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"The Golden Pig” (El Cochino de Oro)" - REVIEWS

When brothers Fred and Ted Van Dijk stop by the Golden Pig, a New York Spanish Harlem bar, to pay their respects to an old friend and have a couple of beers they unwittingly become involved in a police raid and eventual involvement in an international drug smuggling operation.

Frits Forrer's The Golden Pig: El Cochino de Oro, will keep mystery lovers glued to their seats as they try to keep up with the wacky, middle-aged, beer guzzling Dutchmen in their pursuit to assist federal authorities in dismantling on of the would's largest drug cartels.

Art Giberson, Gulf Coast Authors

Forrer weaves a fascinating story around the battle by the FBI, CIA, Bureau of Customs, and local Law Enforcement Agencies with unscrupulous members of the drug cartels on two different continents. Assassinations, called for by the drug lords as if they were ordering pizza. are a dime a dozen and exciting aircraft chases make this book a great thriller with a most surprising ending.

As in his previous books, (6) the author displays a great sense of humor, sprinkled throughout the story while the suspense keeps building all the time.

Gulf Breeze News

 

 

"The Golden Pig” (El Cochino de Oro) " - EXCERPT

The sharpshooters unpacked their rifles, mounted their scopes and loaded the magazines.  One shot with a Remington  30 odd o6 and the other had an H&H  222.  Bongers admired the weapons and after putting on the safety, the shooter handed him the H&H and Bruce balanced the weapon in his hand as if he were guessing the weight,  He shouldered it, pointing out the window and said:  “Nice weapon, very light.”

“Love it.  Very flat trajectory. I bag groundhogs at three hundred yards.’

“Really?  That’s great.”  He handed back the rifle.  Ten more minutes and they should be there.  The silver snake in the distance grew larger by the minute and soon became a brownish band of muddy water. 

“Target to our right at one o’clock.”  the pilot announced on the intercom, turning about ten degrees.  He was looking directly at the mansion, but his passengers could see it from the passenger compartment.  Bongers undid his safety belt and got up in order to look over the pilot’s shoulder.  The captain in the left seat pointed straight ahead with his left hand while keeping his right on the joystick.

“Got it”  He stared at the beautiful layout of an antebellum plantation with a massive lawn in front of the two-story colonial.  “The plane’s moving!”  he shouted suddenly and indeed, although it was barely as big as a flea from this far out, they could detect movement.  The yellow and black flea was drifting away from the dock.

“Get’em,” Bongers ordered.

“Sir, please sit down and buckle in.”  The pilot spoke without looking up, both hands busy on his throttle and his control stick.

“Right.” But he didn’t budge.  “They’re gonna take off down river.”  He turned around and hollered:  ”Get ready.  Secure that window.  Hand me the hailer.”  That last order was directed to the co-pilot who handed him a mike that was connected to a bullhorn.  The chopper nosed down and the throttle had the engine screaming.  Their speed went up by forty knots.

Below and ahead, the yellow and black bug had turned with the bend of the river and after it passed two tugs with multiple barges in front of them, its wake became longer and wider, leaving two silver streaks in the water behind it.

“Get next to them.”  Bongers remained upright, holding on for dear life.

At that point the chopper was doing at least one hundred and thirty knots, while the little seaplane was struggling to pick up a take-off speed of sixty, so they closed fast.  The helicopter pilot had to bank steeply to the left in order to end up in the same direction of the seaplane and Bongers was thrown into the side of the craft.

“Told you to buckle.”  The pilot said calmly as the G-man struggled to get back up.  It didn’t take long.  “Fly alongside him, same speed.”

The copter lurched back, its nose pitching up fast, but this time Bongers held on.  Their speed bled off from 140 to 70 in no time, but Bruce lost sight of the plane.  Thank God, the pilot didn’t because all of a sudden, the little seaplane and the helicopter were flying formation, just fifty feet apart.

The man in the little bug wasn’t aware of anything except his rate of climb and his speed.  He was doing a good job.  The plane was climbing at 400 feet a minute and his speed was slowly creeping up to ninety.  Then, all of a sudden, he had the shock of his life.  Over the noise of his engine, he could hear the drone of another motor, much bigger and louder than his.  He looked to his left and there was a copter, fifty feet back and a loudspeaker bellowed:  “Throttle back and land.  This is the FBI.”

His reaction was instinctive.  In a second, he turned the plane on its right wing, dove to the ground and gave it full throttle.  It was a case of desperation of the worst kind.  There was no way he could outrun a helicopter that size, but his nerves were shot by the events of the last twenty four hours.  He realized that his maneuver didn’t work very well.  Within minutes the helicopter was back in position off his left wing.  By now, he was skimming the sea grass and flying between the cypress trees.   He figured if he could stay on this heading and at this altitude, he’d be over the swamps of Texas and before long he’d be over the Gulf of Mexico, where he would have an advantage.  He’d have more fuel than the chopper and they would have to land somewhere and he could possibly make Mexico without refueling.  He concentrated on staying as low as he dared and he even throttled back a little in order to conserve gas.  He was cruising at 110 and that was not bad.  The annoying load speaker came on again:  “Throttle back and land or we’ll shoot you down.”

Henry was gaining more confidence.  He said to his wife, who was crying:  “Shoot me down with what?  They don’t have rockets or a Gatlin gun.  Who are they kidding?  Mow me down with a pea-shooter?”

At that same moment, his side window shattered.  “What the hell was that?”

Inside the copter, the window of the passenger compartment was lowered and two rifles were sticking out in the slipstream.

“Can you hit the gas tank or the engine?”  Bongers was still very much in control, but also buckled in.  Flying formation on the left of the plane gave him a front row view.  Both guns fired.  Both gunners aimed again.  “Go.!”

This time, fuel streamed from the left wing and the cockpit disappeared in a fog of vapor.  Henry banked sharp right, but he didn’t have a chance of losing the chopper.  It was nearly too easy.  When the plane leveled without any attempt to slow down or land, the Jersey director ordered:  “Take him out.”

The shooters aimed for his head, but the buffeting of the chopper as well as the aircraft made them miss, still the 30-06 hit Robinson in the left shoulder and he inadvertently pulled on the stick with his right hand and the plane went straight up.

“Watch it!”  Bruce hollered, because for a moment it seemed that the seaplane would land on top of the helicopter.  The captain banked sharply and threw the coal to the engine and in seconds they were at three hundred feet, making a steep right turn and looking down on a spectacular sight.  The seaplane had been yanked up so steeply, that it stalled and slid back momentarily, then it nosed over and glided down toward the swamp below it as if it were going to dive into the murky waters.  The plane behaved as if someone was still at the controls, but Henry’s body was slumped backwards and against the door, so the plane handled itself and just before hitting the water and sea grass,  it nosed up again while the floats hit the surface and the plane glided along. 

Up in the helicopter, they wondered if Mrs. Robinson was an accomplished pilot, but Bongers wasn’t taking any chances.  “Hit the pontoons.  Shatter them if you can.”  Below them the throttle was still wide open and it looked as if it could take off again.  Four shots apiece rang out and the floats started to settle a little deeper in the water, while the gas from the left wing still made for an impressive spray.   From up above they watched a scene, reminiscent of a movie.  With the motor running full blast, the plane sank deeper into the water until the propeller hit and at first just churned, but then seemed to be grabbed by a magic hand that pulled it under water and the plane dove, rolled on it’s back, went under momentarily and floated back to the surface, upside down, the wheels sticking up out of the water.