*     *     *     *     *

     At the beginning of October, 1973, I had a meeting with the SMPD Detectives.  Come to find out they had deliberately given us penny ante cases to help them with – as a sort of “test.”

     In all honesty, I really couldn’t blame them, dear reader.  My crews and I weren’t cops; we were more like “Flying Technicians.”  You know, like CSIs.  Previously the detectives hadn’t a clue how we’d actually perform, especially in this new, experimental, stealthy aircraft.

     However, I was informed at this meeting that all the detectives were unanimous: the Sky Sentinel and its crews had proven themselves to be invaluable assets.  Now it was time for us to cut our teeth on a really important case.

     Santa Monica had a big-time drug dealer who had been running the detectives in circles for the past three years!  He was a White male, 25, with shoulder-length blond hair usually tied back in a ponytail, normally wore tank-tops, jeans and sneakers, and, as a bodybuilder, seemed to practically live at Gold’s Gym in Venice. 

     He had three houses: one in Santa Monica, one in Hollywood and one in the San Fernando Valley, plus he collected a half-dozen antique Cadillacs manufactured between 1939 and 1948 – all black in color.

     His body being a “temple,” our suspect neither drank, smoked nor used the cocaine and heroin he was moving.  In short, he was a health food junky, who moved product one day out of the week, and spent the rest of his time pumping iron.

     I was never given his name by the detectives, and I really didn’t need to know it; because we always referred to him as “Mr. Ponytail.”

     What was preventing the detectives to get a “handle” on Mr. Ponytail was the fact that – unlike most drug dealers – he wasn’t stupid.  Another strong indication that he wasn’t using: ergo he’d be screwing up his grey matter and exposing himself.  And, because he was a crafty SOB, he defeated the wiretaps on his houses by randomly using numerous pay-phones around the city for “business.”  Plus, on the one day of the week he moved product, Mr. Ponytail drove like a maniac.  He’d race one of his antique Caddys for a mile - then slam on the brakes and snail-crawl for the next mile.  If he spotted the same car twice overtaking him, Mr. Ponytail would merely head for home or to the gym – shutting down his operation that day.

     From other sources and indicators the SMPD Detectives knew Mr. Ponytail ran a huge stable of pushers in Santa Monica, Venice, West LA, Hollywood and the Valley.  How huge, they still hadn’t a clue.  They were also stumped as to where his river of drugs was coming from.  All in all, chasing Mr. Ponytail had been one colossal, frustrating three years for the SMPD Detectives.

     Despite this, from past experience, the detectives had determined that Wednesday was usually the day “our boy” moved product.  And he always started from his house in Santa Monica, which, oddly enough, was only a block away from the apartment I was renting.

     Therefore, on that first Wednesday we were scheduled to tail “our boy,” I left my apartment at 8:30 AM and casually cruised past Mr. Ponytail’s house to see what Cadillac he’d be using today.  In his driveway I found an immaculate, 1939, black Caddy – a car I would absolutely fall in love with in the days to come. 

     No, dear reader.  Not because it was a beautifully restored antique, but because of its gigantic white wall tires.  For occasionally I’d lose the ’39 Caddy in the world’s longest parking lot, also known as the 405 Freeway, during rush-hour.

     Instead of panicking, I’d take a deep breath and wait.  In time the Sky Sentinel would turn – placing the sun on its back – and “bingo!”  Those white wall tires would pop out like giant lifesavers!

     And so, on that first Wednesday, my partner Barry and I set up on Mr. Ponytail’s house – 3,000 feet above, flying a five-mile square box around it – with complete invisibility. Even so, with our optics, it was like sitting across the street from the house – the detail was that good.

     We arrived at 9:35 A.M., and little did we realize the “wonders” we were about to reveal to the detectives that day.  Who, at that same moment, were in their undercover cars more than a mile from the house - patiently sipping coffee and eating doughnuts – waiting for Mr. Ponytail to make a move.  We were using a “Tactical Frequency” that day, on the police FM radio, so we wouldn’t interfere with regular police calls.

     It was around 11:A.M. when I saw the ’39 Caddy start to move with my naked eye.  Setting down my coffee and doughnut, then snatching up the optics – my heart began to race – especially when I discovered the driver had a luxuriant, blond ponytail with a massive, beefy arm resting on the window sill.

     I alerted the detectives our suspect was on the move.  The “show” had begun.

