Robert Ludlum - Bourne 2 - Bourne Supremecy

by The Bourne Supremacy [lit]

  They're gassing up,' said Jason. The plane's taking off again. Let's get on it.'

  The assassin turned, his face - that face - pleading. 'For Christ's sake, give me a knife, something?

  'Nothing.'

  'I can help?

  This is my show, Major, not yours. With a knife you'd slice my stomach apart. No way, chap.'

  'Da long xia!' cried the same voice from in front of the hangar, describing government officials in terms of large crayfish. 'Fang song,' he continued, telling everyone to relax, that the plane would taxi away from the terminal and the first of the three fuel trucks should be driven out to meet it.

  The officials disembarked; the jet circled in place and began charging back over the runway while the tower instructed the pilot where he would refuel. The truck raced out; men leaped from the carriage and began pulling the hoses from their recesses.

  'It'll take about ten minutes,' said the assassin. 'It's a Chinese version of an upgraded DC-Three.'

  The aircraft came to a stop, the engines cut as rolling ladders were pushed to the wings and men scaled them. The fuel tanks were opened, the nozzles inserted amid constant chatter between the maintenance crews. Suddenly, the hatch door in the centre of the fuselage was reopened, the metal steps slapping down to the ground. Two men in uniform walked out.

  The pilot and his flight officer,' said Bourne, 'and they're not stretching their legs. They're checking every damn thing those people are doing. We'll time this very carefully, Major, and when I say move, you move.'

  'Straight to the hatch,' agreed the assassin. 'When the second bloke hits the first step.'

  That's about it.'

  'Diversion?'

  'In what way?'

  'You had a pretty fancy one last night. You had your own Yank Fourth of July, you did.'

  'Wrong way. Besides, I used them all up... Wait a minute. The fuel truck.'

  'You blow it, there goes the plane. Also, you couldn't time it to the blokes getting back on board.'

  'Not that truck,' said Jason, shaking his head and staring beyond the commando. The one over there.' Bourne gestured at the nearer of the two red trucks directly in front of them, about a hundred feet away. 'If it went up, the first order of business would be to get the plane out of there.'

  'And we'd be a lot closer than we are now. Let's do it.'

  'No,' corrected Jason. 'You'll do it. Exactly the way I tell you with my gun inches from your head. Move!'

  The assassin in front, they raced out to the truck, covered by the dim light and the commotion around the plane. The pilot and his flight officer were shining flashlights over the engines and barking impatient orders to the maintenance crews. Bourne ordered the commando to crouch down in front of him as he knelt over the open knapsack and withdrew the roll of gauze. He removed the hunting knife from his belt, pulled a coiled hose off its rack, dropping it to the ground, and slid his left hand to the base where it entered the tank. ''Check them,' he told the commando. 'How much longer? And move slowly, Major. I'm watching you.' 'I said I wanted out. I'm not going to screw up!' 'Sure you want out, but I've got a hunch you'd rather go it alone.'

  'The thought never occurred to me.' Then you're not my man.' Thanks a lot.'

  'No, I meant it. The thought would have occurred to me... How much longer?'

  'Between two and three minutes, as I judge.' 'How good is your judgement?'

  Twenty-odd missions in Oman, Yemen and points south. Aircraft similar in structure and mechanism. I know it all, sport. It's old hat. Two to three minutes, no more than that.' 'Good. Get back here.' Jason pricked the hose with his knife and made a small incision, enough to permit a steady stream of fuel to flow out, but little enough so that the pump barely operated. He rose to his feet, covering the assassin with his gun as he handed him the roll of gauze. 'Pull out about six feet and drench it with the fuel that's leaking down there.' The killer knelt down and followed Bourne's instructions. 'Now,' continued Jason, 'stuff the end into the slit where I've cut the hose. Farther -farther. Use your thumb!' 'My arm's not what it used to be!' 'Your left hand is! Press harder? Bourne looked quickly over at the refuelling -refuelled - aircraft. The commando's judgement had been accurate. Men were climbing off the wings and winding the hoses back into the fuel truck. Suddenly, the pilot and the flight officer were making their final check. They would head for the hatch door in less than a minute! Jason reached into his pocket for matches and threw them down in front of the assassin, his weapon levelled at the killer's head. 'Light it. Now?

  'It'll go up like a goddamned stick of nitro! It'll blow us both into the sky, especially mel'

  'Not if you do it right! Lay the gauze on the grass, it's wet-'

  'Retarding the fire-?'

  'Hurry up! Do it!'

  'Done!' The flame leaped up from the end of the cloth strip, then instantly fell back and began its gradual march up the gauge. 'Bloody technician,' said the commando under his breath as he rose to his feet.

  'Get in front of me,' ordered Bourne as he strung the knapsack to his belt. 'Start walking straight forward. Lower your height and shrink your shoulders like you did in Lo Wu.'

  'Jesus Christ! You were-?'

  'Move!'

