Empire of Gold_A Novel

by Andy McDermott

She grinned halfheartedly. “Oh, just kinda wishing I’d worked harder in school so I could have gotten a medical degree like my parents instead of archaeology. You get shot at less that way. Even in Miami.”

  Eddie smiled, then examined a navigation chart. Valero had earlier pointed out a landmark: Cerro Autana, a great flat-topped mountain, standing alone on the jungle plain. The bizarre tower was now many miles behind them, so before long they would pass about ten miles east of the city of Puerto Ayacucho.

  He noticed something else. Puerto Ayacucho, as a regional capital, had a fairly large airport … but it was also marked as a military facility. “Is this an airbase?” he asked, pointing at the map.

  “Sí,” Valero replied. “That is why we are going to Caracas. I didn’t want to land in the middle of Callas’s friends.”

  It made sense, but Eddie was suddenly on edge. An airbase so close to the border would serve a strategic purpose, its planes patrolling the edge of Venezuelan airspace …

  And intercepting intruders.

  “Where are the binocs?” he demanded.

  Macy found them, concerned by his change of tone. “What is it?”

  “If Callas has friends in the air force, we don’t need to land to meet them. They can come to us!” He looked northwest through the binoculars, following the long sparkling line of the Orinoco until he spotted the grays and browns of civilization. The airport was south of the city.

  Even from this distance, it was easy to make out a couple of parked airliners. He was searching for something smaller, however. He panned away from the civilian terminal to a cluster of hangars and support buildings. Their drab functionality told him at a glance that this was the military facility.

  Something was moving in the rippling heat. Camouflage paintwork: a fighter jet, rolling toward the runway.

  It could have been a coincidence, the plane about to set out on a routine patrol … but he wasn’t about to bet his life on it. “Oscar—take us down as low as you can, and head away from the city. Quick!”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause if you don’t, we’ll be going down in flames! They’re sending a fighter after us.”

  Shocked, Valero banked right and put the Cessna into a steep descent. Macy pulled her seat belt tighter. “Okay, I don’t know much about planes, but aren’t we at kind of a horrible disadvantage in this thing?” She gestured toward the propeller.

  “That’s why we’re trying to stay under their radar,” Eddie told her. “Most of it’ll be pointing west, toward Colombia. We might have a chance.” Valero’s expression, however, suggested it would be very small.

  Macy saw their shared look. “Oh great! After everything we’ve been through, we’re going to be blown up by the Venezuelan Maverick and Iceman?”

  “We’re not going to be blown up,” Eddie growled. He raised the binoculars again.

  Perspective flattened the runway against the landscape as the plane descended. Where was the jet? He couldn’t see it. Lost in the heat distortion, or—

  It was already in the air, a dark dart pulling up sharply atop a cone of flame from its afterburner. Its silhouette triggered his memory of aircraft recognition training: a Mirage 5, a French-built, delta-winged fighter. Some versions lacked radar … but not, he remembered, the Venezuelan variant.

  It would find them. Soon. “Buggeration,” he muttered.

  “Oh boy.” Macy gulped. “Not good?”

  “Not good.”

  “Shit shit shit, why didn’t I pay attention in biology class?”

  The jet leveled out, afterburner flame disappearing—and turned in their direction. “Oscar,” said Eddie, “I don’t have a fucking clue how, but we’re only going to stay alive if you can lose it.”

  Valero shot him a disbelieving look. “I don’t have a fucking clue how either!” He eased out of the dive, the Cessna only yards above the rain forest canopy.

  Macy pointed. “There’s a river. Maybe we could fly along it, behind the trees.”

  Again, Valero’s face revealed what he thought of the odds of success. Nevertheless he turned the plane to follow the river, easing back the throttle to give himself more time to react to the waterway’s turns as he dropped lower.

  The high trees along the bank blocked Eddie’s view of the Mirage. He felt a moment of hope. If they couldn’t see it, it couldn’t see them—and the fighter’s radar would also struggle to detect them through the trees.

  But all the pilot had to do to find them was head for the river and look down to spot the white cross of the Caravan.

