Cyborg 03 - High Crystal

by Martin Caidin

  Cargo parachutes had been placed by several windows. In each C-47 window was a twist-out plastic shield; once removed it yielded a space through which a rifle could be placed—holdover from past wars when troops were given a psychological boost to shoot at attacking enemy fighters. No one ever shot down a fighter with a rifle, but shooting was better than chewing nails. The cargo chutes were the equivalent of sandbags, providing cover for men at window positions within the airplane.

  “Rudy, take that window. Dr. Jennings, you get to the right side. Remember, you already know their general position. No shooting until you hear one of us open fire first. Mueller, you come with us.”

  Steve knew those waiting outside would concentrate on the hatchway that the door had been closed against. Let them keep watching. Each man had the long clips in his rifle and had thumbed his weapon to full auto. Steve slipped down through the open-belly cargo hatch and went prone on the ground. Wayne and Mueller followed, spreading out quickly, staying prone. They knew what to do.

  They didn’t have, long to wait. In the darkness across the field, they heard the truck motor grind to life, then roar suddenly as the driver raced the engine. No lights yet. They heard the truck coming around to face the airplane, picking up speed, and abruptly the bright headlights stabbed on, exploding night into dazzling light. Steve didn’t watch the truck. Neither did Wayne or Mueller. They were looking in the direction where the photocell alarm had shown them people were waiting. The plan wasn’t that hard to figure. At full speed the truck would smash into the tail of the airplane, doing enough damage to ground the C-47 several weeks. The men inside, shaken by the unexpected blow and movement of the airplane, would come rushing out through the cabin door . . .

  Steve glanced at the luminous dials of his watch. Forty seconds. The truck engine keened as the driver kept the accelerator floored. Forty-three seconds; Steve looked out into darkness. The headlights rushed toward them. Forty-five seconds and the plastic explosives charge went off beneath the fuel tank of the truck. Flame went skyward, followed by a smashing explosion as the tank blew. Garish light was in all directions. Men totally surprised by the blast reacted. They moved, lifted their heads, sprang up from prone position into a crouch.

  The men by the C-47 opened up. One rifle from the cabin, fired by Rudy Wells—short, clipped bursts. Steve took aim on a momentarily illuminated figure, squeezed off a short burst. Arms were flung out and the form crumpled to the ground. Wayne and Mueller fired steadily. Another figure tumbled.

  “Hold your fire,” Steve called. Guns went silent. The ghostly flames of the burning truck sent long shadows across the field. In the distance, staying low, barely visible, a small group of men were running off, and for a moment Steve considered going after them. He decided it wasn’t worth the risk. They’d done enough damage to make the survivors think hard about trying again while they were on the field. And the ones who got away would at least slow down a little the ones who wanted the airplane destroyed and its occupants shot down.

  Steve thought about that a while. One name—Odd Fossengen. Too many things tied together, going all the way back to Fossengen’s presence when the natives carried Major Dutch Ryland down the river from Azul to Ayabaca. That, and his presence at Lima when they landed, and his cock-and-bull about needing transportation. Plus that he was anything but Norwegian.

  Steve began to think more seriously about what might be waiting for them in the mountains. Whatever it was, people were willing to kill anyone who got too curious about it.

  They couldn’t have gone very far the next day even had they planned on starting their mission. Not with a charred corpse in the seared wreckage of the truck. And especially not with four bodies found the next morning on the airfield. In their favor was the attempt to wreck the C-47 on their first landing and their immediate report of the matter to the local police in Ayabaca. The police who came to the airfield found the four men gunned down by Steve and his crew exactly where they had fallen. With their rifles. And with dynamite.

  Steve left the matter to Aaron Mueller. Word came back from the Peruvian government that Austin and the others were in the country by invitation, that their papers were in order. It took two days for the Peruvians to be satisfied that whatever actions had taken place were in self-defense and for the Americans to be cleared of all charges.