  The fuel truck began backing away from the plane, then circled forward, swinging around the rolling ladders, heading to its left beyond where the first red truck was parked... and circling again, now to the right behind both stationary trucks to take up its position next to the one with the lighted gauze heading into its fuel tank. Jason whipped his head around, his eyes riveted on the fired tape. It had burst into its final flame! One spark entering the leaking valve and the exploding tank would send hot metal into its sister trucks' vulnerable shells. Any second!

  The pilot gestured to his flight officer. They marched together towards the hatch door.

  'Faster!' yelled Bourne. 'Be ready to run!'

  When?'

  'You'll know. Keep your shoulders low! Bend your spine, goddamn it!' They turned right towards the plane, passing through an oncoming crowd of maintenance personnel heading back to the hangar. 'Gongju ne?' cried Jason, admonishing a colleague for having left behind a valuable set of tools by the aircraft.

  'Gongju?' shouted a man at the end of the crowd, grabbing Bourne's arm and holding up a toolbox. Their eyes met and the crewman was stunned, his face contorted in shock. 'Tian a!' he screamed.

  It happened. It was too late for even consequential revelations. The fuel truck exploded, sending erratic pillows of fire pulsating into the sky as deadly shards of twisted metal pierced the space above and to the sides of the flaming vehicle. The crews screamed en masse; men raced in all directions, most to the protection of the hangar.

  'Run!' shouted Jason. The assassin did not have to be told; both men raced to the plane and the hatch door, where the pilot, who had climbed inside, was peering out in astonishment, while the flight officer remained frozen on the ladder. 'Kuair yelled Bourne, keeping his face in the shadows and forcing the commando's head down on the metal steps. 'Wei fengi' he added, screaming, telling the pilot to get out of the fire zone for the safety of the plane - that he was maintenance and would secure the hatchway.

  A second truck blew up, the opposing walls of explosives forming a volcanic eruption of fire and spewing metal.

  'You're right!' shouted the pilot in Chinese, grabbing his officer co-pilot by the shirt and pulling him inside; both raced up the short aisle to the flight deck.

  It was the moment, thought Jason. He wondered. 'Get in!' he ordered the commando as the third fuel truck blasted over the field and into the early light.

  'Right!' yelled the assassin, raising his head and straightening his body for the leap up the steps. Then suddenly, as another deafening explosion took place and the plane's engines roared, the killer spun round on the ladder, his right foot plunging towards Bourne's groin, his hand lashing out to deflect the weapon.

  Jason was ready. He crashed the barrel of his gun into the commando's ankle,
then swung it up, smashing it across his temple; blood flowed as the killer fell back into the fuselage. Bourne leaped up the steps, kicking the unconscious body of the impostor back, across the metal floor. He yanked the hatchway into place, slamming the latches down, and securing the door. The plane began to taxi, instantly swerving to the left away from the flaming centre of danger. Jason ripped the knapsack from his belt, pulled out a second length of nylon rope and tied the assassin's wrists to two widely separated seat clamps. There was no way the commando could free himself- none that Bourne could think of- but just in case he was mistaken, Jason cut the rope attached to the assassin's ankles, separated his legs and tied each foot to the opposite clamps across the aisle.

  He got up and started towards the flight deck. The aircraft was now on the runway, racing down the blacktop; suddenly the engines were cut. The plane was stopping in front of the terminal, where the group of government officials was gathered, watching the ever-growing conflagrations taking place less than a quarter of a mile away to the north.

  'Kai bar said Bourne, placing the barrel of his automatic against the back of the pilot's head. The co-pilot whirled around in his seat. Jason spoke in clear Mandarin as he shifted his arm. 'Watch your dials, and prepare for takeoff, then give me your maps.'

  'They will not clear us!' yelled the pilot. 'We are to pick up five outgoing commissioners!'

  To where?

  'Baoding.'

  'That's north,' said Bourne.

  'Northwest,' insisted the co-pilot.

  'Good. Head south.'

  'It will not be permitted!' shouted the pilot.

  'Your first duty is to save the aircraft. You don't know what's going on out there. It could be sabotage, a revolt, an uprising. Do as I tell you, or you're both dead. I really don't care.'

  The pilot snapped his head around and looked up at Jason. 'You are a Westerner! You speak Chinese but you are a Westerner. What are you doing?'

  'Commandeering this aircraft. You've got plenty of runway left. Take off South! And give me the maps.'

  The memories came back. Distant sounds, distant sights, distant thunder.

  'Snake lady, snake lady! Respond! What are your sector co-ordinates?'

  They were heading towards Tarn Quan and Delta would not break silence. He knew where they were and that was all that mattered. Command Saigon could go to hell, he wasn't about to give the North Viet monitoring posts an inkling as to where they were going.

  'If you won't or can't respond, Snake Lady, stay below six hundred feet! This is a friend talking, you assholes! You don't have many down here! Their radar will pick you up over six-fifty.'

  I know that, Saigon, and my pilot knows it, even if he doesn't like it, and I still won't break silence.

  'Snake Lady, we've completely lost you! Can any retard on that mission read an air map?'

  Yes, I can read one very well, Saigon. Do you think he'd go up with my team trusting any of you? Goddamnit, that's my brother down there! Fm not important to you but he is!