  Valero made another turn. Eddie kept watching the sky. The high wing, which had made the Caravan the ideal choice for surveying the ground, now blotted out part of his view. How long before the jet reached them? The Mirage was a supersonic fighter, but even at subsonic speeds it could cover the distance in under two minutes—

  Osterhagen made a startled noise as the wingtip thwacked a branch. Eddie winced, but there was no damage beyond a green stain on the paintwork.

  Valero slowed the Cessna still further, holding it just above stalling speed. Even so, the plane was tearing through the jungle at over seventy miles per hour. The river weaved, the rain forest rising on each side like green walls.

  Walls that were closing in.

  “There is not enough room,” Valero said urgently.

  Eddie was still scouring the sky. “Stay low as long as you can. If it goes past us, we might have a chance—”

  “I can see it!” Macy cried.

  “Is it going past us?”

  Her voice was simultaneously angry and terrified. “Whadda you think?”

  “Oscar, climb!” Eddie roared. Stealth was now worthless; they needed room to maneuver. “Macy, what’s he doing?”

  “Coming right at us!” she shrieked over the engine’s howl as Valero pulled up sharply.

  Eddie finally saw the Mirage again, sunlight flaring off its cockpit canopy. It was approaching head-on. The Caravan would be fixed in its gunsight, the slow-moving aircraft an easy target—

  Twin flashes of fire beneath the fighter’s fuselage. Glowing orange dots seemed to drift toward him, but he knew all too well that the cannon fire’s apparent laziness was just an illusion. “He’s firing!” he yelled.

  Valero responded, flinging the Cessna into a hard rolling turn. Loose items bounced around the cabin. A loud crack came from the roof as an aluminum panel split under the stress. Eddie lost sight of the Mirage, but knew the shells were still incoming—

  Bright streaks flashed past the windows like meteors. “He missed!” cried Osterhagen.

  “Let’s hope he keeps missing!” Eddie strained to hold himself upright as the Cessna wheeled around. The Mirage came back into view. Closer. The guns flared again. “Oscar!”

  Valero changed course again, climbing …

  Too late. Some shells seared past—but others hit home. Two fist-sized holes exploded through the starboard wing. Macy screamed as a piece of shrapnel scarred the window beside her.

  Valero struggled with the controls. “Can you keep it in the air?” asked Eddie, trying to see the damage. Something was coming from the wing. Smoke?

  No. A red liquid, sparkling in the light of the falling sun.

  Fuel.

  The Venezuelan saw it too. He cursed in Spanish, eyes flicking over the instruments. “I can’t stop the leak.” The wing tank had been punctured top and bottom by the cannon shells; no way to shut off the flow.

  “The plane!” Macy cried, instinctively ducking. Eddie saw a flash of camouflage green and brown rushing at them—

  The Mirage blasted overhead with an earsplitting scream, the Cessna crashing violently through its wake. The jet had come in too fast, unable to slow enough to match the weaving transport’s speed. Instead, it ignited its afterburner with another sky-shaking roar and powered into the distance.

  Eyes wide, Osterhagen watched it thunder away. “He’s leaving,” he gasped.

  “No, he’s not,” Eddie replied grim
ly. The Mirage was making a long, sweeping turn, the pilot about to swing back around … and fire a missile. “Can we get to Caracas without that fuel tank?” Valero shook his head. “Shit! How much fuel’s still in it?”

  Valero checked a gauge, the needle of which was slowly but steadily dropping. “Four hundred liters, and falling.”

  Eddie thought for a moment, tracking the distant Mirage as it turned. “Head away from him, and take us up,” he ordered.

  Valero stared at him, confused. “What?”

  “Up, take us up—we need all the height we can get!” He unfastened his seat belt as Valero put the Cessna into a climb, heading northwest.

  “What are you doing?” Macy demanded as he stood.

  “The emergency kit—where is it?” The yellow plastic case had contained the first-aid supplies used to patch up Becker, and more besides. He spotted it at the back of the cabin and slid down the sloping floor to retrieve it.

  The glowing dot of the Mirage’s afterburner cut out. “Eddie, the jet’s turning,” warned Valero.

  “Just keep climbing!” Eddie opened the case. Inside were a Very pistol and several distress flares. He loaded one and snapped the breech closed, then looked through the window. The fighter was coming back toward the Cessna. “Okay, Oscar. Can you dump the fuel from the knackered tank?”

