by L. J. Martin
"Must belong to the Pyragüés guards. Can you get a key?"
"Keys are in it."
"Good. By the watch, ten minutes. Figure out how to blow that whole fucking fuel dump. I gotta believe it'll be a great diversion."
"What a party," Skip says, and hangs up.
I call Wetback again. "Hey, I'm calling a buddy in Miami who's tight with the DEA. They'll be waiting for you when you land so don't panic. We'll have it handled."
All that was the good news. The bad is that four vehicles are showing their lights at the Air Force headquarters.
And they're heading this way.
29
I call Skip back, and it takes him almost ten rings to answer, and the vehicles coming this way are closing fast.
"Hey, don't wait," I tell him, "the shit's about to hit the fan over here. Blow it, haul ass this way."
As quickly as I hang up, I unlimber the RPG. By the time we're locked and loaded, the vehicles are only two hundred yards away. There's a personnel carrier leading the way, what looks like a Mercedes limo next, another personnel carrier behind, and a large vehicle that resembles a half-track, but has two sets of double rubber tires on the rear. There's a fifty caliber mounted on an armor protected tripod on its roof, unmanned but a real threat as it's most likely accessible from the inside.
I radio Wetback who's in the cockpit of the G5. "Yeah," he answers.
"Activate the hangar doors and get ready to fire that baby up."
"There's a small plane behind. We'll blow it over."
"Tough titty…it's about to hit the fan out here."
"Roger," he says, and is gone.
I shoulder the RPG, lie down on the vehicle with the 50 cal, and as soon as I judge it to be a hundred yards, send a rocket its way. It hits low just behind the cab, and the big buggy goes four feet in the air and over on its side.
The leading personnel carrier slams on its brakes, the Mercedes plows into it, and the personnel carrier following rear-ends the Mercedes. One shouldn't tailgate.
I don't know if they didn't see the RPG on its flight there, or what, but the damn fools in the Mercedes pile out as if the buggy in the rear had self-destructed. I flip down my night goggles and damned if it doesn't appear that Colonel Vargas and good ol' Charlie Glascock are first out, followed by two armed guards.
Hank is not bashful; his AR begins to bark with a series of three shot bursts. By the time he gets the second off, both armed guards go down, the sky to the west of us lights up, and for the long count of ten it's daylight on our end of the airport and a fireball the size of five of the hangar we're in front of billows hundreds of feet in the air.
I have to turn aside, as even at the distance of something over three eighths of a mile, the heat singes my face. Then the fireball recedes to the size of a five-storey building, but the roar is like a freight train passing fifty feet away.
The lead personnel carrier cranks it hard around and is heading back the way it came. The one following the Mercedes is beginning to burn from the fire consuming the half-track. I see Glascock on the ground, crawling away from the burning vehicles, and Vargas crawling back inside. The first vehicle stops after only fifty yards and four guys unload and are beginning to get what's happening, as are the black clad Pyragüés who've exited the one beginning to burn. We're seeing muzzle flashes and hearing the buzz of bullets and pings as they hit the hangar and the steel work tables we're behind.
"Reload!" I yell at Hank, and he does. This time I roll to the side and the next rocket propelled grenade takes the Mercedes in its side. It, too, blows and flips over, it's bottom facing us.
I can see another set of headlights coming our way, as the vehicle bounds over some rough terrain. And I hear the huge hangar doors behind me beginning to grind open.
Lets hope these guys have some respect for the fifty million dollar G5, as I doubt if she'll get far full of bullet holes.
Hank is firing and empties his first clip, doing a hell of a job as the guys who piled out of the burning personnel carrier have quit firing, obviously out of the fight. The ones in the leading vehicle, who stopped some hundred and fifty yards from us, are well covered and firing from behind that lightly armored wagon.