     We followed the ’39 Caddy down Lincoln, where it entered the Santa Monica Freeway westbound.  Shortly thereafter the freeway petered out and dumped everyone onto Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) – where “our boy” took it northbound – paralleling the beach.  All the while I gave the detectives a running commentary on its position and when the ’39 Caddy went ballistic – then slowed to a snail’s pace – so the undercover cars could stay a mile behind, out of sight, and not get “burned.”

     At length we entered the Malibu area – north of Santa Monica on the coast – which was in the jurisdiction of the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department.  This is where it got a little weird.

     The ’39 Caddy entered a dirt road off the PCH and, after a short drive, came to a mansion sitting all alone and forlorn on a knoll off this empty road.  It had belonged to some Hollywood producer, who went bust, and had been on the market for several years.  Only no one wanted the white elephant.  Hence it sat all by itself - in this vacant area of burnt grass and scrub - totally empty.

     The ’39 Caddy pulled around to the back entrance.  I witnessed muscular Mr. Ponytail - in tank top, jeans and sneakers - exit the vehicle with a large, full, soft-nylon black bag and enter the abandoned house.  I advised the detectives, and warned them to approach with caution on foot as there was very little cover.

     The weird part was this: There were no other vehicles around or near this mansion.  So who was Mr. Ponytail meeting and how did they get there?  Later one of the detectives on foot scanned the mansion with binoculars, but despite its immense, curtain-less picture windows, he couldn’t locate a solitary soul inside this huge, vacant house.  What in hell was going on?

     Barely 18 minutes passed, when Mr. Ponytail emerged from the back entrance with another large, black, soft-nylon bag.  He tossed it in the Caddy’s trunk – then drove back to PCH (HWY-1).  The detectives on foot got telephoto shots of this. 

     Barry and I speculated that the “first” black bag most likely was filled with cash – while the “second” black bag was filled with drugs.  Only time would tell.

     Sure enough, Mr. Ponytail made a beeline for his first pusher in Santa Monica.  And from that point on, throughout the rest of the day, we followed Mr. Ponytail to all of his pushers in Santa Monica, Venice, West L.A., Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley.  When Barry and I finally landed at the Santa Monica Airport, at 6:41 P.M., the Sky Sentinel had been in the air for nine hours and six minutes – scarcely 24 minutes flying time remained in our fuel tanks.  But we never lost the suspect and we even followed him home for the night. 

     Talk about a long day, dear reader!

     We never could have accomplished this in a helicopter – they just don’t have the flight endurance – and when one lands a helicopter to take on fuel - that’s when the suspect moves and the detectives either get “burned” or lose him.  I’ve personally experienced this time and time again in helicopters.

     The information we revealed to the detectives that day was staggering – at last they were getting all the pieces to the puzzle of Mr. Ponytail.

     And so it was decided that the detectives, and the Sky Sentinel, would continue to stakeout Mr. Ponytail for the next two weeks.  The problem was logistics.  Because different jurisdictions were involved, the SMPD Detectives needed time to bring the LAPD and the L.A. Sheriff’s into the picture - coordinating who would do what on the day of the “big roundup.”

     During this two-week period, a couple of interesting events occurred.  

     Firstly: I almost blew the “whole enchilada.”  Late one afternoon, a couple of days before we made the “big bust,” I pulled up to a traffic light at 5^th and Wilshire.  Having come from the office, I was in uniform on my way to the airport to fly the Night Watch.  Lo and behold a black ’47 Caddy pulled up alongside of me.  As I admired its flawless lines, I spotted Mr. Ponytail behind the wheel.  My first impulse was to honk and wave “Hi.” 

     So what in Mother Mary on a motorbike was I thinking, dear reader?  Simply this...I wasn’t!  Caught completely off-guard my mind was drifting in la-la land!  For the past week and a half, I’d been intimately involved in Mr. Ponytail’s life – I knew where he shopped, got gas, ate, what girls he was screwing – stuff like that. Of course this was all accomplished without him even knowing I existed.  At that traffic light it was like stumbling onto an old friend.

     At the last possible fraction of a second, I got my hand off the horn and looked straight ahead.  I neither “honked” nor waved.

     But you can bet your bottom dollar I chewed myself out all the way to the airport, dear reader.

     Secondly: After SMPD Detectives alerted the L.A. Sheriff’s Detectives to the mansion in Malibu – the sheriff’s sent a team to stake it out early on the Wednesday morning of the following week.  The sheriff’s detectives were on foot and, shortly after the arrival of Mr. Ponytail, they were covertly joined by the Sky Sentinel and SMPD Detectives.  We had spotted the sheriff’s position right off and directed our detectives to them.

