difficulty figuring out
how it worked and it was my memory of this difficulty
which helped me one morning at the Jalapa Municipal
Airport in the foothills of the mountains of Posa Rica.

It was a typical dawn arrival at the Jalapa Municipal
Airport. A 2:00 am departure from Brownsville, began by
heading directly south out over the gulf in total
darkness. The airplane was heavily loaded with car
stereos in the two nose compartments and TV’s and
blenders in the cabin all the way to the roof. It was
loaded well, the high-density packing of the car stereos
in the nose, all taken out of their boxes and wrapped in
brown paper, helping to keep the center of gravity of
the airplane within comfortable limits. The weather
satellite photos I had seen earlier at the airport
weather service office showed clear skies all the way to
Jalapa and I was expecting a routine run. It was
routine until just after my arrival at Jalapa.

The Jalapa Municipal Airport, being in the foothills of
the Posa Rica mountains, was not flat. It’s main runway
running east and west was not flat either. If you
landed to the west, by the time you got to the end of
the runway, you couldn’t be seen from the rest of the
airport because the runway sloped downwards until its
western end was out of sight. This provided us with a
comfortable area to unload the airplane. Supposedly, my
ground crew leader was to have cleared my arrival with
the tower personnel before I arrived, since the airport
was not open until later in the morning. I was not to
call for landing clearance, but just land and turn
around at the far end of the runway shutting down the
engines to allow unloading.

The load I was hauling this morning was for Julian’s
father, Mr. C., our best receiver. I was always
comfortable flying for Mr. C. with Julian as the ground
crew leader. It was Julian who welcomed me warmly and
put me at ease on my first flight south and I never
forgot his friendliness. He looked young, perhaps in
his early twenties, with a cherub baby face and medium-
length black hair. He had a sparse mustache which I
took to be an attempt at looking older than he was. It
only made him look younger. We flew more hops to Mr. C.
than any other receiver and our pilots rarely had any
trouble, probably due to Mr. C’s strong influence around
the Vera Cruz area. I was relaxed.

Cruising along the coast, about 30 miles out over the
water, after passing the night lights of Tampico, I flew
towards the one VOR navigation station in this area of
Mexico called Posa Rica. Passing over the station in
the mountains there were very few ground lights to guide
me, but they weren’t necessary for this route. I simply
took an outbound radial that would take me right over
the southern edge of the mountains and down into the
Jalapa valley. The morning dawn was just beginning to
break as I spotted the last high ridge I must fly over,
close to the peaks, before descending into the valley,
looking for the airport. My timing was perfect. It was
necessary to have just enough light to clear this ridge
visually. One didn’t like to trust the mileage reading
of DME in the mountains. A letdown too soon would have
the obvious consequences.

With clear skies, finding the airport was easy and I
headed straight in for a power-off landing to minimize
the noise. I rolled out at the end of the runway and
turned the airplane around after seeing Julian and the
ground crew scrambling towards me. Before my props had
stopped, Julian’s unloaders were busily throwing TV’s
and blenders man to man in a line to a large truck which
was parked to left of the plane just behind the wing. I
got out of the 402 and greeted Julian. We didn’t spend
too much time at our leisure watching the crew unload or
having our customary beer on the tailgate of his bright
red pickup. Airport property usually invoked a sense of
urgency.

I walked around the front of the airplane and
positioned myself beside an unloader to take car stereos
out of the forward nose compartment as he was unloading
the rear nose compartment. We were laying the stereos
on the ground while another unloader carried them around
the nose to the truck. As I reached into the
compartment to get another armful of stereos, I happened
to look up the runway and saw a bright blue Ford van
racing towards us with an illuminated rotating red light
on its roof. Turning to my left to ask the unloader
beside me, “Who the hell is that?,” I discovered he was
not there. In fact, all of the unloaders were silently
climbing over the airport fence just to the west of the
runway.

In a panic, I ran around the nose of the airplane and
was rounding the wing tip headed for the cabin door just
as the van screeched to a stop in front of the truck
holding most of the contraband. I had just stepped on
the second step of the air stair door, when I felt a
hand grab my elbow. I turned to look at the uniformed
airport security guard and saw him motion with his
finger for me to follow him back to his van. I was
captured. According to the unwritten rules of the game
we were playing, I was supposed to go with him quietly.
Physical resistance or the use of firearms would be
breaking the rules, result in rough treatment, a longer
stay in a Mexican jail, and a more expensive release. I
went quietly.

Good old Julian! He was leaning against the fender of
the big truck seemingly unperturbed. He hadn’t run away
like the rest of his crew. The security guard brought
me over to where Julian was standing and began a
conversation with him in Spanish. They both were
talking very excitedly, waving their arms around.
Julian, the guard, and I were standing in a rather small
circle as this conversation went on. When Julian would
say a few sentences, he would take a half-step to the
side and the guard would take a half-step to stay
directly in front of him. Since I didn’t understand
Spanish, I was not taking part in the conversation at
all. All the guard’s attention was being directed at
Julian. Before too long, the guard had moved around the
circle, continuously facing Julian, and I found myself
standing directly behind him. I could tell Julian was
intently watching this guy as he talked and, when the
guard turned his head to look up the runway just for a
moment, Julian looked at me and darted his eyes toward
the plane. As if awakening out of a fog, I realized I
was behind the guard and started tip-toeing quietly
backwards toward the cabin door. Almost there, I turned
around to run the last few steps and, as I did, I saw
the guard turn around and look at me, starting after me
with a surprised shout. I bounded up the stairs, turned
around quickly and slammed the bottom hatch. I reached
into my boot and got my .25 caliber automatic. It was
then in an instant I realized the guard wasn’t carrying
a firearm. I also remembered the trouble I first had
opening the cabin airstair door and figured this guy
would have at least as much trouble as I did figuring it
out. I threw my gun towards the tail of the plane and
slammed the upper hatch, practically on this guy’s hand.
In fact, he moved his hand away from the opening just as
it slammed shut. I ran up the cabin to the cockpit and
jumped in my seat. My butt had hardly hit the seat when
I started cranking the engines for a hot start.
Mixtures off, throttles full forward, crank, crank,
crank.

