“Please don’t keep us in suspense. What has happened since you left Russia so suddenly?” Cloutard said, and he took a swig from his cognac glass.
“I could really use one of those right now,” Tom said, with a nod at Cloutard’s cognac, and Cloutard immediately poured a glass and handed it to his friend.
“And how did you end up on Air Force One?” Hellen pressed, looking expectantly at him.
Tom dropped onto one of the comfortable leather seats, raised his glass to Cloutard, took a big mouthful, and began to tell his story.
57
Philip S. W. Goldson International Airport, Belize City
“I used to think I got around a lot, but I see that I only ever went to the boring airports. Now I can add Ethiopia and Nizhny Novgorod to my list, and today Belize.” Cloutard was grinning broadly as he, Tom and Hellen descended the steps of the Gulfstream into a hot, humid breeze. “And the climate here is perfect, c’est magnifique,” he said, putting on his Panama hat.
“I’ve looked at Cortés’s words very closely now and compared it with his map,” Hellen said as they crossed the tarmac to the terminal. “We have to go to where Irish Creek flows into New River. From there, we follow Irish Creek upstream, and at some point we’re supposed to somehow stumble across the Golden Path.”
“That’s not very precise,” said Tom, absently looking around the arrivals hall. “Maybe we should fly over the area first and see it from above.” At first glance, the spacious hall looked like any other airport terminal, but it had a reputation as one of the least secure airports in the world. Security was lax and the staff were easily bribed.
“I agree,” said Cloutard. “Trekking aimlessly through the jungle is not likely to be very expedient. We could wander around for months, and that would be hard for me.” He patted his injured thigh. “I know this from my Amazon expeditions, when gold fever broke out in Brazil one time. We need to find someone who knows the region.” He looked around and strolled off through the terminal.
Tom was gazing off into the crowd. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Hellen.
“Where are you going?” she asked, but he was already disappearing into the press of tourists and visitors. Typical Tom, she thought, shaking her head. Then she hurried after Cloutard.
“Where did Tom go?” Cloutard asked when she caught up.
“I have no idea,” she said with a shrug. “So, what now?”
“Trust me, Mademoiselle, this is my specialty. We need to charter a usable aircraft and find an experienced pilot, someone who knows the territory.”
Hellen nodded. That sounded like a plan.
“Maya Island Air!” the Frenchman announced, and he strode over to where a young woman was standing behind a counter. “Buenos días, Señorita. We are in need of a pilot who can fly us over the Mayan ruins. We would like to see them from above.”
Cloutard had removed his hat and was using it to fan his face. He was wearing his most endearing smile, and the girl at the counter seemed to have already fallen for his charm, because she looked back at him with a smile straight out of a toothpaste commercial. Hellen rolled her eyes. What did women see in the man?
“Señor, I hate to disappoint you, I am afraid we don’t offer sightseeing flights. Maya Air only flies to our most important Mayan attraction at Lamanai.”
“Then perhaps you can suggest someone who might be able to help us?”
The young woman’s face fell. She had been counting on a commission for booking two flights to Lamanai and now realized that she was out of luck. Seconds later, however, she smiled back at Cloutard, once again the professional consultant for flip-flop-wearing tourists.
“Of course, sir. Orange Town Airways is sure to be of assistance. Their counter is over there.” She pointed straight across the hall to a counter that did not look very reputable at all. Cloutard thanked the woman and they crossed over to the other counter. Cloutard seemed to ignore the booth’s shabby appearance, but Hellen was not impressed.
“François, this looks as if it hasn’t been renovated since the 1930s. Or cleaned, for that matter.” She made the mistake of leaning on it and jerked away immediately, wiping her forearm in disgust.
“C’est rien,” said Cloutard. “We are in Central America. Everything here has a little patina.”
“Patina is fine. Filth is not,” said Hellen, but Cloutard was already talking to the elderly man behind the counter and telling him what they were looking for.