     Sheriff’s detectives complained bitterly to our detectives that they had staked out the mansion since dawn and no vehicles, other than Mr. Ponytail’s, had appeared.  As far as they could tell the big house was still empty.  So what the fuck was going on?

     Our detectives wisely counseled patience.  Somebody had to be in there receiving the money and giving Mr. Ponytail his drugs.  That somebody had to leave the mansion sometime.

     Mr. Ponytail left to distribute his drugs - as the Sky Sentinel and SMPD Detectives covertly followed.

     As for the beleaguered L.A. Sheriff’s Detectives, God bless ‘em, they hung in there for the rest of the day and night staking out the mansion.  It was like sitting on a ghost town: nothing appeared, moved or happened.

     Around midnight, when the sheriff’s detectives were thoroughly convinced the mansion was empty, and were packing up to call it quits, a young detective picked up movement inside the house with a starlight scope.  The game was on...and what a merry little chase it turned out to be.

     The L.A. Sheriff’s Detectives hunkered down with their starlight scopes and waited.  Sure enough...two men emerged - each carrying a waterproof black bag.  There was also something strange about their apparel – they were in black neoprene wet suits, including hoods and boots.  To the naked eye at night these suspects were invisible.

     Through their starlight scopes sheriff’s detectives watched the suspects enter the dirt road leading to PCH.  This prompted one of the detectives to call down to the unmarked sheriff’s cars - parked on either side of PCH - with his handy-talky radio.  He asked the detectives, stationed in those cars, if any strange vehicles had parked on the shoulder where the dirt road entered PCH.  The detectives replied in the negative – nothing was parked there.

     You see, dear reader, since the oil companies bought the electric train companies and tore up all the tracks, denying the people of Los Angeles smog-free rapid transportation – forcing everyone to buy cars – Los Angelenos are brainwashed by cars.  Without ‘wheels’ you can’t move about L.A. – it’s too spread out.

The electric Red Car.  The good old days – when “Angelenos “ could go anywhere, pollution-free, for only a nickel.

     All of us were therefore fixated on vehicles for our suspects to escape in.  So far there weren’t any, which only added to the mystery.

     After L.A. Sheriff’s Detectives followed the two neoprene-clad men down to PCH with their scopes, they were horrified to see both of them sprint across the busy highway!  Several times they were nearly hit because of their invisibility!

    Upon reaching the other side the suspects slipped between the crowded homes, which forms a barrier on a slight bluff along the beach, and disappeared.

     Surprise led to panic, for sheriff’s detectives at first thought both suspects had slipped into a home.  As they marshaled their forces – attempting to choose which home to assault – one bright detective slipped through the homes and set up on a beach-side deck.  Having elevation, he easily scanned the broad beach with his night scope - spotting both suspects about halfway across the beach between the homes and surf line.

     After radioing his colleagues, they all assembled on the same deck and staked out the suspects.  Who, by this time, had reached the surf line and hunkered down – obviously waiting for something.

     As the sheriff’s detectives settled down and caught their collective breaths, they were abruptly illuminated by a huge floodlight – giving away their position!  A homeowner stepped outside a sliding door, with a baseball bat, and demanded to know what the hell all these men were doing on his private deck!  Since the detectives sported jeans, sweatshirts, ball caps and sneakers – they resembled the homeless – not peace officers.  One of the detectives flashed his badge – hustled the homeowner inside – then killed the outdoor deck light.

     And, as the detectives settled down again, one of them blurted out, “Hey... would ya look at that.”

     Focusing their attention about 200 yards offshore, they saw a small white light blink three times...then blink three times again.

     One of the suspects at the surf line stood, then, using a flashlight, responded with six flashes.

     Through their starlight scopes the detectives observed a black rubber inflatable, with an outboard motor, emerge in the surf.  Both suspects waded out to it – tossed in their bags – climbed aboard and vanished into the ink of night.

     One of the detectives couldn’t swear to it – but through his scope, he “thought,” the fleeting outline of a motor yacht had appeared in all that blackness.

     To the naked eye, because of the black wetsuits, the suspects vanished on the beach.

     A couple of days later a big powwow was held by the detectives from SMPD, LAPD and the L.A. Sheriff’s.  And, after sharing and filtering through all the information these departments had gathered, a coordinated assault plan was formed to be executed on the following Wednesday.