As I turned to look at the right prop turn, I
noticed this same guard now over at the side of the
runway having difficulty picking up a large rock. As he
strained to pick up the rock, I kept glancing at the
right prop turning over, urging the engine to start.
The guard was waddling over to the plane, behind the
right wing. I realized, when he bent over with the
rock, that he was going to put the rock in front of my
right wheel to keep me from leaving. I began yelling at
the engine, “Come on, baby, fire, fire, fire!.” Just as
the guard put the rock down on the runway and began
sliding it around the tire, the engine started with a
roar. The last I saw of the him, the guard was rolling
backwards, head over heels down the runway from the
blast of the prop-wash. Holding my brakes, I cranked
the left engine and it caught with a roar. I began a
full power take off roll heading up the sloped runway.

I was going to get away! Letting out a whoop of
joy, I urged my steed on, faster and faster. “Go,
baby!”, I yelled, picking up speed. Then, about a third
of the way up the runway, I notice movement from my
left, out of the corner of my eye. Another blue van
with a rotating red light! He was traveling at a high
speed on a road that was perpendicular to the runway.
If he kept going, he would drive right onto the runway.
“No, he wouldn’t”, I yelled, but that’s exactly what he
did. He came screeching to a halt right in the middle
of the runway, about a thousand feet away.

Another shot of adrenaline jolted my roller-coaster
mind. I was flip-flopping from despair at being
captured, to elation at escaping, back to despair at
what was unfolding before my eyes. Once again time
slowed down. Fractions of seconds seemingly became
seconds, seconds seemingly became minutes and I found
myself calculating my chances of having enough speed to
jump that van by the time I got there. It didn’t look
good.

A quick glimpse of my airspeed indicator showed 30
knots, less than half of what I would need to fly. The
distance to the van was about a thousand feet which,
ordinarily wouldn’t be a problem, but I was going
uphill. Could I go around the van? The runway was
narrow and the edges were rocky. Not much chance there.
I looked up at the van again, then down at my airspeed,
40 knots. I was bending the throttles forward. I
wasn’t going to get any more power. 45 knots, the van
was getting closer, less than 500 feet now. I knew I
was mere seconds from being there. My head was frozen,
but my eyes darted from the van to my airspeed
indicator, back to the van, back to the airspeed. Van,
getting closer now, airspeed 50, van getting very close
now, airspeed 55. There was no stopping now, there
wasn’t room. All my senses were straining, I was
holding my breath without realizing it.

At the last possible moment, I pulled back on the
yoke as far as it would go into my lap. Just as the
nose started coming up, I pulled up the landing gear
before I was even off the ground. It looked like I was
going to hit the van. I was watching it intently. The
last I saw of it, I noticed a man in uniform sitting on
the right passenger seat. He had just leaped to his
left, his arms outstretched away from the oncoming plane
he was sure was going to crash into him. I don’t
really know how much distance separated my plane from
that van, but it couldn’t have been much as I roared
over it.

Jumping off the ground in a mushy wobble, the plane
settled back down close to the runway into ground
effect. This provided just enough cushion of air to keep
the airplane flying as it picked up speed, the stall
warning horn blaring at me in protest. The wings rocked
lazily, and it took a lot of aileron to keep them off
the ground. First one, then the other would roll off to
one side and I had to pump the ailerons dramatically.
Picking up speed quickly now, I was able to pull back on
the yoke and start climbing! Once again elation hit me
and I let out another whoop of joy. “Hot damn,” I
yelled, as I began gaining altitude.

Looking back over my shoulder after climbing three
or four hundred feet, I saw the blue van on the runway.
The two guards had gotten out and one was sitting on the
ground. There was Julian’s red pickup and the panel
truck at the far end of the runway, just sitting there.
Contraband was blown all over the place. Julian must
have known escape was impossible. I felt a sudden stab
of concern for him. He had stayed behind and provided
me with a chance to escape. I admired his cool and
hoped he would be all right.

Upon my return to Brownsville, Gus met me at the
hangar after my inbound customs inspection. He was
laughing and, as he clapped me on the back, said, “I
heard all about it, Ron. Got away by the skin of yor’
ass, you did! You coulda’ stayed right there and not
had any trouble, but I guess you didn’t know that.
Those airport guys were just looking for some pocket
money. They thought Julian would grease their palms a
little, seeing as how they caught you. He passed out a
few thousand pesos and they let him go with the stuff.
It cost him a few extra thousand because you scared the
shit outta those guys in the van. I wish I coulda seen
their faces!” and he laughed again. “C’mon, let’s go
to the office and get Amy to pay you. Then you can buy
me breakfast and tell me the whole story. This is gonna
be another good one.”

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