“What … what about Loretta?” asked Osterhagen, glancing hesitantly toward the pit. “I don’t want to leave her there.”
“We’ll have to,” said Eddie. “Sorry, but we don’t have time to bury her properly. Once we contact the militia we can tell them how to find this place, but right now we’ve got to get out of here. We’re not far from the base, so it won’t be long before this lot are missed.”
“I understand,” Osterhagen said with an unhappy nod. “Oscar, help me with Ralf.”
“Macy, see if there’s a first-aid kit in the truck,” Eddie said as they took Becker to the tailgate. He collected the dead soldiers’ rifles, then searched the bodies, gathering a handful of Venezuelan currency.
Even after the horrors he had witnessed, Osterhagen was still shocked. “What are you doing?”
“Being practical,” said Eddie. “We’ve got no money, and we might need some to make a call. Besides, these bastards don’t need it. Okay, let’s go.”
He retrieved Becker’s fedora and handed it to Osterhagen, then climbed into the driving seat, Macy beside him. The vehicle turned, then rattled away down the path, leaving the dead in silence.
SIXTEEN
Valverde was just beyond a small rise. Eddie stopped the truck and opened the cab’s rear window to speak to the men in the back. “Okay, the soldiers in town’ll be looking for us—or at least me. So what do we do?”
“Can we get to the phone in the hotel?” Osterhagen asked.
“That’ll be the top thing on their watch list,” said Macy. “Is there anywhere else we can go?”
“San Fernando de Atabapo is the next town,” Valero told her, “but to reach it by road we have to drive through Valverde.”
“How about flying there?” Eddie suggested.
“We can—but if we are flying,” said Valero, an idea striking him, “we should get as far from Callas’s men as we can. My plane is fully fueled. It can reach Caracas.”
“Can we use its radio to contact the militia?”
“Yes—yes, we can! I can put an emergency call through to air traffic control.”
“Okay, so we go for the airfield,” Eddie decided.
Macy made a pensive face. “Hate to be Debbie Downer, but we kinda have to drive through town to get to the airfield.”
It was true. “Bollocks! Okay, how about walking? We skirt ’round town and get to the plane from the jungle.”
“What about Ralf?” said Osterhagen. Becker, lying between the German and Valero in the rear bed, had fallen into a state of drifting semiconsciousness. “He will slow us down—and we can’t leave him behind. If the soldiers find him, they’ll kill him.”
Osterhagen was right; they couldn’t abandon the injured man. “That doesn’t leave us much choice, then. We’ll just have to charge through and hope we’re in the air before they catch up.” He addressed the two men. “Can either of you drive a truck?”
“I can,” said Valero.
“Good. Get in here, then.”
Macy was mildly offended. “How do you know I can’t drive the truck?” she demanded.
“Can you double-declutch?” asked Eddie.
“Can I what?”
“You can’t drive the truck. Stay in the cab and keep your head down.” He picked up one of the AK-103s and hopped out. Valero clambered inside and took his place. Eddie climbed into the cargo bed and crouched at the rear window. “Okay, Oscar, soon as any soldiers see us we’re in trouble, so gun it through the town.”
“What are you going to do?” Macy asked.
He waved the Kalashnikov. “Have a guess. Everyone set?”
“No,” she said in a small voice.
He smiled at her, then banged the cab roof. “Oscar, let’s go.”
Valero put the truck in gear and set off. The Russian-built vehicle was designed for carrying heavy loads over poor terrain, not speed; it took more than half a minute for it to reach thirty miles an hour. Eddie looked ahead. They were at the top of the rise, Valverde coming into view.
The town’s military presence had increased. A pair of jeeps was parked at the settlement’s edge—not a roadblock, but certainly a checkpoint.
And they would have to go through it.
“Two jeeps,” Eddie warned Valero. “Aim for the one on the left—don’t ram it, it’ll slow us down too much. Just try to smash the front.”
“What about the other one?” Macy asked.
Another shake of the gun. “Again, guess!”
He checked the road ahead. The soldiers at the checkpoint had seen the approaching truck, but weren’t yet concerned.
That would change when they realized it wasn’t going to stop.
“Grab on to something,” Eddie warned Osterhagen before bracing himself for the impending collision.