     When “D-Day” arrived – from my vantage point in the Sky Sentinel – all went like clockwork with few surprises.  Plus, much to my relief, Mr. Ponytail just happened to use his ’39 Caddy that day – those giant, white wall tires making my job so much easier. 

     We followed Mr. Ponytail in the Sky Sentinel to the mansion in Malibu – then back to the city where he distributed his product.  Little did he know - that in his wake - all of his pushers were being rounded up by the various departments having jurisdictional precedence.

     The exception being, even though it wasn’t their jurisdiction, SMPD Detectives were given the honor of busting Mr. Ponytail at his last pusher’s home in the San Fernando Valley.  I had the Sky Sentinel drop down to 1,000 feet when they made the bust, in case one of the suspects split on foot, and was staggered by the pile of money they found in the trunk of the ’39 Caddy.

     While all of this was going on - L.A. County Sheriff’s Detectives performed their own operation at the Malibu mansion, and stumbled onto a new wrinkle.

     Right after Mr. Ponytail left the mansion with his product, a sheriff’s SEB Team, along with the detectives, stormed the mansion.

     So what on earth is an SEB Team?  You’re no doubt wondering, dear reader.  SEB stands for “Special Enforcement Bureau.”  It’s the L.A. County Sheriff’s version of a SWAT Team (Special Weapons and Tactics).

      Much to their surprise, this was one of the very few homes in all of Southern California to have a basement.  In that basement they found two illegal Mexican Nationals stretched out in swim trunks on inflatable mattresses - watching a ballgame on a battery operated, mini-portable TV with rabbit ears.  Plus a big black nylon bag stuffed with money, and a pair of hanging, drying wet suits with towels.  They also had food and beverages – with all the comforts of home - while hiding out in that basement.

     After the interpreters arrived, to save time, the detectives separated the Mexicans – using two different rooms in the mansion for their interrogations.  Around 3:P.M. one of the Mexicans tumbled – spilling all the frijoles.

     The original plan called for an L.A. Sheriff’s SEB Team to hunt for, and board, any motor yacht anchored off Malibu that night.  This plan was altered, when the Mexican gave up the motor yacht’s daytime hiding anchorage.

     Immediately L.A. Sheriff’s Detectives and the SEB Team zipped down the coast in their vehicles to the sheriff’s Marina del Rey Station, then launched back up the coast - in a speedy sheriff’s patrol boat - to the Santa Monica Pier (seen in hundreds of movies and TV shows). 

     At that time, towards the end of the pier on its north side, ran an old breakwater - perpendicular to the pier - that paralleled the beach.

     The breakwater was merely a wall of giant boulders dropped into the bay way back in 1933.  Anchored sedately inside that breakwater was a solitary, 1970, 42-foot Chris-Craft motor yacht.

      It was patiently waiting for night fall – when it would motor up the coast to Malibu and pick up the Mexicans.  One of the waterproof bags the Mexicans carried would be stuffed with “legal tender.”  While the other bag would contain their mini-TV, food, beverages, towels, air-mattresses, flashlights, and trash.  The Mexicans proved to be excellent housekeepers – always cleaning up after themselves – leaving no trace of their illegal activities.

     Upon boarding the motor yacht, L.A. Sheriff’s Detectives and the SEB Team were in for another surprise.  They found two more illegal Mexicans and a legal American in his late fifties.  The American was the “brains” behind the outfit, and turned out to be a retired FBI Agent supposedly enjoying his golden years at Ensenada, Mexico, running a chartered boat business.  Four years previously, Mr. Ponytail had chartered one of his boats – whereby they had struck up a friendship – eventually deciding to put the ex-FBI Agent’s experience and contacts to work by entering the lucrative Mexican drug trade.

     And speaking of lucrative, the SMPD Detectives located most of Mr. Ponytail’s cash, hidden in a vault sunk in concrete under one of his homes, tucked away in safety deposit boxes in a half dozen banks, and being laundered in a dozen gyms and health food stores around L.A.  They estimated that Mr. Ponytail’s one-day share of the take, each week, was in the neighborhood of $34,000 - a lot of money for 1973.

     This was a significant bust and it secured the Sky Sentinel’s position, as an important law enforcement tool for the SMPD, in the decades to follow.

             *     *     *     *

     The following Sunday, 21^st October, 1973, after Mr. Ponytail’s bust, proved to be a very significant date for me, dear reader. Which you shall see, had a dramatic, life-changing impact on my future as an aviator.

