Then gunfire erupted from below, and the shouts of many voices, and they broke into a run.
***
When they burst from the trail onto the base of the landing strip, the scene was chaos. Short, dark-skinned men with spears surrounded the helo. Staley and his two men were hunkered down at the base of the tower, unable to break through the ring of natives. Shots rang out again as the gunner on the helo brought the fifty caliber machine guns around and opened fire. The gunner could only cover a short arc, but from where he stood, Roberts thought it might be enough.
"Move in on my order," he shouted. "Ruby, see if you can get over to Commander Staley. Tell him the next time that gun sweeps toward the cliff, we go. Weapons ready, fire at will. If we can bust through and get onto that helo, we're out of here."
Rubenstein nodded. He slipped off to the side of the runway and circled around to the tower from behind. All eyes were on the airship, as natives kept making short runs at the craft, only to retreat as one or another of the crew members opened fire.
"We're making a run for it, Commander," Rubenstein said, stepping up to join Caouette and Cartwright. "Captain Roberts said on his order, next time the fifty cal. sweeps toward the cliff."
Staley nodded, grim faced. They crouched, and they waited. The gunner swung his turret back, let out a quick burst, and then sprayed the gathered natives again, driving them back. When the barrel of the gun passed the center of its arc, Roberts screamed.
"GO!"
Both groups of men rushed the helo, guns blazing. The natives were caught by surprise, and dropped back. It was enough. The helo was a large one, meant for hauling mail and supplies. The crew opened the side door, and they piled in, diving to the side and out of the open door as they did. A wooden spear, its haft a full inch in diameter, slid through and slammed into the far wall of the helo, but it missed its mark. It stuck into the hull of the craft and hung there, wobbling.
Moments later, they were all on board, and Roberts screamed at the pilot to lift off. The rotors picked up speed, and this, along with the continued fire from the machine gun, and from those in the rear, opening fire through the open doors, kept the natives at a distance, though spears and now some arrows found their way to the hull, and beyond. Cartwright, hanging out to get a better shot, took an arrow in the upper arm and had to be dragged in before he fell out into the dirt.
"Damn that hurt," he said, as they laid him back carefully.
Moments later they lifted off, working the dust and sand into a cloud that obscured them from site. The torches lining the weird, faux runway guttered and danced, barely visible through the haze.
They rose, and just as they were about to reach the cliff where the glowing skull face grinned out at the night, a long, lone spear shot upward, slipping almost magically between the rotors. A large chunk ripped free, dangling by a broken bit of metal, and the helo careened to the side. The pilot fought the controls as they all screamed. He forced them away from the cliff, barely, and tried to gain altitude. He turned toward the shore in the distance.
"Get us to the beach and put it down if you have to, Roberts screamed over the sound of the rotors. "We can still get to the ship in the motor whaleboats if we get there quickly enough.
The pilot nodded. Sweat broke on his brow, and the tendons in his forearms stood out like taut wire, but he held the craft steady, though it felt as if any moment it might rattle apart. They roared across the island, barely clearing the tops of the swaying palms.
"Get ready," Roberts called out. "Someone see if they can do something with Cartwright's shoulder. We might have to run for it."
Rubenstein and one of Staley's security team moved to Cartwright's side.
"We have to get it out," Rubenstein said.
"Just like in the movies, Ruby," Cartwright said, his breath hoarse. "Cut off the back end and pull it the rest of the way through. I don't think it hit the bone."
Rubenstein held Cartwright still, and the other man, a Seaman Gerlach, brought out a pair of wire cutters from a tool box along the wall. He didn't hesitate. He snapped the shaft of the arrow cleanly. Cartwright cried out, and his face went white, but in that instant, Rubenstein gripped the arrow head, whispered a prayer, and slid the shaft out the far side of the wound. Gerlach was ready with a sterile bandage. All of this took only a couple of moments.
"Beach ahead, sir," the pilot called. "I can't hold it much longer."
"Put us down," Roberts ordered. "Grab weapons, but nothing else. We're moving as light and fast as possible. Ruby, can you help Cartwright? Rubenstein nodded."
They dropped quickly, striking the sand with a rough crunch and heeling to one side. The rotor struck the sand, and stuck, and the entire craft lurched, nearly flipping. Everyone held on, and miraculously, no one seemed seriously hurt.
Moments later they were running across the sand toward the boats waiting at the waterline. They kept a watch on the tree line, but there was no sign of natives. There was little light on the beach, but it was enough for them to get the lines untied and cast off. Cartwright had to be helped in and bundled in a corner.
Rubenstein sat beside him, and once they were out over the water, he pulled something from his pack. It was Kale's journal. Using a flashlight, he scanned the earlier pages.
"There's a book here," he said.
"What are you talking about?" Cartwright growled. His face was pale, and he was in shock, but he was holding up pretty well for all of that.
"This journal," Rubenstein said. "Kale was writing a new novel in it…before they took him to that tower."
"Maybe you can get it published," Cartwright said, "when we get back."
"Maybe," Rubenstein agreed.
They moved very slowly through the heavy mist, keeping watch for the ship.
"I hope I never see another island as long as I live," Roberts said. "When we get back I'm setting a course out of here, fog or no fog. I can't believe we survived that – and how do I explain to the admiral that we lost that chopper to some savages?"
In the silence that followed, they heard the slosh of waves and the rhythm of distant drums.
On the ship, Sanchez was on watch again, staring into the thick mist. He was bored, and not paying much attention. He didn't see the first long, slender canoe, or the second. By the time he noticed, they dotted the waves like leaves in an autumn field. By the time he sounded the alarm, they were climbing the sides, ropes and ladders and anchor chains, chanting in a deep, monotonous rhythm that matched the beat of distant drums.
A Taste of Blood and Roses Page 16