“Sssi, Sseñor. Of course we’ll do a ssssighteeing flight for you. Wherever you wan’ go . . .”
Hellen pulled Cloutard back from the counter.
“François, the man is totally drunk! I am not going to climb into any airplane if the airline staff have a drinking problem.”
Cloutard reached into his jacket pocket and took out his hip flask. He took a big swig. “Ahhh,” he sighed. “Superbe.”
Just wonderful, Hellen thought, annoyed. It was enough that she had to play the responsible parent for Tom all the time. Now Cloutard was doing his best to compete.
“Hellen, he is merely the salesman, so please relax. Besides, we have no choice.”
Cloutard explained to the man where they wanted to go and haggled a little about the price. A few minutes later, the deal was sealed and the Blue Shield credit card was put to official use.
“I hope yous have a pleassshant flight and looots of fun,” said the man, pressing the tickets into their hands and pointing the way to the gate.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Hellen said.
Cloutard glanced at her and shook his head with a laugh. “Tom is going to love it if you start with the movie quotes, too,” he said.
Hellen ignored him. They made their way through security, noting how slipshod the entire process was. Still, it was some time before they finally reached their gate.
“I’ll message Tom to tell him where we are,” Hellen said. Suddenly, she stood rooted to the spot. To her and Cloutard’s surprise, the same drunk man was waiting to check their tickets.
“Jusssht go ssshtraight on. You can’t missa plane . . .”
Hellen shook her head again, but Cloutard only seemed more amused than before.
“The people here are very efficient, that is all. They call it the profitable use of personnel,” he said as they stepped out of the terminal and into the tropical heat.
Hellen stopped in her tracks. Her face turned pale and her jaw dropped. Slowly, she raised her hand and pointed to an ancient, silver Douglas DC3, apparently held together mostly by duct tape and prayer. “What a piece of junk!” she cried in horror.
“Bingo! Tom would be proud of you. If you keep it up, you might even score a Star Wars hat trick today!”
Despite his brave front, the sight of the rickety machine also made Cloutard a little uneasy, although he knew the DC3 was one of the most reliable propeller-driven planes ever built.
“Youssh can board now,” they heard a familiar voice say.
The drunk from the counter had donned a pilot’s cap, and he dropped into the forward seat with all the elegance of a sandbag. Cloutard looked at Hellen and pointed to the fold-down steps.
“After you, Chérie,” he said, his hip flask already in his hand.
“No reward in the world is worth this,” she muttered, just as Tom came jogging across the tarmac. He was carrying a small sports bag.
“We’re going up in that thing? You’re braver than I thought!” he said with a laugh as he climbed the steps.
58
Philip S. W. Goldson International Airport, Belize City
“Very inventive, Monsieur Wagner,” Cloutard shouted over the noise of the propellers. The decrepit plane shuddered as it began to roll.
“Where did you get all that?” Hellen asked, a little shocked, staring at the sports bag. Inside it were a pistol, several magazines, two machetes, a knife, and two hand grenades.
“From our AF friends. They definitely know we’re here. I spotted two
guys in the arrivals terminal who seemed unusually interested in us. One of them was talking on his phone. When they realized that I’d seen them, they decided it was time to go. I followed them out to the parking lot and we had a little . . . discussion. Basically, I was able to convince them that they were on the wrong side, and they declared their willingness to help us out with a little donation.” Tom took the pistol out of the bag, pressed a magazine into the grip, and pulled back the slide, chambering a round.
“I have no doubt you made a persuasive argument,” Cloutard laughed, and he clapped Tom on the shoulder before fastening his seat belt and pulling it tight. Tom checked the other items in the bag, and Hellen took a machete and put it into her backpack. She was sitting opposite Cloutard in one of the fold-down seats that ran the length of the plane on each side. She also fastened her seat belt, and held on tightly to the net hanging from the side of the fuselage. In the rear of the plane, a few crates were secured in place with a safety net. Tom stood up, handed Cloutard the sports bag, and went forward to the cockpit, while Cloutard put his feet on the bag, pinning it in place. Tom made his way forward through the plane, holding onto the exposed struts on the fuselage ceiling as it rumbled down the runway. He returned a moment later and immediately sat down beside Cloutard and strapped himself in.
