Timing, and surprise. Catch them unawares. Hit them while they momentarily froze with surprise . . . Steve went over the plan with Rudy and Carla. They synchronized their watches. It would have to be a rapid-step procedure. Wayne would get as close to the C-47 as he could without being seen, drop low and wait for the fireworks—which would be his signal to get into the airplane and get those engines going.
One element they surely couldn’t control. Fossengen and his group coming up that slope. They weren’t too far behind. Well, you couldn’t always have all your ducks in a row.
Steve left his rifle behind and slipped away into the darkness. He retraced their steps, staying within the grass until he reached the western end of the plateau. Now he cut south so that he could come up on the guards from the opposite side. He’d quarter his approach, keeping the guards between himself and where Rudy and Carla lay hidden in the grass. When they out loose he didn’t want to be in a straight line behind the guards. Too much lead would be flying.
He moved swiftly, running with the speed of a big cat, and as quietly. He came around in position, went prone and studied the luminous hands of his watch. About two minutes. Fifteen seconds before their zero time they’d bury their faces in their arms, look anywhere but at the guards. But they’d know when he was moving.
He cut open his left pocket in a neat slit down the trousers, exposing his left thigh. The pressure point; he pushed down with his finger. The plastiskin panel moved away from the surface into its recess, exposing a storage tube. He reached in and removed four metal globes, each about half the size of a golf ball. He closed his leg. In the dark he felt the surface of each globe until he was certain of a ridge slightly raised from the sphere. He slipped one of the globes into a pocket, held the other three in his right hand. He’d need all the throwing power he could get, which called for the strength of his bionics arm.
He went to one knee, studied the guard camp. He took a deep breath. Quickly he stabbed down on the ridges of the spheres. Ten-second timers. As fast as he snapped the timers, he threw them. One directly in front of the guards, high over and between them and the position where Rudy and Carla waited. The second sphere to their left, the third and last to their right. He spun around, facing in the opposite direction, throwing his arm up before his eyes.
Three tiny bombs hurtled through the air in carefully timed arcs. The first exploded, a tiny pop lost in the night wind. There was no explosion or blast. The spheres were light bombs, compact modifications of flashbombs used by the military for night photography, and they threw out in all directions a blinding sheet of radiance—enough to take a clear photograph from five thousand feet, enough to erase sight for thirty seconds or more. Then the second and the third spheres ripped away the night.
Steve turned quickly—poised. A sudden roar came from the other side of the field. Rudy and Carla had waited, their faces buried in their arms, protecting themselves from the light. But even protected in this manner they could see something of the flash destroying darkness. One, two, three, and then they were on their feet, rifles in their hands, turning about.
Seven men staggered to their feet, hands at their eyes. Rudy and Carla began firing off thirty-round clips. Three, then five men were knocked from their feet as the high-velocity rounds smacked into them. Another went down. The seventh was firing blindly, a reflex action, in the general direction of his unseen attackers.
Rudy and Carla were to fire until their clips were empty. Each now had one clip left. Their instructions were to empty the clips, then eject the empties and insert their last clips. Now Steve would make his move.
He started running, staying low, the machete gripped tightly in his left hand. And he saw that his fears were realized. Three men came running from a low tent Carla hadn’t seen. They ran into the night, startled, but also angry and ready. They’d seen the flashes of the guns from across the field, and immediately crouched or went flat, returning the fire.
Steve ran with all the speed he could bring to his bionics limbs, steel feet thudding into the ground, closing on the remaining guards. He timed it by an expectation of their reflexes. He bellowed as loud as he could. The guards, startled again, turned their heads.
In the flickering light of their fire they saw what surely seemed some sort of demon, a white savage with red stripes across face and body. He came at them with unexpected speed. They were bringing their guns to bear, turning as fast as they could, but Steve was already in their midst. His machete came about in a terrible slash as it ripped into a shoulder, carrying entirely through the chest. No time to hesitate. Steve kept moving, pivoting on those pistonlike legs, the machete coming back now in a backswing that took the second man at the waist. Again blood sprayed in the reflection of firelight as the man fell to the side.
The third guard stared at the apparition that had emerged so violently from the darkness. His rifle sounded but it was without aim. Steve threw himself at the man, unable to bring the machete to bear at such close quarters. He hit the man with a stunning blow of his own body. The machete fell from his hand as he brought up his arm, bionics fist closed in a steel bludgeon. The blow crushed the man’s skull.
Steve dropped to the ground and rolled to the side. There was still that one guard from the first group. He hadn’t seen him fall. A gun fired and bullets ripped into the ground, tearing into and over the body of the man Steve had killed with his fist. Steve continued rolling. The guard was too far for Steve to go for him. The man was still effective with his weapon, and he was trying to catch Steve for just that one moment needed to cut him down.