  “Yes—but why?”

  “Get ready to do it! Level out, and turn so he’s directly behind us.”

  “But that’ll make us a really easy targ—Oh,” said Macy, regarding him with sudden hope. “You’re going to use the flare gun to decoy the missile!”

  “Nope,” said Eddie, shaking his head. “That only works in movies. We need something a lot hotter!” There was a small hatch opposite the main door; he unlocked it and swung the top section upward. Wind shrieked into the cabin—along with the stench of fuel, the leaking avgas swirling in the vortex created by the plane’s wing.

  Macy’s hope was replaced by appalled disbelief. “You’re going to blow up the fuel? What happened to the whole us-not-blowing-up thing? We’ll go too!”

  “Not if I time it right.” The Mirage was moving in behind them, now some miles distant—the ideal range for a heat-seeking missile. “Oscar! Dump the fuel when I say, then head for the ground.” The jet disappeared behind the tail. “Now!”

  Valero, with considerable trepidation, pulled the fuel-dump lever.

  The plumes of red-dyed avgas streaming from the holes in the wing were joined by a much denser spray as the main valve opened. The needle on the fuel gauge plummeted. Eddie leaned out of the open hatch, the slipstream tearing at the back of his head as he searched for the Mirage. The dark dot was directly astern. He readied the flare gun—

  Another flash of fire from the jet, this time beneath a wing. A line of smoke trailed behind a white-painted speck. A heat-seeking missile, either an American Sidewinder or a French Magic, but it made no difference—neither would have any trouble locking on.

  The missile closed in a sweeping arc. Traveling at over Mach 2, it would take just seconds to reach its target.

  Fuel was still gushing from the dump valve. Eddie held his breath, feeling droplets soaking his skin. If he fired too soon, Macy’s fear would be realized—the igniting fuel vapor would consume the plane and its passengers.

  And if he fired too late, they would be dead anyway …

  The deluge stopped, the tank empty but for the last dribbling dregs.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The pistol bucked, the flare spiraling into the dissipating red cloud. For a moment nothing happened …

  Then the sky caught fire.

  Flames spread like an exploding star, greedily swallowing up the drifting fuel. Searing tongues lashed after the Cessna, trying to reach the last morsels in its ruptured wing. Eddie threw himself back into the cabin as a wave of heat hit the plane.

  The missile was an R550 Magic, carrying a fragmentation warhead of twelve and a half kilograms of high explosive wrapped in frangible steel. Its infrared seeker was overwhelmed by the fireball, the heat source of its target’s engine lost amid a much bigger, hotter signal. It ran through its programmed options in a millisecond. Target lost at close range: only one response.

  Detonate.

  The missile was less than a hundred yards from the Cessna when the warhead exploded, sending red-hot shrapnel out in all directions. Most of the chunks of metal hit nothing … but only a fraction had to strike their target to score a kill.

  The Caravan’s tail shredded as if hit by a shotgun blast. Other sizzling shards ripped through the wings and fuselage.

  One hit Valero above his ear, tearing away a chunk of flesh and hair. Blood splattered the windshield.

  He slumped, unconscious. The Cessna’s descent steepened, beginning to roll.

  Eddie slid across the rear of the cabin as the plane tilted. “Eddie!” Macy screamed. “Oscar’s hit!” He hauled himself up and half ran, half fell down the aisle to clamber into the copilot’s seat. Rows of dials and gauges gazed meaninglessly at him. “One of these days,” he gasped as he took hold of the control yoke, “I’m going to learn how to fly a fucking plane!”

  He turned it like a steering wheel in the hope that it would counter the roll. Smoke trailing from its tail, the aircraft staggered back to a wings-level attitude—but still with its nose pointing down at the rain forest. The altimeter he understood, at least: two thousand feet.

  Falling fast.

  He pulled back the yoke, trying to level out. Nothing happened, the control refusing to move. “Oh, bollocks,” he muttered as he tried again, harder. It gave slightly, then locked again. The damage to the Cessna’s rear had jammed the tailplanes. “Oh, bollocks!”