I presume the vehicle bouncing our way is Skip and Madman, and then am assured of it as it swings behind the vehicle from which we're still taking fire. Those guys probably think it's their buddies coming to help, and they get a big surprise as muzzle flashes erupt from the Toyota, raking the four guards hiding there. Then Skip hits the throttle hard and comes our way.
The hangar doors are open and Skip flies past us and slides the Toyota under the wing of the G5, and he and Madman leap out. Skip heads up the gangway into the plane, but Madman comes our way and drops down behind the tables, joining us.
"Good job blowing the fuel dump," I yell at him, over the roar of the G5 engines.
"Damn near turned us ass-end over teakettle as we were heading out. Fuck, what a fireball! The fourth of fucking July," he says, a slightly awestruck grin on his face. He's carrying an AR and some fire begins coming from the distant personnel carrier again, plinging on the hangar behind and on the steel table.
"Guess we missed one," he says.
"Ka ka happens, " I offer, then yell to Hank to load me up again, and it's a good thing I do as there are three more vehicles leaving the headquarters area, and they're not in retreat. They're headed our way.
For the first time, as he comes to load, I see Hank has blood covering his shoulder and right chest.
"You're hit," I say, and he glances down.
"Damned if I'm not."
"Get your ass in the plane," I snap.
"I can still fight."
"Get your ass in the plane," I yell.
"I'll stay with Mike," Madman says. "Wetback can fly if something happens to me."
I shove Hank toward the plane, and he drops his AR and clips, leaving them with us, stays low, and crabs the fifty or sixty feet to the ramp.
I can feel my radio vibrate, and put it to my ear. It's Wetback.
"Hey, you fuckers better get aboard. We need to haul ass."
"You'll never make the runway. More bad guys on their way. Haul ass for Miami. We'll catch up."
"How the hell are you gonna do that?"
"You haul ass, that's an order if you want your quarter mil, cause we won't get a dime unless you go."
"You're the man," he says, and I see the gangway begin to rise as the plane engines roar louder and she shudders then begins to creep forward, even while the ramp is closing.
"Pay attention," I say to Madman, and give him a quick lesson in loading the RPG and staying the fuck out of the way when I fire.
Wetback turns sharply away from the oncoming vehicles, now only a quarter mile, and pours it to the G5, which is both good and bad. Good because they're hauling ass toward the main runway and won't have to take fire from the bad guys who are closing fast; bad because the backwash from the engines blows the steel tables sliding away from Madman and me, and blows Madman off his feet; he spins across the tarmac. Dragging the RPG, the remaining two shells, and my AR, I head for the cover of the hangar and scream at him to follow.
By the time we're set up again in the walk-through door of the hangar, the vehicles are only three hundred yards and closing, and the single guard left behind the personnel carrier is finally zeroing in. I decide, since I have one loaded and two grenades left, to take him out, and put an RPG in the side of that carrier. One hundred and fifty yards is a good distance for the grenade, but it hits the carrier low and although it doesn't turn it over on the prick behind, ignites it in a ball of fire, and the shooting stops.
As quick as Madman can load me up, I'm zeroing in on another half track coming our way, and it's a good thing I am, as its 50 cal is lighting the night and stitching the top of the hangar. Thank God the guy on the gun is no good at fifty miles an hour, and I don't have to take cover out of the doorway, not that the light metal of the hangar woul
d do much good. I nail his ass as he reaches about a hundred eighty yards distance, hitting him in the front, and the halftrack careens away crazily. The other three vehicles are personnel carriers, probably with four guys each, but they turn away and hightail it when they see the mother ship on fire and weaving in goofy jerks across a grassy area between taxiways.
I take a quick recon of the hangar and see that the Citabria is stacked up like so much cordwood in a corner, but the Icon seems to be intact. And she's beautiful and flexible, with wheels below floats.
"Can you fly that Icon?" I ask Madman.
"I can fly a fucking barn door, you get me on an edge."
30
I love pilots. "Check it out. We'll get a lot farther in the Icon than in a fucking Toyota."