  Left hanging were the reasons behind so strong an attack, involving as many men as had participated in the move to destroy the C-47 and, if necessary, its occupants. Several times the word “gold” came into the conversation, and the Peruvians went along. It was more than plausible. There had been many expeditions in the past that had pretended archeological interest and instead had concentrated on rumored hordes of gold and precious jewels. A made-to-order smokescreen for the real purpose of Steve’s expedition.

  The delay for the investigation also gave Steve two full days to run Phil Wayne through a grueling, accelerated checkout in the airplane. By noon of the second day Phil was handling the C-47 with confidence.

  The third day after their arrival at Ayabaca they moved out. Into the highlands. Fossengen no doubt eventually behind. Ahead—who really knew?

  CHAPTER 10

  Steve came across the Chalhuanca Plateau an even thousand feet over the high tableland beneath them. It was an eerie feeling; it didn’t seem right to be flying at 17,000 feet with all that flatland directly below, only a thousand feet away. There wasn’t any question of their altitude. They were all wearing oxygen masks. The Gooney Bird took a lot of power and a big box of airspace to make its turns. Holding his altitude of a thousand feet, Steve dragged the Chalhuanca from the four points of the compass, checking everything in sight. He didn’t like the winds. They seemed never to blow at less than twenty miles an hour. He was beginning to believe this was a constant diet for the plateau. It could make life miserable for them. Even on the ground, when they would have to work, they’d be sucking oxygen periodically to keep their heads from spinning. It would take some time to acclimate their systems to the thin air.

  He came around a wide turn and said, “Dr. Jennings, it looks as if the plateau was once a lot bigger than what we see now.”

  Jennings was standing directly behind him. “I agree. See there, along the western edge? It’s almost a vertical drop to the lower valley. It looks like a granite upthrusting, but . . .” He shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “And there hasn’t been enough time for erosive wear like we find in Utah or Nevada,” Steve added. “I’d guess there’s been some heavy volcanic activity here and most likely strong earthquakes.”

  “As well as very erosive rainfall.” Jennings leaned forward for a better look as Steve swept around the vertical walls of the western slope of the plateau. “Except for the eastern ridge,” he went on, “it seems to be close to vertical all around. And to the east there’s been some severe erosive damage. Steve, just how are we ever going to get up there? From what I understand, if we worked our way as far upriver as we could, it would still take us another ten days to two weeks to reach the plateau. And then we’d have to start climbing. That could take another week—or more.”

  “We don’t walk, doctor. And we sure don’t climb, because we haven’t got three weeks.” He pointed to what showed as a level expanse of green along the side of the plateau. “See that open area down there? It looks pretty good. If it turns out to be as good as I think it is, we’re going to land there.”

  A moment of silent disbelief. Finally a sound over the intercom, from Rudy Wells back in the cabin. “Did I hear you right? You intend to land this thing down there? Steve, the altitude’s got you. Check your mask to see if it’s working. You—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Rudy.”

  “What the hell do you mean, don’t worry? You don’t know what’s down there. For God’s sake, Steve, we’re so high we’ll come in too hot and oh, what’s the use.”

  Phil Wayne was nodding. “I think he’s got a point, Steve,” the copilot said.
“I mean, you really can’t tell what’s in there.”

  Steve came around in a steep turn, coming back on power and starting downstairs in a slide of diminishing altitude. “Let’s go back to the field,” he said. “I’ll lay it out for you.”

  At first light next morning, before the winds began their steady rush across the Chalhuanca, the C-47 rose again from Ayabaca field, climbing steadily for altitude. This time Phil Wayne sat in the left seat as the aircraft commander, with Steve in the copilot seat. Wayne had been told to climb to 18,000 feet and to circle the plateau. At ten thousand Steve left the cockpit, waving Jennings into the right seat. He went back into the cabin, where a dour-faced Wells and a tight-lipped Mueller waited for him. “Steve, listen to me,” Mueller said. “You’re taking an awful chance. Not just for Rudy, but yourself. There’s got to be another way to—”

  “Let’s not waste time,” Steve said, “and thanks just the same, Mueller, but this is the only way. Doc, hook up to a walk-around bottle.” Both men disconnected from the cabin oxygen system and plugged into an oxygen cylinder attached to their belts. “Mueller, it’s a bit cramped in here. We’ll need your help.”

