The Confession of Joe Cullen by Howard Fast

thought of this cheerful, wise, pink-faced man falling eight hundred feet to the most horrible of deaths.
    â€œJust stay in your seat and fly the plane,” Sanchez yelled, “or I’ll put a bullet in your head.”
    Time passed, seconds, minutes, and then Cullen turned around, a devilish grin replacing his lovely smile; and as he turned, he drew Kovach’s revolver from his leg holster. Sanchez was standing by the open door, one hand clutching a rail, the other holding his made-in-the-U.S.A., army-issue, forty-five-caliber automatic pistol.
    â€œAnd who will fly the plane then?” Cullen asked, his voice breaking as he spoke. Then he turned the helicopter abruptly, and as Sanchez fought for his footing, Cullen shot him, squeezing off shot after shot, as carefully as if he were on a shooting range, until the gun was empty. He swung the plane wildly, rocking it like a carnival fun ride, until Sanchez’s body slid through the open door. Then, weeping, Cullen flew back to the base.
    It was a strange land where the hot sun created a stillness, a slowing of action that made Cullen feel he was rushing through a turgid river of air where nothing but he was in motion. He found Kovach in his tent, sprawled on his cot and puffing happily on an exceedingly long Nicaraguan panatela.
    â€œHey, man,” Kovach said. “You just left.”
    â€œAre we loaded?”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œSanchez killed O’Healey. Threw him out of the plane. Then I shot Sanchez and dumped him and brought the chopper back.”
    â€œAre you crazy?”
    â€œMaybe,” Cullen said, “but if we don’t get into our plane and out of here before they discover that Sanchez didn’t come back with me, we are finished. Cooked geese. Shit. So move your ass, buddy, or I take off without you.” And Cullen turned and started to walk toward the runway where the 727 was parked.
    Kovach joined him. “We’ll never get away with it. Never. You crazy bastard — why’d you have to shoot Sanchez?”
    â€œYou’re walking too fast,” Cullen said. “Nobody walks fast at this time of day. They’ll notice and start looking for Sanchez.”
    â€œThey’re probably looking for him right now.” Kovach moaned.
    â€œWho? He’s the boss. He looks for people; they don’t look for him. They try to avoid him. Slow —” Two guardsmen walked by, carrying a roll of bedding and netting. They grinned at the two Americans, and in Spanish, “Find a girl — we got the bed.”
    In front of the plane, a guard was usually stationed, except that at this moment he was in the shade of a wing, talking to a pretty neighborhood girl. Cullen and Kovach climbed into the plane, and with the first roar of the motors, the guard and his girl tumbled out of the way. As the big plane rolled down the runway, Kovach asked Cullen, “What do we do when we get to Texas?”
    Cullen didn’t answer until they were airborne, and then he said, “Texas — fuck Texas!”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œI’m through. When we land in Texas, I’m collecting my pay and then taking off, and I don’t stop driving until I reach New York.”
    â€œAnd where does that leave me?”
    â€œYou go your way — I go mine. Dump on me, Kovach. I did it. Tell them I moved you at the point of a gun.”
    â€œWhat about the gun?”
    Cullen handed it to him. “Throw it out.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause that gun killed Sanchez. It’s evidence.” They were gaining altitude now, and already Cullen could see the ocean in the distance. “Drop it in the water, and then we’re out of it clean.”
    â€œYou got to be crazy. When they discover Sanchez missing, first thing will be to call Texas.”
    â€œLook, Oscar,” Cullen said gently, “the only wheel in the place was Sanchez. The others went to