And he hauls ass toward the little plane. Luckily, no one has retracted its folding wings, so we don't have to learn our way around that while ducking AK47 or Heckler fire.
I keep watch, sending the occasional burst at the vehicles, now gathering four hundred yards from the hangar.
I'm down to one grenade. And not only are there two vehicles only four hundred yards away, but there are another five leaving the Air Force headquarters, and I doubt if they'll be so easily fooled. They are probably down to regular Air Force guards by now and I really don't want to dust some poor yokel who's just trying to get by in the world.
To my great pleasure, I hear the Icon fire up and it begins taxiing my way.
It stops, still slightly sheltered by the hangar, and the canopy opens and Madman is smiling—like a madman. I run for it, still carrying the RPG and my AR, but he yells at me. "No room for the launcher."
So I trot back to the doorway.
No sense wasting a grenade. Even though the approaching vehicles are still three hundred yards distant, I launch one their way. It'll never reach the target, but it'll give them something to sweat.
I throw the RPG aside and run for the Icon, and before I can get the canopy to close, Madman has the throttle to the firewall and the little hotrod is hauling ass toward the runway.
Just as I think we're clear, I hear him yell, "Jesus Christ," and look over to see his forehead bleeding badly. I look back to see holes in the canopy beside me, then over to see more holes in his side of the cover.
"Put pressure on it," I say.
"You gotta take it," he says, as his eyes are filling with blood.
Thank God the Icon has a stick at both side-by-side seats, although all the instruments are in front of the pilot's left seat.
I take the stick, settle my feet on the pedals, and search my brain for what little I know about flying. I took lessons long enough to land the damn little Cessna 150 I learned in, but then didn't worry about more…for it was just for one of these kinds of emergencies I tried to learn. Get the damn thing down in one piece was my mantra.
Of course you had to learn to get the damn things up before you had to worry about getting one down. I've never flown without an instructor in the left seat, where I now sit, but I guess there's a first time for everything.
The little plane responds nicely to the stick and peddles, and I head down the runway, and it's a good thing, as tracers are singing, cutting the air, all around us.
I have no idea what take off speed is so as we reach ninety kilometers on the indicator, I ease the stick back. She literally jumps into the air like the sweet bird she is.
Behind us the fuel dump still blazes and at least two vehicles burn on the tarmac.
Now, if I can just keep Madman alive, and figure out where the hell we're going so we can get him to a hospital.
Then I notice the fuel gauge.
Oops, we have a lousy quarter tank.
And me with fifty jumps and no parachute! Then I remember, the plane has one. Yes, the little Icon has its own emergency parachute, and even though she won't sting like a bee, to quote Ali, she'll float like a butterfly if need-be.
"Get your shirt off and wrap your head," I yell at Madman, but it seems it's all he can do to keep pressure on his forehead, and is using both hands to do so.
We stay that way, with me taking a heading of about one hundred eighty degrees as I know it will quickly take us into Argentina and out of Paraguayan air space—not that I think they won't pursue us to hell and back.
Just as I settle down, take a deep breath, and begin gaining some confidence, a jet roars by so close it rocks the wings of the little plane.
"What was that?" Madman asks.
"Big fucking trouble," I say, and look over my shoulder to see another T33 bearing down on us.
They do over 300 knots and we top out at 135 or so.
We're double fucked.
"Turn the radio to 225," Madman instructs, and I do.
"Emergency channel?" I say as I'm dialing, "nobody gives a rat's ass."
"Yeah, but they may be trying to contact us and give us instructions."
In moments the radio crackles with Spanish, and I pick up the mike and reply, "No comprendo," and do so while I'm madly looking for a way out.
The two T33's, with the nice little—probably 30 caliber—machine guns mounted under each wing, come alongside, having to throttle way back to slow to our speed.
The radio crackles again and this time it's broken English.
"Turn 180 degrees, back to airport. Or we keel you!"
