Nighthawk

by Clive Cussler

  Emma shook her head. “It’s too risky in the aquatic environment. All the electronics are sealed and self-contained, but we can’t be certain of their condition. Between the vibration of the launch, three years in space, the heat of reentry and the Russian attempt to capture the aircraft, there may be internal damage on a small scale. Loose connections. Gaps in the insulation. If we get everything wet and end up with a short—”

  “The lake goes up along with a big chunk of northern Peru,” Kurt said.

  “Exactly,” she replied. “No shortcuts. We have to raise it and get it onto dry land before we do anything else.”

  36

  The rattle of the gas-powered air compressor carried across the lake from the stern of the Zodiac, a jarring disturbance into an otherwise peaceful setting.

  Paul Trout sat beside it, keeping an eye on the compressor and the line that ran over the edge and disappeared into the water. Fifty feet away, a circle of bubbles boiled and churned as the excess air rose up to the surface.

  For now, Paul was alone in the boat. Kurt, Joe and Emma had gone back down to prepare the Nighthawk for lifting, while Urco had volunteered to go ashore, where he was scouting around for a solid place to set the aircraft down.

  Squinting across the lake, Paul could just see the Peruvian. He was higher up on the slope, moving behind a section of tall grasses, thrusting a staff down into the ground in an effort to determine if the soil would hold the Nighthawk’s weight.

  Using a handheld radio, Paul reached out to him. “Urco, this is Paul.”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Paul,” Urco replied.

  “Wondering if you’re having any luck out there?”

  He saw Urco turn his way and wave. “The shoreline is too soft and muddy to hold much weight. And even back here, away from the edge, it’s marshland. I’m going to make my way to higher ground.”

  “Roger that,” Paul said. “Keep us posted.”

  Urco waved and moved off, carrying his staff. Paul watched until Urco was out of sight. Perhaps other eyes were watching him, too, Paul thought. And then he turned his attention back to the compressor and the pressure gauge.

  Down below, Kurt was holding the business end of the air hose and feeding it underneath the Nighthawk. The compressed air blasting out through the front acted like a drill bit, scouring out the dark silt. The power of Kurt’s arms acted like a hydraulic press, forcing it forward.

  With each shove, another burst of bubbles and sediment came flowing backward and out toward Kurt, billowing forth in a dark, swirling cloud. As the sediment churned around him, Kurt kept feeding more line into the opening. “Anything yet?”

  Joe’s voice came back slightly distorted as if he were standing in a deep tunnel. Joe was on the other side waiting for the line to pop out. “Not yet. Keep pushing.”

  Kurt worked the line back and forth and gave it another shove.

  “I’m seeing bubbles,” Joe announced. “You’re almost there.”

  Kurt gave the line one more push and felt it move freely. The billowing cloud of silt that had been streaming back toward him relented.

  “Got it,” Joe said.

  “Phase one complete,” Kurt said. “Time for you to do some work, amigo.”

  On the far side of the Nighthawk, Joe grabbed the tip of the air hose and pulled it toward him. Using a length of wire, he hooked one of the lifting straps to the valve and tugged hard to make sure it was secure.

  “Strap one attached,” he said. “My job is done.”

  “That was quick,” Kurt said. “Maybe I should rethink the division of labor on this project.”

  Joe laughed, watching as the hose and the attached strap were pulled back beneath the Nighthawk, moving one arm’s length at a time.

  While Kurt and Joe placed what would eventually be four braided nylon straps beneath the aircraft, Emma inspected the wings, examining every blemish she found. Many of the outer tiles were damaged. She found hairline cracks and plenty of chips and scrapes, even several spots where the tiles had been torn off completely, presumably when the Nighthawk broke the grasp of its Russian captors. But the high-strength alloy beneath was untouched.

  “The wing doesn’t appear to be compromised,” she announced. “It won’t have taken on any water.”

  “Good to hear,” Joe replied. “We’re fairly close to the max lifting capacity of the Air-Crane already. We don’t need a few tons of lake water to make it worse.”

  “Agreed,” Emma said. “I’m going to check the hardpoints for corrosion and pitting. Would hate for something to break loose just as we claimed victory.”

  As she swam across the top of the aircraft, the air hose broke through the silt once again, releasing a swarm of fine bubbles that swirled up around her. For an instant, it was like swimming in a glass of champagne. She didn’t want to get ahead of herself but imagined they’d soon be raising glasses to celebrate the victory.

  37

  La Jalca Canyon, a half mile away

  A half mile away, in the dark throat of a barren cave, there was no sense of victory or even hope for the men imprisoned in it. Only cloying darkness, cold, bone-aching dampness and noise. Constant, unending noise.

  The bulk of the waterfall dropped downward just beyond the mouth of the cave. Its tumbling white water hid everything beyond, causing vertigo to anyone who stared into it for too long and blocking out all semblance of detail.

  What it hid from the eyes it hid also from the ears as its endless roar echoed off the stone walls, drowning out soft speech, clear thought and even the din of modern men out on the lake.

  The two men sitting in the cave hadn’t heard the approach of the helicopter this morning nor the outboard motor of the Zodiac nor the excited shouts of discovery that came shortly afterward. Not even the endless rattle of the air compressor could penetrate the wall of sound that shielded them. It was isolation of the body, soul and mind and it had taken its toll already.