The truck bore down on the soldiers. One man stood in the road waving his hands over his head—then dived out of its way. Another unshouldered his rifle.
Eddie readied his own weapon as Valero swerved—
There was a colossal crunch as the truck’s girder-like front bumper smashed into the jeep, sending it spinning into a ditch. The second soldier brought up his AK—
Eddie fired first, aiming not at the soldier, but at his vehicle. A burst of fire hit the jeep, ripping into the radiator and engine.
The panicked Venezuelan had dived when the gunfire started, but now he was back on his feet. “Get down!” Eddie shouted, ducking. Osterhagen dropped flat, holding Becker. Bullets cracked against the tailgate, and the rear window shattered. Macy shrieked, Valero sliding as low in his seat as he dared.
Eddie held the AK over his head and sent a couple of shots blindly back down the road, forcing the gunman to take shelter. The firing stopped. The truck roared past the hotel, townspeople running for cover.
Eddie rose again, rapidly turning to search for danger. Most of the soldiers on the streets were more interested in their own safety than in opening fire, and were sprinting out of the truck’s path. Another couple of shots deterred the others from retaliating.
A bend in the street put the troops out of sight behind a building. Eddie looked ahead. They were almost through the little settlement already; a few hundred yards away was the turning to the airfield. “Okay, Oscar,” he shouted, “slow down for the turn. Crash the gate and head straight for your plane—I’ll sort out anyone following us.”
Valero complied. The track’s condition was even worse than the main road’s, and everyone was thrown from side to side. Becker cried out in pain.
The airfield came into sight. Across the track was a wooden barrier, but it snapped like a toothpick as the truck thundered through. An angry civilian ran from the terminal hut after the intruders, but the sight of Eddie’s AK made him do an about-face and flee for the ruined gate instead.
Valero skidded to a stop alongside his plane. “Macy, grab the other gun, then help the doc with Ralf,” Eddie ordered as he jumped down. On foot, at a run, it would only take the soldiers a couple of minutes to catch up, and if they had another jeep it would be even sooner. He took up position behind the truck to watch the airfield entrance. Macy and Osterhagen carried Becker to the plane. Valero, rather than climbing into the cockpit and starting the engine, was examining something on the wing. “Oscar, what’re you doing? Get it going!”
“I have to do the preflight checks,” Valero shouted back.
“There’s no time!”
“But if something goes wrong—”
“Don’t worry about gremlins, worry about bullets! They’ll be here any minute!”
Clearly unhappy, Valero nevertheless abandoned his inspection and climbed into the Cessna’s cabin. Osterhagen and Macy lifted Becker through the large main hatch on the port side.
Eddie looked back at the gate. The airfield worker was gone, but the track wouldn’t be empty for long. Seconds passed. The plane remained silent. “Oscar, start the bloody thing!”
“It’s not a car!” Valero protested. “I have to check
the circuit breakers and set the engine mixture.”
“Then check ’em and set ’em faster!”
Movement at the gate—
Two soldiers ran toward the terminal hut. Eddie fired two shots; neither hit, but they forced the men to dive for cover. Still no sound from the Cessna’s engine. “Get the fucking thing going, Oscar!”
A third soldier appeared, keeping low. A round clanked off the truck’s flank as he took a shot. Eddie returned fire. This time, the bullets were on target, the soldier flailing backward.
But now another three men had arrived, opening up with their AK-103s. More shots hit the truck like hot hail. Eddie ducked behind the rear wheels, crouching to peer under the cargo bed. The first two soldiers were moving again. If they advanced much farther, they would have a clean shot at the plane as it taxied to takeoff position.
Gray and red metal barrels, stacked in a little fenced compound near the hut—
Eddie emptied the AK’s magazine into the fuel drums.
A barrel exploded with a crump and a great splash of liquid fire, others following in a chain reaction. Burning drums shot skyward on trails of flame, falling back to earth like bombs. A tumbling keg crashed through the roof of the terminal hut, and the entire building exploded in a storm of flying corrugated panels.
The destruction had the desired effect. The soldiers retreated as fast as they could from the spreading flames.