"Si. Will do. You have to get off my wing so I can."
"Habla despacio…I no understand."
I've got an idea, but it'll probably get us killed. I've been searching the ground for an opening, somewhere to dump this little beauty in, as we can land in any six hundred foot clearing in the jungle…probably wreck the plane and kill us both with me flying, but the plane is capable of it.
But better yet, I see the moon reflecting off a long stretch of water, undoubtedly the River Paraguay, and either it or a clearing is an escape for us, and the T33's can't land in either. If I can only get down without getting us shot to shit.
We're only at a thousand meters, and I figure we can descend to river level in a little over two minutes without ripping the wings off. The T33's probably can't bank around and get behind us in that short a time.
"I'm going for the river," I tell Madman.
"Altitude?"
"A thousand meters."
"Kill your lights, nose her down steep, and when you get close, turn on only the landing light just long enough to judge your altitude and be ready to kill it if we make it down."
"Will do."
I've been slowly throttling back as we talk—not so slow we'll stall, I pray, but so the T33's think we're trying to turn. They get wise that I can't turn with them on my wing, and both peel off to a hundred yards distance, having to give it the throttle so they don't stall.
I shove the stick forward, hard, and she noses over and we suddenly lose visual of the T33's.
I can hear Madman counting. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…now, back on the stick and bring her to about one hundred meters a minute descent. When you figure you're thirty or forty meters over the water, follow my instructions."
"Will do, damn, we're still losing altitude fast."
31
"Give her some throttle."
"We're at tree top level."
"Frigging trees are two hundred feet tall, so back off on the throttle until you're ten feet off the water, then you're going to kill the power and flare her in. We may hit hard, and may flip the little fucker, so pop the cowling so we can escape."
I do so and the wind whistles.
"Ease the throttle off and when she begins to settle, flare it back so you've got ten degrees or so, nose up."
"Hang on," I yell as the water seems to be rushing up at us.
The river catches the back of the floats, and we're violently thrown forward, and I think we're going to somersault, but she stands up until our nose is in the water, then she settles, and as she does I hear the roar of the jets passing overhead and see plumes of water from the machine
guns not ten feet off our wing.
"You flared too much."
"Fuck you, we're alive."
"Granted. Good job."
"Thanks. The current's taking us," I yell at Madman.
"Can you give her some throttle so you've got some control?"
I do so and head for the right bank as if I'm anywhere near where I think I am, that's Argentina. Then I realize I'm under the overhang of the huge trees that flank River Paraguay for hundreds of miles.
"Hey, we're out of sight under the trees."
"Cool," Madman says. Then offers, "I'm dizzy as hell and may pass out. As this is a water plane there should be a tether line somewhere. Is there anyway you can get us anchored until the friggin' Paraguayan Air Force gives up?"
To the T33 pilots credit they've gone on down river, made a one eighty, and I can see them coming back our way, not fifty feet off the surface and well below the tree tops. Gutty flying to my way of thinking, as the river does curve some. The good news is at that level where I don't think we can be seen, and they damn well have to keep their eyes fixed ahead so they don't eat it in the jungle.
"We still drifting?" Madman asks.
"We are, but it seems safe—"
Before I get the words out, a sagging branch catches a wingtip and we spin. As soon as we make a two seventy I give her some throttle, we ease back out into the main stream, and I get her headed downstream.
"Can you see well enough to keep us out of trouble?" Madman asks.
"Yeah, the moon's ahead of us and lights the river like a runway."
"You got enough room to get us back in the air?"
"Friggin' river is over a half mile wide and I bet I've got five miles of smooth water ahead."
"Then fly me to a friggin' doc before I bleed to death."
Nothing bleeds much worse than a deep scalp wound. His is across the forehead hairline, and nothing but pressure and stitches will stop the gushing. But it usually looks far worse than it really is. There's little question in my mind that he has a concussion, which worries me more than the bleeding.