“The pilot’s got more in his tank than the plane does,” Tom joked as the slewed into the air.
“Yes. About now, my mother would say that it’s so hard to find good help these days,” Hellen said, and Tom grimaced at her little sideswipe.
After a few stomach-turning corrections, the plane finally settled onto a course.
“Show me the map,” Tom said.
“What, here?” Hellen said. She had her eyes closed and was breathing deeply, in and out, as if she was preparing to give birth, the noise and roughness of the ride obviously getting to her. Cloutard, by contrast, was enjoying himself immensely. He downed another swig of his expensive cognac.
“Sure, why not?” Tom said. “Hand it over.”
With one hand—she didn’t want to let go with both—Hellen fumbled the map out of her backpack and handed it across to Tom. He unfolded it and began to pore over it.
“You’re right. X really does mark the spot,” he said happily. “Except that it’s right in the middle of the jungle. But it’s impossible to use the scale here in any meaningful way—the proportions are all off.”
“The only clear clue is the junction of the two rivers. Maybe that’s why the Spanish never found anything when they used the map—simply because it is too imprecise,” Cloutard murmured.
They sat and looked at one another in frustration—they were flying over the verdant hell of Belize and had evidently reached a dead end.
59
In an old Douglas DC3 over the jungles of Belize
“Hoooollly mother o’ God, what the hell is that?”
Three heads turned toward the cockpit when the pilot started screaming like a madman. Tom ran to the cockpit and the pilot pointed shakily to the jungle below.
“Tha-sssh different than it used to be. Tha-sssh new,” the man slurred.
Tom looked down and saw that parts of the jungle had been razed by fire, apparently quite recently. He recalled seeing a report about Central American wildfires on CNN, back in Russia. Strangely, though, the jungle here had burned in very specific bands, as if someone had deliberately set fire to certain areas and then extinguished them again. But looking closer, he could see what the pilot was so excited about.
“Hellen! François! Come up here, quickly,” Tom shouted as the pilot swung the plane back to take a closer look.
They hurried to the cockpit, but had to hold on tightly as the drunken pilot banked sharply.
“Oh my God!” Hellen cried. “That’s the top of a Mayan pyramid.”
“T-treassssure hunners have been runnin’ round here for years, and they ain’t never found nothin’.” The pilot pointed down. “I’m a ge-genius. Thisssh flight’s costin’ yous double,” he slurred enthusiastically.
“Though I hate to say it, it seems the fire was good for something,” Cloutard said, ignoring the pilot.
Hellen was beside herself with excitement. She had a feeling that this discovery would change everything. A rainforest like this was like the proverbial haystack, and its needles—Mayan ruins—had always been discovered by accident in the past. But the fires had taken chance out of the equation. She sensed that they were very close to the Golden Path. She, too, ignored the babbling pilot and studied the map, trying to orient herself.
“Yes, this must be what Cortés meant. We have to get down there!”
“Lady, look arrrroun’. There’ssh nothin’ but jungle all around here, and landin’ in the middle o’ the jungle’s really not so easy,” the pilot slurred as he struggled to level the plane out.
Hellen looked at the decrepit array of dials and gauges on the instrument panel, and it was suddenly crystal clear to her just how old this rattletrap was. She felt a wave of nausea. By modern standards, the cockpit of the eighty-year-old plane was barely even rudimentary. The most obvious elements were two control columns that looked like someone had cut off the top third of a steering wheel. The seats were upholstered as much with duct tape as they were with the original leather, and there was hardly a gauge or dial with its glass still intact. Every switch, every bolt, every cover—at least, the ones that still existed—rattled.
“You have to get us down there,” Tom said.