Another loud noise, this time behind him—the Cessna’s engine turning over. A choppy, reluctant coughing … then the propeller burst into motion. Eddie dropped the empty AK and leapt through the cabin door. “Oscar, go, go, go!”
Valero opened the throttle. The Cessna hauled itself complainingly out of the indentations its weight had left in the earth and jolted over the uneven ground toward the runway.
Eddie faced the door. “Macy, gun!” She passed him the second AK. He grabbed a dangling strap above the opening with his left hand, then leaned out and pointed the weapon back toward the gate. The soldiers were still scattering as the fires spread, oily smoke boiling into the sky.
Backwash from the propeller whipped past him as Valero increased power, swinging the plane into line with the runway. Eddie braced himself. The last takeoff had been a bumpy ride, and this was likely to be a lot worse …
“Shit!” A jeep raced through the gate, two soldiers inside. The passenger stood in his seat, supporting his AK-103 on the windshield. “Take off, now!”
Valero brought the throttle to full power. The plane picked up speed, landing gear crashing over bumps.
The jeep speeded up too—closing in.
Eddie and the soldier fired almost simultaneously. Their aim was thrown off by the rough ride, but the Venezuelan had a larger target. Bullets pocked the wing as Eddie fired again. The jeep’s windshield crazed, but neither soldier was hit. Another burst from the 4×4, followed by a crack-crack-crack of lead punching through aluminum. Valero yelped as the instrument panel was hit.
Eddie pulled the trigger once more. The jeep’s windshield shattered. The shooter dropped back into his seat, hanging on tightly as the driver swerved sharply to take the vehicle behind the Cessna’s tail.
Out of Eddie’s firing line.
“Dammit!” He turned. The jeep came into view through the rearmost starboard window, but trying to shoot out the toughened acrylic might result in a lethal ricochet. Instead, he gripped the strap more tightly and leaned from the open hatch, swinging around to bring his gun arm over the top of the fuselage.
“Eddie, Jesus Christ!” Macy shrieked. “Get back inside!”
But he could no longer hear her, the propeller’s piercing rasp joined by the rising roar of wind. He fired another burst at the jeep. The rifle bucked in his hand, banging against the metal roof.
The soldier shot back. Bullets pierced the fuselage.
One of the Cessna’s wheels ran through a deep dip. The whole aircraft jolted violently—and Eddie’s right foot slipped.
Unbalanced, he swung farther out of the plane. The strap creaked, biting into the flesh of his wrist. His other foot was hooked around the hatch’s frame, metal digging painfully through the leather of his boot.
His right arm started to slip back down the fuselage’s curved roof …
The Cessna’s nose tipped upward. The jeep was falling behind, but still firing. More bullets riddled the plane.
Eddie kept sliding—
With a last straining swing of his arm, he jammed the AK over the base of the tailfin—and swiveled the weapon to fire at the jeep.
The remaining bullets spewed out, most of them harmlessly hitting soil and grass—but one caught the speeding jeep’s front tire, which deflated abruptly, the wheel rim shredding it. The jeep flipped over and tossed both soldiers high into the air.
The Cessna’s wings flexed as they took the plane’s weight—
The ground made one final attempt to claw the plane back down to earth, a wheel striking a muddy hump. The Caravan lurched—and Eddie’s boot lost its grip on the door frame.
The seventy-five-mile-an-hour wind snatched him out of the hatch. He lost his hold on the AK-103, the weapon spinning away as the Cessna took to the sky. He slapped his hand against the roof, but there was almost no grip to be found on the smooth metal. The strap around his wrist creaked and strained, the fastener attaching it to the hull buckling under his weight.
“Eddie!” Macy cried. She yanked at her seat belt release.
The plane kept climbing: 100 feet, 150. Valero struggled to keep the controls steady. “Close the hatch!” he yelled.
“Eddie’s out there!” Macy screamed back. She staggered to her feet, clinging to the seats as she made her way down the steeply sloping aisle.
“No, you’ll be killed!” Osterhagen shouted, but she kept moving. With a curse, he unlocked his own seat belt.
Outside, Eddie felt what little hold he had on the fuselage slipping away as the plane picked up speed. He was flapping like a flag, legs trailing helplessly.
