Gitmo getaway, p.17
Gitmo Getaway, page 17
"We'll have to kill them, you know that. It's the only way to stop them."
"Yeah, I'd kind of worked that out. We've tangled with characters like these before. Get that cut attended to. There'll be killing to do when we land. I want you fit."
Evers nodded, took out the satphone, and moved to the Perspex window to look for a signal. John-Wesley was still sitting on the floor, holding onto a bunch of canvas webbing straps to stay in one place. His cold eyes were fixed on Eva, who was with Brad and Will. Nolan called over to him.
"Ryder, everything okay back there?"
He didn't take his eyes off the girl. "Then another book was opened, which is the book of life. And the dead were judged by what was written in the books, according to what they had done."
The guy's off his trolley.
He recognized the passage from Revelations, source of enough material to feed the lunatic fringe until the end of time.
"Sure."
He went back to the cockpit and looked down through the side window. A gap had opened up through the roiling clouds, and he was able to see the angry waters below. He'd already known they were descending but wanted to confirm it.
"We're going down."
Vega nodded. "We're going down."
"Can we make it?"
"I'll know more when you have that fix."
A couple of minutes elapsed, and then Evers came up front. He gave Vega a list of numbers and said, "To save time, I worked out our location. If we stay on this course, we'll make landfall one hundred klicks west of Miami, and we have another hundred klicks to reach our destination. Say two hundred kilometers. Can we make it?"
Vega looked out the windows all around the aircraft. The single engine still gamely drove them forward, although it occasionally missed a beat, causing them to lurch to one side. Finally, he nodded. "If nothing else goes wrong with the plane, and if the storm does not worsen, maybe." He glanced out again and then looked at the cockpit chronometer, the only instrument that appeared to be working.
"I'd estimate we'll land shortly after dusk, say 2130."
"That's great," Evers enthused.
"Yes. It also means if we go down, they'll never find us in these seas, and in the dark."
"Uh, right. Best not go down. Keep her flying, Vega."
He smiled. "My thoughts exactly. Now leave us to nurse this crippled museum piece to our destination."
"Right."
"Evers, before you go."
He looked at Nolan. "Yeah."
"Keep an eye on Ryder."
"I noticed, he has a screw loose."
"My guess is he'd kill Eva if he has half a chance."
"What do you want me to do, if I think he's about to do it?"
"Kill him."
Evers stared at him for several seconds. He didn't reply, just went aft, back to the cabin. Vega flew on, and then abruptly he told Nolan to take over the controls.
"I need to make some calculations."
Without another word, he got to his feet and rummaged in the lockers at the rear of the cockpit. He came back to his seat with a US road map, a notebook and a pen, and started to make calculations. When he'd finished, he put them down, put his hands on the controls, throttled back slightly, and looked at Nolan.
"We might make it."
"Might?"
"I've recalculated our glide path. That's why I throttled back. At the current speed and rate of descent, we'll crash land about fifty klicks short."
"But...I thought you said..."
"I know what I said. I'm heading for a less turbulent area up ahead, and besides, when we reach land, conditions will change. I'm hoping they'll moderate."
"And if they don't?"
He shrugged. "In that case, we'll crash. Either into the sea or on the land, wherever we are at the time." At that moment, the port engine stuttered, ragged for a few seconds, and then picked up again, "Too much of that, and we won't be looking at whether we reach Miami or not. It'll be a simple question of survival."
"If that happens, we..."
He didn't finish. There was an explosion from the port engine, and a cloud of black smoke poured out of the exhausts. Vega fought to keep them level, despite the aircraft trying to send them into a spiral, one that would only end when they hit the cold, angry seas below. For several seconds the engine misfired, spluttered, caught, misfired again, and then resumed its steady beat. Vega nodded.
"It's been doing that more and more. Something’s getting worse.”
“How much worse?”
“A lot worse.”
“So we’re fucked.”
Vega met his gaze. “Maybe.”