     This occurred at the offices of Plane & Pilot magazine at 7^th and Wilshire, Santa Monica – barely 3 blocks from my office on the opposite side of Wilshire – where a beautiful, blonde, 22-year-old White female slaved away over a drafting board. She was the managing editor for the magazine and had a corner, 2^nd floor office, with large windows that overlooked a park across the street.

     She was also the daughter of a famous actor; her name being Valerie Walker.  And, in addition to her duties at the magazine, she was an avid aviator - holding the following licenses in fixed-wing aircraft: Commercial - for both single and multi-engine - Instrument and Flight Instructor.  Using these “tickets,” Valerie worked in her spare time as a free-lance Flight Instructor, out of the Santa Monica Airport, to build flying time.

     On this particular, warm October afternoon, she had slid one of the windows open to catch the regular breeze off the beach.  And all of a sudden, in the middle of trying to put her magazine together to make its deadline, Valerie’s concentration was broken by the “voice of God.” 

     Startled...dropping her T-square on the floor, Valerie stared out the window as she now concentrated on each syllable from “God’s” lips.  He was telling her to: “Please look for a four-year-old girl, in a yellow T-shirt and shorts, who’s gone missing.  Contact the police if you find her.”

     What the fuck?

     Vacating her office, Valerie darted across the street to the center of the park – where she’d get a clear view of the sky. 

     Upon arrival, Valerie discovered something, a thousand feet above her, which she had never before witnessed in aviation.  A dark blue and white Cessna 172 - which was flying way too slow - literally appeared to float on the edge of a stall.  Lacking any engine noise, the only sound this strange craft produced was the “voice of God,” through its dual PA system.

     Running back to her office, Valerie called SMPD and interrogated a desk sergeant.  After being brought up to speed on the Sky Sentinel, she was also informed that - thanks to its PA broadcast - the little girl had just been located, safe and sound, by some neighbors.

     Valerie smelt a story.

                 *     *     *     *     *       

     The following Monday I swung by the office, on my way to the airport, to pick up messages.  I found one from Plane & Pilot, asking me to contact a “Valerie.”  When I reached her by phone, she told me about the story she wanted to do on the Sky Sentinel, and I arranged for a meet.

     On the evening of Wednesday, 24th October 1973, I found myself standing in front of the Sky Sentinel, at the police hangar on the airport, impatiently kicking rocks while waiting for the “bimbo” from Plane & Pilot to show up.  She was late – I was pissed - perhaps because I had turned thirty this month added to my impatience.  Regardless of this, we needed publicity to sell our stealthy airplane to other law enforcement agencies – otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered.

     Finally, I got fed up and motioned for Dennis – my partner drinking coffee inside the hangar – to join me.  It was past time for us to launch our patrol.

     But just as we were about to climb aboard the Sky Sentinel, a beat up, 1965, shit-brown Corvette – bearing the license plate: “AVIATE” - rounded the corner of a hangar and parked alongside my metallic-blue ’68 Tempest.

     From the moment that crappy-vette’s door opened, and this breathtaking, beautifully-long, dancer’s leg stepped out – I knew my goose was cooked.

     Valerie was tall – five-foot-eleven – and had the lean, stunning-body of a Vegas showgirl, which moved with a dancer’s grace.  And as I write this, despite it being decades ago, I can still see her clearly approaching me through that soft California dusk.

     She wore tan, calf-length, suede boots, and a soft, grey miniskirt with matching long-sleeved turtleneck; punctuated by brass buttons.  Her blonde hair was pulled neatly back in a luxurious ponytail.

     Her features were classic and finely chiseled, with just a hint of freckles.  But it was her eyes that arrested me – being the largest, softest blue I’d ever come across.  I couldn’t discover any hardness or bitterness lying in wait there - only innocence - which prompted the unreasonable desire within me to place my arms around her protectively – safeguarding that innocence.

     Introducing herself, Valerie extended her hand to me.  And as our right hands touched – then gripped warmly – I felt an electrical current pass between us.  I caught a flicker of recognition in those amazing eyes – she had also felt it.

     Perhaps that’s why our handshake lasted a little too long – for we both knew the dye had been cast – we weren’t going to let each other go.

     Valerie’s article for Plane&Pilot. Being an artist, she also drew the illustration. 

     McDonald was so pleased, he had it reprinted as a sales brochure.