Another burst of fire, but this time from across the field. The guard stumbled from the impact as lead went through him. He fell without a sound.
Steve came to his feet, running. No one else moved. He took off across the field to where he’d left Rudy and Carla, whom he saw now on her feet, rifle barrel smoking. Carla had been ready to save his life once before. Likely now she had finally done it.
“Steve, quickly . . . Rudy’s been hit.” She pointed to where Rudy lay on the ground, hands gripping his right leg. Even in the darkness Steve saw the dull shine of fresh blood. He dropped beside Rudy, gritting his teeth with pain, trying not to cry out.
“No time to stop it now,” Rudy said. “I saw something at the end of the field.” Steve turned his head. In the distance, just coming up the last slope to the plateau, moving figures. If they were ever going to make it . . .
He bent down, pulled Rudy roughly from the ground and got him over his shoulder. “The plane . . . run for it,” he told Carla.
She did, and Steve began to outdistance her despite his burden. He heard Rudy gasp with pain from the pounding but there was no help for it. Ahead of them an engine coughed to life, then roared as Wayne caught it with a sure touch at the throttle. Steve was mentally urging Wayne on, going through the starting procedures. He heard the second prop turning over, coughing, stopping, then catching. A sudden blast of power. Not too hard, play it, play it . . . The roar increased as Wayne brought power to both engines and the C-47 rolled ahead, then swung to the left, the right engine thundering as Wayne brought in more power to turn her. They were coming together. They reached the C-47, ran toward the tail. The blast of air from the props nearly tumbled Steve as he went for the belly hatch.
He heaved, then shoved Rudy through the hatch and out of the way. Carla was by his side. “Get in,” Steve shouted at her. She reached up to the edge of the hatch and he grabbed her by the waist, half-lifting and half-throwing her into the cabin behind Rudy.
Something smacked into metal by his head. They were getting the range . . . He heaved himself into the cabin, saw Carla by Rudy, well away from the open hatch. He rushed up the cabin to the cockpit. Wayne turned to him, clearly and appropriately terrified. But he knew how to keep his head. He was in the right seat, and Steve clambered into the left, not bothering with the belt. He hit the throttles, bringing the transport around, pointing down the grass strip. All he could see were
tiny orange flashes as Fossengen and his men directed their fire at the airplane.
They had to get past a dozen automatic rifles firing at close range. Steve didn’t know the direction of the wind, and at this altitude unless they had everything working for them, he’d never get the ship off the ground before they were out of runway.
The rockets. He’d forgotten all about them. He reached down as they started to roll, tore away the safety wire. “Phil, when I call it out, hit this switch!” He couldn’t fire the RATO bottles too soon. The rockets burned only so long and they had to be timed exactly right for best effect. The engines went to full throttle. They rolled forward, painfully slow in their acceleration. He had to stay with it. He knew Fossengen’s men were fanning out, ready to catch them in a crossfire as they went past.
They ducked as metal shattered along the side of the plane’s nose. They were getting the range. The plane could be taken out at any moment. If only he could—
The last sphere. In his pocket. “Hold her steady,” he shouted to Wayne. Phil grabbed the yoke and hung on. They had enough speed to bring up the tail, get rid of some of their drag, roll along on the main gear only. Steve pulled open the window by his side. He had the sphere in his hand, stabbing on the timer release. His left hand, into the wind. He threw, as hard as he could, straight ahead.
“Cover your eyes,” he told Wayne. “I’ve got her.” He grabbed the yoke, corrected slightly with the rudder. He was counting. He hung on. The exploding flashbomb gutted the night. No more firing. The flashbomb had done it. Fossengen’s men, blind for the moment, staggering back as if struck.
Time now for the rocket boosters. “Phil, the switch. Hit it!”
Nothing. He had braced himself for the rockets. Nothing! Angrily he turned to Wayne, froze. The windshield on the right was gone, shattered. He had time only for a glimpse of a bloody mess, then his right hand went down to the switch, cracked it into position.
A glare spread about them, raced in all directions from the accelerating transport as the solid rockets lit. Flame rushed back as a special force took hold of the C-47, pushed it forward faster and faster. There were no cockpit lights. Steve couldn’t even see the airpseed indicator. It didn’t matter. He put everything on the flaming blast of those rockets. He came back gently on the yoke and felt the vibration from the gear end. Steve brought up the gear, rolled at once into a left turn, ready to drop the nose. His hand sought the panel light switch. The instruments suddenly glowed at him.
The transport shuddered as the rockets cut out. He went forward on the yoke. The turn would have brought them to the left of the plateau, to the south, clear of that sheer drop of several thousand feet. Empty space—blessed open air to let the nose drop, the speed pick up. The needle on the airspeed dial came steadily around. Steve punched the jettison switch. He felt the slight jar as the empty rocket bottles were pushed away from the belly. The speed packed up still more. Steve leaned back in the seat, fighting to recover.