* * *
By a miracle of piloting and sheer luck, they made landfall off the southwest coast of Florida. Since that moment out in the Gulf when they almost lost their remaining engine, the port motor decided to behave itself. But the storm was worsening. Evers came into the cockpit, clinging to handholds as he made his way through the bucking plane.
"I called Jerry Jackson in El Paso and asked him to check the latest info on Montez's compound. According to the local man, a truck arrived an hour ago and unloaded."
"And?"
He looked at a loss. "That's all. They couldn't see what it carried, but it could have been our targets."
"Or it could have delivered a new office desk and a couple of chairs."
He reddened. "I wish I could have found out more. Sorry."
He returned to the cabin, and Vega fought to keep the Twin Commander on course and in the air. It wasn't easy. The storm was worsening by the minute, and they'd started to hear suggestions of a hurricane coming in from the Caribbean. They were twenty kilometers out from Miami when the port engine misfired again, and again.
They stared at each other grimly, waiting for it to settle, but the misfires only got worse.
Vega shouted, "Start the starboard engine!"
Nolan stared at him. "But it's worse than this one."
"It's had a chance to cool down. Maybe it'll behave for a little while, enough for us to reach our destination. Fuel cocks on. Do it!"
Nolan went through the start procedure and pressed the button. The engine fired almost immediately, coughed a cloud of smoke from the exhaust and stopped. He tried it again, another cough of smoke; it started, hesitated, and picked up. Inside a minute, it was running as sweetly as if it had never been a problem.
Vega grinned. "The bastard, it had us fooled all this time. Probably something overheated and caused the problem. With any luck, it'll get us there."
As he finished speaking, it hesitated and started to run ragged. The port engine spluttered again and misfired, and Vega struggled to keep them level. Nolan said nothing, just watched a master at work. But even a master doesn't win every time. They were going down, and fast. Two faulty engines couldn't keep them in the air, no matter how he juggled the odds.
He looked at the altimeter, which for some reason had started to function, although it was somewhat jerky. It read twelve hundred feet, and the needle was falling back, slowly and inexorably. He looked at Vega.
"What do you think?"
He didn't reply. Instead, he kicked the rudder over and headed for a low range of hills about a kilometer away.
"You're off course," he protested.
"Yeah, I know. You see that high ground? With any luck, the wind currents over there will give more lift, enough for another kilometer or so."
"Right."
He looked at the clouds. They were low and rolling fast across the sky. Heavy rain beat against the Perspex windows, and the wipers failed to sweep it clear, so they only had a limited view every few seconds.
"Get Evers to check our position," he shouted over the noise of the storm.
He went aft to the cabin and shouted the message to the CIA man. He nodded and took out his phone. "I'll come to the cockpit as soon as I know."
Nolan returned to the cockpit and held on as a hard gust threw the plane almost onto one wing.
"Help me," Vega shouted, "I can't hold her."
He pulled his way back to the right-hand seat and grabbed the column. They were still flying at ninety degrees to the horizontal, and with both engines misfiring badly. Nolan helped him wrench the column over, and Vega used a combination of partial flap and elevator to bring them back to straight and level. The engines were getting worse.
"I have to go lower," he shouted, "We could lose the engines at any moment, and when it happens, we'll go down like a stone in this weather. Our only chance is to be almost on the ground, so we can land straightaway. It'll have to be wheels up."
"A belly landing?"
"We don't have a choice. The second we drop the undercarriage, we'll lose our glide momentum, and we'll no nose in."
He stopped as another gust tore into them, and the aircraft skidded across the sky. He corrected, and then Evers appeared.
"We're doing better than I thought, only five kilometers to run."
Nolan looked down, but there was only thick, ominous cloud instead of the lights of the city.
"Stay with us, and keep that satphone working. I want you to call it every few seconds. The compass is out, and we don't have any instruments. We can't even see the ground, so it's all on you. Get to work."