“No, no, no, señor. That ain’t p-possshhible.”
“Si, si, si. That’s where we have to go.” Tom pulled a few banknotes from his pocket and stuffed them into the breast pocket of the man’s foul-smelling shirt.
“Ooohh, thank you, sir. Maybe I can put her down in tha’ clearing over there . . .”
He pointed to the spot he had in mind and patted the freshly earned dollars in his pocket—his rum supply was safe for a while. He gave Tom a thumbs-up and turned the plane to the west. Satisfied, Tom turned away, and all three of them stumbled back to their seats as quickly as they could. Hellen and Cloutard were already buckled in when there was a loud crash, accompanied by a massive jolt that sent Tom sprawling. Hellen screamed. The plane dipped its nose and fell sharply. With a huge effort, Tom managed to get to his feet. He peered out the window. The cowling around the port engine had been torn away, the propeller was seized, and the engine was spewing flames and black smoke. Bracing against the side wall, he fought his way back to the cockpit.
“What happened?” Hellen cried, clawing her fingers into the cargo net.
The cockpit was chaos, open to hurricane-force winds. The pilot, turning west, had apparently flown straight through a flock of birds. Several had flown into the port engine, shredding it, and at least one had smashed through the windshield and knocked him out. He had slumped forward onto the control column, sending them into a steep descent.
“A flock of birds, I think. We’ve lost the pilot,” Tom shouted back to Hellen and Cloutard as he pulled the unconscious man away from the controls. Then he jumped into the co-pilot’s seat and hauled back on the control column, pulling the nose up just in time. The DC3’s belly scraped across the treetops as they began to gain altitude again. It took quite a while with only one engine intact, but Tom managed to get the plane above the low-lying blanket of cloud they’d been flying beneath earlier.
“François, see what you can find back there. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this thing in the air.”
“Sacré bleu,” the Frenchman muttered. He lifted up the seat on his left. Nothing. He tried the one on the right. Also nothing. “Check the seats on your side,” he said to Hellen, who was still clinging to the net, her eyes closed tightly, praying for her life. “Hellen!” he snapped, and she started and opened her eyes. Then she too, without loosening her seat belt, began rummaging through the compartments beneath the seats.
“Oh, no, no, no. Not on your life,” she cried, lifting up an object.
“Perfect,” Cloutard said, and he reached for the large parachute Hellen had just found in the compartment.
“Did you find anything?” Tom shouted back. It was taking all his strength just to hold the plane more or less steady. “We’re down to one engine and that won’t hold much longer.”
He glanced back, and Hellen held up the parachute.
“Please tell me there are more of those in there,” Cloutard said to Hellen.
Hellen checked, but all she could find was a second harness without a parachute and a small case with a flare gun inside it. She quickly stuffed the flare gun and a few spare cartridges into her backpack. Cloutard stood up and staggered forward to Tom.
“We have one parachute, that is all,” Cloutard shouted over the wind. “Let me fly. You and Hellen should try your luck with the chute.”
“No. You two go. I’m already at the wheel.” The plane was shaking so violently that it almost knocked Cloutard off his feet. Tom was struggling just to hold a course. “Go! The second engine’s going to give out any second. We’ve got enough altitude for the moment, but not for long,” he yelled at Cloutard.
Reluctantly, Cloutard went back to Hellen. He pulled on the parachute and got Hellen into the other harness.
“Are you crazy? We can’t jump with one parachute. That’s it, my life is over.”
“No, no, no, Chérie. Theresia would kill me if anything happened to you. We can do this! Tandem skydiving, the kids call it these days.”
Hellen positioned herself in front of Cloutard, He snapped her harness to his and they waddled together to the rear hatch.
“No! I can’t do it! Please!” Hellen cried as Cloutard opened the hatch. Her fear of heights was making her panic. She clawed her hands into her backpack, which she was wearing on her chest. Tom looked back over his shoulder and gave Cloutard the okay.
The Golden Path (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 4) Page 17