  His protest made and obviously not going to have any effect, Mueller did what was needed. Steve and Wells slipped into parachute harness, a single backpack. Each man was assisted by Mueller, then Steve and Wells checked each other out in every detail of their gear. They put on jump helmets and gloves, hooked a static line from their chute pack to the overhead cable running the length of the cabin. “We’re going out the belly hatch, Mueller. Secure yourself with that safety harness, and then pull the hatch for us.”

  The hatch came back and dust flew for a moment through the cabin. “Phil, you read me?”

  “Got you, Steve.”

  “Make a pass from east to west. Just off the centerline of that field down there. I want to drop a marker.”

  Rudy sat against the side of the cabin, trussed up in his gear, feet splayed out stiffly, watching everything, not saying a word. Steve braced himself by the open hatch, looking down. “Coming up on the run,” Wayne called.

  “Right. Hold her steady as she goes, Phil.” The pin came out easily from the smoke bomb and Steve dropped it through the hatch. Halfway down to the open grass field smoke burst from the bomb, forming a long streamer that continued to impact. Then smoke poured forth in a thicker cloud, bending before the wind. “Good,” Steve said quietly, “right down the field. Phil, around once more, and when you come in again for the same pass, use half flaps and ease her off until you’re indicating ninety.”

  Wayne’s voice was terse. “Roger. Nine zero indicated.”

  “Good. I’ll call it out at five seconds for the first jumper.” He turned to Rudy, motioning him to get ready. Wells stood by the hatch, facing forward. They rolled gently through the turns, leveled. They could feel the speed easing off, the slight rumble when half flaps were brought in.

  “Right down the line,” came Wayne’s voice. “Ninety-five coming down, we’re on ninety.”

  “Hold her right there,” Steye said. He was a bit worried about Rudy, but he dismissed it with the knowledge that the doctor had gone through the rigorous, even brutal, paramedic training and had jumped into worse than this. The question of altitude had been his greatest worry. If they jumped with a regular chute, even the biggest 34-foot canopy available, they wouldn’t have directional control worth a damn and they might drift right off the edge of the plateau. And if they landed on target, their descent speed, especially in that wind, could even more easily snap a leg bone.

  They weren’t jumping with regular chutes. Each man wore a Paracommander, a chute intended for special control in spot landings and able to handle altitude nearly as well as a regular chute would operate at sea level. The Paracommander flew as part-wing, part-chute, and coming down into the wind they could reduce their speed over the ground to nearly zero. That’s what the book said, anyway. The highest elevation Steve had ever jumped—ground elevation—was eight thousand feet, and this was twice as high. Well, no time like the present. He made sure Rudy was in position, moved in right behind him.

  “Five seconds,” Steve called. His hand smacked Rudy’s thigh. Rudy dropped through the hatch. On hitting the airstream he spread-eagled his arm, legs apart, in the classic sky-diver’s position to balance his body. Almost at once he whipped away from sight. Steve was out the door a second later. The icy wind slammed into him, started to tumble his body. He was moving into the sky-diver’s balance when the static line snapped taut. The chute ripped open, a tremendous jerk grabbed his body and whipped it around. Then the silence of falling beneath the open canopy. Somewhere in the distance he heard the fading sound of the C-47 engines.

  He reached up to grasp the two wooden steering toggles with which to maneuver himself. There were only seconds left. He caught a sight of Rudy’s red-and-white chute as the doctor swung downwind, coming around in a curving descent, as Steve himself was doing, so that they might come down into the wind. The wind dropped its speed to what felt like fifteen miles an hour. Rudy several seconds before him, Steve worked the toggles to bring him directly into the wind and touched down at near zero speed over the ground. He took the landing upright, staying on his feet, watching Rudy playing it safe, feet together, his body folding expertly along the ground. Both men moved swiftly now, running foward to collapse their chutes. They worked their way out of their harness. Rudy ran toward him. The air was mean cold, the wind biting, and Steve was grateful for the oxygen bottles they breathed from. He reached into his pack and removed a walkie-talkie, pulling off his jump helmet as he did so.