Evers found a place next to a window and switched it on. Almost immediately, he connected to a satellite and started to call their position. They neared the city, and Vega allowed the craft to drop lower. At five hundred feet, they were still in cloud, and he dropped even lower. And then, at three hundred feet, they could see the high buildings of Miami almost touching the belly of the aircraft. Instinctively, Vega pulled up on the column, but nothing happened. They were going down.
"One kilometer," Evers intoned, "His place should be right ahead of us, but I don't know about the strip."
"I see it," Vega said softly, continuing to wrestle with the controls to keep them in the air, "About one and a half klicks ahead. You see the dark line, just past those buildings?"
Nolan peered ahead. It was barely visible, but it was there. He turned to Evers.
"We're going in wheels up. Get back to the cabin and tell them all to prepare. You've heard enough safety talks on airliners. You should all know what to do."
"Wheels up? Fuck!" he murmured, but he disappeared back into the cabin.
"Is the altimeter working?" Vega asked.
"I think so."
"Call it, don't stop. I need to know our altitude."
"Roger that."
They dropped lower and lower.
"One hundred feet. Ninety feet."
He risked a glance ahead, the dark line of the runway seemed too far away, much too far.
"Eighty feet."
"Seventy feet."
Gently, the Cuban brought her lower, pitching and rolling, sliding across the sky, but each time, he brought her back. Then the starboard engine coughed, blew out more smoke, and died.
"Fuel cock off, magneto off. Feather her, quick!"
"Roger that."
He rushed to follow Vega's order. He'd just finished and was looking at the altimeter when the port engine died. It didn't cough or splutter. It stopped.
"You know what to do. Fuel cock off! Magneto off. Tell them in back we're about to hit the ground."
He shouted the warning, and then realized he wasn't strapped back into his seat. He hurriedly fastened the straps. He put his hands back on the column, too late. They hit the ground with a searing crash, bounced, and bounced again, then flopped back down. Their problems weren't over. There was potential for them to worsen.
The Twin Commander slid along the strip, which was saturated with pools of water from the storm. There was no sign of it slowing, and then it started to swing. The stricken aircraft completed a full circle and began swinging around repeatedly. They were looping around in wide circles, like a crazy fairground ride, and heading for a huge hangar at the end of the strip. There was no way they could miss it.
"We're about to hit," Nolan shouted to the people in the cabin, as they completed another giant circle, and the building loomed large in the windshield, "Hold on!"
The crash slammed the breath out of his body, and he held on as the fuselage lifted up in the air. One wing broke off and tore away into the night, taken by the storm. They slammed back down, tearing through the thin aluminum wall of the hangar and coming to rest partially inside. He unstrapped fast and took a quick look at Vega. He was switching everything off to avoid any chance of a fire. Nolan ran back to the cabin.
They were sprawled every which way. Eva was on her knees attending to Evers, who lay stretched out on the floor with blood dripping from a cut to his head. Brad, Will, and Jon-Wesley were groping around for the bags that contained their weapons. Will looked up as he appeared.
"All okay up front?"
"Yeah, we're good. By some miracle we made it. How's Danny?"
"Evers? It's not as bad as it looks. He was unconscious for a couple of seconds, no more. He'll be fine once the bleeding stops.
"Understood. We need to get out of here and get to work. I don't need to remind you where we are. This is Montez's place, enemy territory. As bad as that plane ride was, it'll be a lot worse if we're not ready for him when he comes. And he'll come. We just wrecked his hangar, so he'll be pissed."
Will laughed. "He'll be a lot more pissed when we're done. I hear you, Boss, we'll start getting everything out."
He went to open the passenger door, but the crash had jammed it shut. He kicked at it, but it was solid. He was about to speak when Vega ran into the cabin.
"The starboard engine is leaking gas, and there's a fire started. Probably all part of the problem that caused it to malfunction, but we need to get out before the plane goes up."