  Fifteen hundred feet. He jerked the yoke in an attempt to free it. The plane responded slightly, producing a faintly nauseating roller-coaster sensation, but the controls remained stuck.

  But to have worked at all, they still had to be connected to the tailplanes. The problem was a physical obstruction, something preventing them from moving. Maybe they could be forced free …

  One thousand feet—

  Eddie planted his feet firmly against the instrument panel. Macy watched in frightened bewilderment as he gripped the yoke with both hands. “Everyone hold tight!” he warned as he pulled at the control, simultaneously pushing with all the strength in his legs—trying to force the tailplanes to move through sheer brute force.

  The yoke creaked. It seemed to give, but only a little. He pulled harder, aware that if he tore the handgrips clean off their mount, they were all doomed.

  Five hundred—

  “Come on!” he rasped, face twisted with effort. The jungle was rapidly approaching. Three hundred feet. Every muscle trembled as he strained. The glass of a dial cracked beneath his foot.

  Two hundred—

  Something snapped. The yoke suddenly broke free, the tailplanes slamming upward to their full extent. The aircraft pulled out of its dive …

  Not quickly enough.

  The jungle’s tallest trees stretched up well over a hundred feet above the ground. Even as the Cessna leveled out, it was still heading inexorably into the thick canopy—

  Branches and leaves disintegrated as the propeller carved through a treetop like a chain saw. Eddie wrestled with the controls, still trying to pull up, but the plane hit another tree, branches clawing open the Cessna’s skin.

  The towering trunk of an emergent redwood rose above the canopy ahead. Eddie shoved down a rudder pedal, but even had the controls been fully responsive there wasn’t time to turn away—

  The tree scythed past less than a foot from the fuselage’s left side, slicing off the port wing at its root. Fuel erupted from the tank inside it as it crumpled. The Cessna’s tail, still smoldering, hurtled through the spray—and ignited it. The wing blew apart, an oily mushroom cloud roiling up through the foliage.

  What was left of the plane dropped toward the ground, the mangled tail now aflame. “Brace!” yell
ed Eddie, grabbing his seat belt straps and bending into a crash position—

  The Caravan hit on its belly, the impact tearing away the wheels and buckling the hull. The propeller blades bent as they churned through the earth. The starboard wing clipped another tree and was ripped in half, the fuselage skidding onward in a huge spray of soil and rotting vegetation. The windshield shattered, dirt filling the cockpit. Jutting roots tore at the aircraft’s belly as it crashed over them with a terrible screeching sound.

  Which suddenly lessened.

  Eddie clung to the straps, eyes shut tight. The plane was still moving—but the ground beneath it was somehow cushioning its passage. The bumps continued, but muffled, fading as the plane slowed …

  And stopped.

  The bent hull tipped back with a thump. Eddie wiped away mud and cautiously opened his eyes. They were indeed stationary. His arms ached where the straps had cut into them, and there was a horrible bruise across his stomach from the steering yoke. He flexed his hands, then his feet. Nothing broken.

  Valero had fared much worse. Unconscious, he had been unable to protect himself, flailing as the plane plowed through the trees. Two of his fingers were bent back at unnatural angles, and blood streaked his face where he had hit the controls. Becker, equally helpless, had come off better; secured in his seat, he was now slumped over the armrest, moaning softly.

  “Ow, God …,” a female voice whispered. Eddie staggered to his feet. Osterhagen sat bolt upright, eyes squeezed shut and breathing loudly and rapidly. Macy, meanwhile, had her head against the window, grimacing.

  Eddie staggered to her. “Macy! Are you okay?”

  “I dunno …” She tried to stand. “Ow, that hurts—wait, if it hurts …” She rolled her head to clear the dazed fog from her mind. “I’m not dead?”

  Eddie half-laughed. “No, we’re alive. That means I’ve survived two plane crashes in less than a year. Fuck me! Don’t know if that means I’m really lucky or really unlucky.” A feeble smile briefly turned up her lips, which he returned. “We need to get out of the plane, though. Something’s burning.” He faced Osterhagen. “Doc. Doc! Can you hear me?”

  Osterhagen’s eyes snapped open, darting about wildly before settling on Eddie. “Where are we?”