  “Poppa to Little Bear, we’re both down safe,” he called to Wayne in the circling transport.

  “Hey, great. We saw you hit.” He laughed with relief. “Okay, Little Bear, let’s get with the rest of it. I’ll give you two smoke bombs on a direct line for your drop.”

  “Got it, but don’t miss,” Steve cautioned. “Those things can’t steer.” He looked up as the wind freshened, flattening the tops of the waist-high grass about them. “Phil, make your drop at five hundred above us. You copy?”

  “A bit low, isn’t—”

  “Five zero zero,” Steve said.

  “Got it.”

  “Okay. Smoke going out.” Rudy was already pulling two smoke bombs from his pack. He handed one to Steve, who ran down the grass field about seven hundred feet from Rudy. He waved to the doctor and both men pulled the pins and dropped the grenades. The smoke poured forth in a perfect marker for the transport. On the first pass a heavy pack dropped away neatly, the chute opening almost at once. Fortunately the wind held true and the chute came down a hundred feet within the first marker. The second drop was off, close to the edge of the plateau, but the chute snagged in a small gnarled tree and they had the equipment.

  Steve and Wells went to work at once. Steve drove a steel rod deep into the ground. Not as deep as he wanted; it struck rock about eight inches down and stopped. He judged it would hold, and unfurled a bright international-orange banner at the top of the rod for a marker. Carrying three more rods, he and Rudy walked the length of the grass field. No rocks underfoot. Beneath the high grass, surprisingly solid footing, a surface leveled by centuries of strong winds and erosion control by the grass. Much of the plateau was deceptive. On the way down in the chute Steve had caught a glimpse of sun reflection along the western edge of the tableland; that indicated water of some kind, and also very possibly a mosslike surface that could be spongy and treacherous.

  It took them an hour. By then they’d marked off 2,800 feet of fairly level ground covered by the high grass. They’d changed oxygen tanks near the end of that hour. The C-47 circled now at twenty thousand. Steve called Wayne. “Phil, by the best we can measure, we’ve got about twenty-eight hundred feet of good material for you to land.”

  “Doesn’t seem like much, Steve. Not at this height. We’ll be coming in pretty hot.”

  “If I didn’t think you could hack
it you wouldn’t be up there. Now kindly shut up and listen. The wind’s doing about thirty and it’s right down the centerline of the area we marked out. You set up your approach well out. Bring it in with gear and flaps down—you know the routine—and flat-pitch those props. You can be generous with the power. Hold her on ninety-five indicated.”

  “You guys look like you’re standing by a tennis court,” Wayne complained.

  “It’s bigger than it looks. Now, if you feel you can’t make it the first time in, go around. Keep your nose level and pour the coal to her. But I don’t think you’ll have to do that. We’ll give you smoke for a wind-marker.”

  “Steve, the boundary for touching down . . . could you cut away some of that grass and give me something to shoot for? Otherwise it looks like I’m coming down on water. That grass has no depth perception to it.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Steve pulled a machete from the equipment bag, saw Rudy doing the same. “Hey, doc, you sit this one out.” He’d gauged correctly just how tired Rudy was—the jump alone was enough to wear out a man at this altitude. Rudy sank gratefully to the ground with his back against their equipment pack. Steve closed the hand of his bionics arm about the machete handle, and for ten minutes the steel blade was a blur as he slashed away a strip through the grass a hundred feet wide and thirty feet deep.

  “Okay, Phil,” he radioed. “No more horsing around. Bring her in now. By the way, if you’re worried about overrun, the surface beyond the outer marks is spongy moss. You won’t get very far. C’mon, kid, time to graduate.”

  Wayne swung the C-47 well downwind, banked steeply as it turned through base and onto the final. Wayne was calling out the steps as he went through the procedures: gear, flaps, leading-edge flaps, power, altitude, speed, rate of descent. Steve was in the cockpit with him, knowing and feeling every move, talking to Wayne.