"The hatch is jammed," Nolan told him, "We'll need to exit by the forward emergency hatch."
"Negative. The fuselage crumpled all around it. There's no way you'd get that open without cutting gear. It'll have to be the passenger door. I'll grab an axe from the cockpit, and we'll have to break it open."
He ran forward and returned moments later with a long handled axe. Will took it and started swinging it at the door. After a minute, it still resisted, and smoke started to enter the cabin. Vega ran back to the cockpit, and when he returned, his face was grim.
"The engine is on fire. If it spread to the tanks, she'll explode. We have to get out of here fast. If we..."
He didn't finish. A wave of heat hit them, and choking smoke swirled into the cabin. They were seconds from being engulfed by the fire. Nolan had an idea, one chance that might save them.
"We'll shoulder charge the door, all four of us. Will, you and me, side by side. Brad and John-Wesley, push in behind us. Let's move!"
They raced to the far side of the cabin, braced themselves together, and charged. They hit the door with enough force to dent a Mac truck, but it held.
"I felt it give!" Will shouted, "Again."
They moved back and charged, again and again. Five times they crunched into the unyielding aluminum. The smoke and flames that threatened to explode at any moment gave their efforts desperation.
"Last time," Will rasped, his throat sore from smoke inhalation. They could barely see the other side of the cabin, and they only had seconds to live before either smoke or an explosion finished them. Nolan knew there'd be at least one broken collarbone when they added up the damage, but they had no choice. Only survival counted.
"This time. Hit it! Give it everything you have. Smash the fucker open! The door doesn't exist. We're going right through it and out the other side."
His voice was savage, intense, overlaid by the foreknowledge of their impending death. They charged, and this time, they'd have smashed through a vault door. It gave way and suddenly popped open.
"Get out, get out," Vega shouted to Eva, "I'll bring Evers. Just get out of here."
"We need the weapons," Nolan shouted at him, "I'll deal with Evers. Bring the bags."
He brought out Danny Evers and dumped him on the concrete floor of the hangar. They'd lost some of their weapons, damaged in the crash, but they found the AK-47s. The sturdy Soviet made assault rifles had survived almost without a scratch.
The wind had changed, and it hammered at them from outside through the gap the aircraft had torn in the side of the building. It also brought in rain, sheets of rain so powerful it was as if the fire service was hosing them down. It was also enough to douse the fire, and they pulled back further inside the hangar, out of the weather. The Twin Commander still hissed and steamed, but the fire was out.
Nolan went to the gap in the wall and stared out, feeling the torrential rain beat at his body. There was no one, no sign that anyone had noticed the crash and come out to look. This was unsurprising. Only a fool would venture out into the teeth of a near hurricane. He went back inside, into the gloom on the far side of the hangar. He could see the wings of another aircraft.
Will smiled when he heard they were undetected. "Yeah, only idiots like us would go out in weather like that. What's next?"
"We go in. Time to find our Muslim friends."
"If they're there."
"If they're there, right. They have to be there. Nothing else would make sense."
"Unless they've been and gone," Vega offered.
"In which case, we'll go after them. But you're right," Nolan replied, "The bastards could head to New York at any moment. The storm gave us good cover. It'll give them the same advantage. Let's go find 'em. And remember, this is Montez country. His men play hardball."
Ryder gave him a thin smile. "He shall surely be put to death, and all the congregation shall certainly stone him."
Nolan nodded. "Sounds about right, John-Wesley. Kill the bastards."
He looked at Eva, who was staying close to Evers. "We need to go out there and finish this. You want to stay here? That cut looks pretty bad."
Evers looked up. "No way, I've come this far. I'm not planning to sit it out." He got to his feet, and Nolan noticed he swayed as he caught his balance.
Blood loss.
He steadied himself and adopted a determined expression. "I'm ready, let's go."
"Hold it, Tiger," Will grinned, "You'd better carry a weapon. Or were you planning to throw oranges at them?"