He turned to Phil and froze. That last burst that took out the windshield had been nearly fatal. Phil sagged against the side of the cockpit. Steve leaned over, turned on the overhead chart light so that it played on the unconscious man. The blood had stopped. The cold. The cold had kept Phil alive, helped staunch the flow of blood. Steve worked the copilot’s oxygen mask from its rack, slipped it over Phil, turned the flow to 100 percent oxygen. He felt the man’s pulse. Weak, but he would hold for a while. Until they got past those high peaks . . .
Steve sagged in his seat at the controls, flying by rote, easing the C-47 in a steady climb over the mountains. Lima lay straight ahead.
He remembered finally to bring the oxygen mask to his own face. Remembered, also, the two people in the cabin behind him. Realized, suddenly with wicked impact, that the temperature was below zero and that he was bare to the waist. He locked in the automatic pilot, switched to the walk-around oxygen bottle and climbed stiffly from his seat. He was shivering with the bitter cold as he went back into the cabin. He groped for the cabin light switch, flicked it on. Piled against equipment bags were the still forms of Carla and Rudy.
Steve hurried to them, pausing only long enough to drag the hatch cover from where Phil had tossed it, and slipped it into place. At least that stopped the freezing windblast.
They were unconscious. Steve grabbed two masks from their racks, turned the flow to 100 perceat oxygen, held them against the faces of Carla and Rudy. It would take a little while. Clumsy, half-frozen, he slipped the straps over their heads. He stopped to turn on the cabin heater switch to maximum. On his way back to the cockpit he grabbed a blanket lying on top of an equipment pack, wrapped it about him. Hell of a flight suit, but it would do. In the cockpit he checked Phil again. Unconscious or sleeping. Probably in shock, but he should hold until they got back to the ground. Steve fastened the seat belt around Phil, then got the shoulder harness hooked up and the inertial reel locked. If Phil suddenly came out of it, he wouldn’t be able to flail around and hurt himself or the airplane. Steve made a quick check of the gauges. She was holding steady. He made a minor adjustment to the power settings, and went to the rear again.
Carla was groping clumsily to sit up. She nodded to tell him she was coming out of it. He turned to Rudy. Thank God, he was breathing, and around his leg above the wound was a tourniquet. Carla had managed that before she passed out. He moved Rudy to a more comfortable position, raised his head slightly and waited. He began to stir several minutes later. Steve made sure the mask was on properly. Rudy came back to full consciousness in great pain. He was still the doctor, but it must have felt strange to be telling someone else what to do about his leg. There was a first-aid kit in the cockpit. Steve brought it back, did as he was told.
No wonder he’d heard Rudy gasping with pain before. The leg was broken. He gave Rudy a shot of morphine, then told him and Carla what had happened, where they were. The drug was affecting Rudy. He nodded his understanding, then gave in to the spreading effect of the morphine.
“He’ll sleep for a while,” Steve told Carla. She nodded, looking at him. “Watch him, will you?”
“Of course . . .” She reached out for his hand and he held hers. No need for words now. Their eyes met in a silent promise. Later.
Steve went back to the cockpit, returned to the controls. He turned on the radios but waited before using them. He needed a few moments to himself. He looked at Phil. Without him . . .
He looked ahead. Up here the stars were bright and clear, the heavy clouds far beneath them. There was a moon somewhere. He could see the dim glow in the sky.
He thought about the film in his pocket. Phil had also managed to save the film he carried with him. It had been bought with blood and lives. But there was much more than the film. That piece of crystal he’d picked up when the stray bullet ricocheted into and despoiled the gleaming surface. It could be the key. He pictured the now destroyed huge crystal in his mind and saw it reborn and thought of what it could do and what it meant. With the films and his small piece scientists could possibly create its duplicate, bring it back to life.
He thought of the stories that had pursued the mysteries of the past. And the ancients who had peopled those dim and cloudy centuries so long ago. With all they had just been through, what they had seen and what they had discovered, could one still shrug off even the most bizarre claims? Were the chariots of the gods and strange visitations to this world really such far-fetched notions as some claimed, or were they part of an unbreakable thread of reality? Not so very long ago the idea of the crystal had precious little substance . . .
More tired than he’d realized, he eased the nose down, starting the long descent for Lima. He called into air traffic control, told them position and time out from landing, asked for an ambulance to be waiting. And would they notify the American embassy. There’d be questions to be answered, and he was too tired to bother.
Now he wanted to think only about Carla. And himself. How things would take care of themselves
, if given the chance.
He came out of the night sky, a great metal ghost. The wheels touched and he bled off the speed, letting the tail slide to the ground. He taxied to the flight line, swung her around smartly, locked the brakes. He shut her down, flicking switches.
Cyborg 03 - High Crystal Page 19