  'You're crazy, Western man!' yelled the pilot. 'In the name of the spirits, this is a heavy aircraft and we're barely over the treetops!' 'Keep your nose up,' said Bourne, studying a map. 'Dip and grab altitude, that's all.'

  That is also foolishness!' shouted the co-pilot. 'One downdraught at this level and we are into the forests! We are gone!

  'The weather reports on your radio say there's no turbulence anticipated-'

  'That is above? screamed the pilot. 'You don't understand the risks! Not down here?

  'What was the last report out of Jinan?' asked Jason, knowing full well what it "was.

  'They have been trying to track this flight to Baoding,' said the officer. They have been unable to do so for the past three hours. They are now searching the Hengshui mountains... Great spirits, why am I telling you! You heard the reports yourself! You speak better than my parents, and they were educated!'

  Two points for the Republic's Air Force... Okay, take a hundred and sixty degree turn in two and a half minutes and climb to an altitude of a thousand feet. We'll be over water.'

  'We'll be in range of the Japanese! They'll shoot us down!'

  'Put out a white flag - or better still, I'll get on the radio. I'll think of something. They may even escort us to Kowloon.'

  'Kowloon? shrieked the flight officer. 'We'll be shot?

  'Entirely possible,' agreed Bourne, 'But not by me,' he added. 'You see, in the final analysis, I have to get there without you. As a matter of fact, you can't even be a part of my scene. I can't allow that.'

  'You're making positively no sense!' said the exasperated pilot.

  'You just make a hundred and sixty degree turn when I tell you.' Jason studied the airspeed, calibrating the knots on the map and calculating the estimated distance he wanted. Below, through the window, he saw the coast of China fall behind them. He looked at his watch; ninety seconds had passed. 'Make your turn, Captain,' he said.

  'I would have made it anyway!' cried the pilot. 'I am not the divine wind of the Kamikaze. I do not fly into my own death.'

  'Not even for your heavenly government?'

  'Least of all.'

  Times change,' said Bourne, his concentration once more on the air map. Things change.'

  'Snake lady, snake lady! Abort! If you can hear me get out of there and return to base camp. It's a no-win! Do you readme? Abort!'

  'What do you want to do, Delta?'

  'Keep flying, Mister. In three more minutes you can get out of here.'

  'That's me. What about you and your people?'

  'We'll make it.'

  'You're suicidal, Delta.'

  'Tell me about it... All right, everyone check your chutes and prepare for cast off. Someone help Echo, put his hand on the cord.'

  'Deraisonnable!'

  The airspeed held steady at close to 370 miles per hour. The route Jason chose, flying at low altitude through the

  Formosa Strait - past Longhai and Shantou on the Chinese coast, and Hsinchu and Fengshan on Taiwan - was something over 1435 miles. Therefore the estimate of four hours, plus or minus minutes, was reasonable. The out islands north of Hong Kong would be visible in less than half an hour.

  Twice during the flight they had been challenged by radio, once from the Nationalist garrison on Quemoy, the other from a patrol plane out of Raoping. Each time Bourne took over communications, explaining in the first instance that they were on a search mission for a disabled ship bringing Taiwanese goods into the mainland, for the second a somewhat more ominous declaration that as part of the People's Security Forces they were scouting the coast for contraband vessels that had undoubtedly eluded the Raoping patrols. For this last communication he was not only unpleasantly arrogant but also used the name and the official - highly classified - identification number of a dead conspirator who lay underneath a Russian limousine in the Jing Shan Bird Sanctuary. Whether either interrogator believed him or not was, as he expected, irrelevant. Neither cared to disturb the status quo ante. Life was complicated enough. Let things be, let them go. Where was the threat? 'Where's your equipment?' asked Jason, addressing the pilot.

  'I'm flying it!' replied the man, studying his instruments, visibly snaking at each eruption of static from the radio, each reporting communication from commercial aircraft. 'As you may or may not know, I have no flight plan. We could be on a collision course with a dozen different planes!'

  'We're too low,' said Bourne, 'and the visibility's fine. I'll trust your eyes not to bump into anybody.'

  'You're insane? shouted the co-pilot.

  'On the contrary. I'm about to walk back into sanity. Where's your emergency equipment? The way you people build things, I can't imagine that you don't have any.'

  'Such as?' asked the pilot.

  'Life rafts, signalling devices... parachutes.'

  'Great spirits'

  'Where?'

  The compartment in the rear of the plane, the door to the right of the galley.'

 
; 'It's all for the officials,' added the co-pilot dourly. 'If there are problems they are supplied.'

  'That's reasonable,' said Bourne. 'How else would you attend to business?'

  'Madness.'

  Tin going aft, gentlemen, but my gun will be pointed right back here. Keep on course, Captain. I'm very experienced and very sensitive. I can feel the slightest variation in the air, and if I do, we're all dead. Understood?'

  'Maniac!'

  'Tell me about it.' Jason got up from the deck and walked back through the fuselage, stepping over his roped-up, splayed-out prisoner, who had given up the struggle to free himself, the layers of dried blood covering the wound at his left temple. 'How are things, Major?'