And the strap was giving way. He could feel the fastener breaking …
A hand grabbed his wrist. He squinted into the wind. Slim fingers, neat nails. Macy. She poked her head through the hatch, black hair whipping around her face. “Get back in!” he yelled.
“No, hang on!” she shouted, tugging at his arm. Eddie shook his head, desperately willing her back inside. He didn’t want to die—but he wanted to drag her with him even less. Macy just didn’t have the sheer physical strength needed to pull him through the hatch against the wind—and his fingertips were slipping off the hull …
Another hand seized his arm. Osterhagen. The German leaned out of the hatch behind Macy, gripping the upper frame with his free hand. “Oscar!” he bellowed. “Now!”
Valero jammed the control stick hard to the right, putting the plane into a steep roll—and simultaneously pitching it downward.
Eddie lost his grip, swinging away from the hull. Macy and Osterhagen both hauled on his arm with all their strength—
And Eddie dropped headfirst into the cabin as gravity overpowered wind resistance, bowling them with him against the cabin’s starboard wall as the plane banked practically on its side.
“Hang on!” Valero howled. They were far from out of danger. The plane was still at a low altitude—and getting lower by the moment. He shoved the stick back over to level out, throwing his passengers to the floor. The Orinoco wheeled ahead. The Cessna was only 250 feet above it.
And still in a dive.
“Oh, mierda!” he wailed, yanking back the stick.
Eddie looked up, seeing nothing but water through the cockpit windows. Two hundred feet, the Caravan pulling up, but slowly, too slowly. Greenery on the far bank replaced the river as the plane’s nose rose, but they were still too low—
Whumph!
A slam of impact—and a huge spray of water came in through the open hatch.
But the plane was still in the air, if only by inches. The landing gear had skimmed
the great river, Valero leveling out just in time. The Venezuelan whooped in relief, then worked the controls to gain height again. The Caravan climbed, trailing sparkling raindrops from its wheels.
“Everyone okay?” Eddie gasped.
Osterhagen crawled back into a seat. “I feel … airsick.”
“Oh my God!” Macy squealed. “I’m alive. You’re alive. We’re alive!” She kissed the Englishman. “I can’t believe it, we’re all still alive!” She kissed him again.
“Steady on, love, I’m married,” said Eddie. “Oscar, how’s the plane? Can we make it to Caracas?”
“It will fly okay, but some of the instruments are broken.” Valero gave him an almost apologetic look, indicating the bullet damage. “And so is the radio.”
“What?” Eddie sat up. “You’re fucking kidding me! How are we going to call the militia?”
“More to the point,” added Macy, “how are we going to land if we can’t talk to air traffic control?”
“I can fly a distress pattern to tell the airport we have no radio,” Valero assured her. “They will give us priority.”
“How long will it take us to get there?”
“About two and a half hours. Although it will be hard to know exactly.” The Venezuelan shot an irate look at Eddie. “I can’t get a proper airspeed reading because you wouldn’t let me take the cover off the pitot tube.”
Eddie laughed a little. “So long as we get there, that’s the main thing.” He stood. “First, can someone shut that hatch? It’s a bit drafty in here.”
SEVENTEEN
The building nicknamed the Clubhouse was a mansion in the Caracan hilltop district of Valle Arriba, overlooking the perfectly kept greenery of a private golf course, and beyond it the great sprawl of the city itself. Even with the Venezuelan government’s increasingly militant push toward the redistribution of wealth, the enclave was reserved for money and privilege. No barrios here; even the smallest house was worth several million US dollars.
Nina very much doubted that she or Kit would enjoy the luxury, though.
Callas’s helicopter had flown north to the airbase at Puerto Ayacucho, where the group transferred to a military transport plane to travel on to Caracas. A convoy, two SUVs escorted by police outriders, completed the journey to the Clubhouse. Callas and Stikes were in the lead vehicle, Kit and Nina under heavy guard in the second. Nina looked out through the darkened glass as the vehicles turned onto the driveway. Two soldiers stood guard at the main gate, and she saw several others inside the grounds. Off to one side of the mansion she glimpsed a swimming pool and a private helipad. Not exactly a typical military facility.
Empire of Gold_A Novel Page 20