  After days in this condition, they were numb to it. They sat with their backs to the wall, their knees up and their heads down; an upright version of the fetal position. Their hands were chained in front of them while their ankles were bound together and hooked to heavy iron weights that made walking a difficult task.

  Days of growth covered their faces while a layer of grime covered their uniforms. Beneath the dirt, oil and dust could be seen the double-headed eagle of the Russian Air Force and the squadron patch depicting the great claw of a flying raptor grasping another bird from the sky. A star on one man’s shoulder indicated his rank as Major. A set of wings on his chest overlaid with measuring tongs indicated he was a test pilot.

  He stared in the darkness, weakened by the cold and a lack of food, but in his mind churned thoughts of revenge. So dark was his mood that it took him a moment to notice a shaft of light appearing in the back part of the cave.

  The light came down from the surface, through a narrow vertical chute that the two Russians had been forced to descend at gunpoint days before. After reaching the bottom, they’d been chained up and then abandoned by their captors, who had climbed up the shaft, pulled up the rope and blocked out the light by sliding a trapdoor across the top.

  The appearance of the light meant the door had been moved aside. It meant something would change. Good or bad, Major Yuri Timonovski welcomed that.

  “Someone’s coming,” he said.

  The second man looked up, his eyes bloodshot and jittery. “Maybe they’re going to feed us.”

  “Or kill us,” Timonovski replied. “I’d take either at this point.”

  The end of a rope dropped down the shaft, hitting the ground and curling up like a snake. The hanging part writhed back and forth as someone descended it.

  Timonovski stood, ready to face whatever was about to come his way. His legs ached, his back hurt, and he waddled awkwardly in the direction of the intruder, dragging
the weights with him.

  The weights didn’t keep him from moving but were enough to prevent him from climbing. And they made jumping into the lake a suicidal notion. Something he might consider if circumstances did not improve.

  Boots appeared at the bottom of the shaft and a rangy man with a heavy beard dropped the last few feet into the cave. Timonovski recognized him instantly: the Falconer, the man they’d been working with since day one. The man who’d promised to deliver the Nighthawk to them by hacking its guidance program and overriding the American directives coming from Vandenberg.

  Timonovski also knew him as a betrayer. He was certain the Falconer had done something at the last minute that caused the Nighthawk to break loose from Blackjack 1. And when he’d attempted to break off pursuit and head for the refueling rendezvous, the Falconer had slit the throat of Timonovski’s copilot, pulled a snub-nosed pistol and threatened the Major and his flight engineer with death if they didn’t do as he ordered.

  After following the Nighthawk down and watching it parachute into the lake, the Falconer had directed them to a narrow landing strip seven miles from the lake. A group of armed men waited for them and, after being taken hostage, any hopes of escape vanished.

  “You’re awake,” the Falconer said as he came closer. “Excellent.”

  They spoke English to each other, the only common language between them.

  “It’s impossible to sleep in here,” Timonovski said.

  “Some people find waterfalls soothing.”

  “Not when they’re right on top of your head.”

  The Falconer shrugged.

  “I see you’re alone,” Timonovski said. “Have you run out of friends?”

  “On the contrary,” the Falconer insisted, “I am collecting them by the handful as I once collected you.”

  Major Timonovski could barely stand the arrogance, but he could do nothing about it. “What do you want from us now, Birdcaller?”

  “I’ve come to feed you,” the bearded man replied. He shrugged off a backpack, unzipped the top and placed it in front of his captives.

  The Major kept his eyes from it, but he couldn’t keep the aroma from his nostrils. Perhaps starvation heightened the senses.

  Still sitting, the flight engineer scrambled toward the backpack and began plucking items out of it. A plastic container filled with soup came first, bottles of water with added electrolytes were next, followed by a couple of wrapped items.

  “Sandwiches,” the engineer said, unwrapping one.

  Timonovski found his mouth was watering. “Is this some kind of trick?”

  “Not at all,” the Falconer said. “You’ll need your strength if you’re to fly out of here.”

  “Fly?”

  “You can pilot a helicopter, can’t you?”

  “Of course,” the Major said. He’d flown everything in the Russian inventory. “Do you have one?”

  “My new friends do,” the Falconer said.

  He nodded toward the lake, invisible beyond the mouth of the cave. “What you can’t see—one of the many things you can’t see—are American agents submerged in the water and securing the Nighthawk as we speak. They’re preparing to remove it from the depths. Once they do, I shall take it from them and you will deliver it to the runway where Blackjack 2 now waits. You will finish your mission, refuel over Venezuela as planned and cross the Atlantic, returning to Russia as great heroes.”

  Timonovski was stunned. “I don’t understand. Now you want us to take it back to Moscow? But we already had it. You’re the one who set it free. If you hadn’t woken it up after Blackjack 1 captured it—”

  “Had I let you proceed, I wouldn’t have been able to extract the full payment I desire. But now the price to be paid will be equal to the pain. Indeed, it’s much higher than you can possibly imagine.”

  “Blood money,” the Major said.

  “All wealth is blood money,” the Falconer said. “In one form or another.”

  Major Timonovski just stared.

  “If you prefer, I can leave it to the Americans and leave you both here to rot away while going mad from the noise.”

  “If this is a trick—”

  “Then you will endure it because you have no choice in the matter.”

  Timonovski fumed. The Birdcaller was in complete control. But even that had its limits. Even this master manipulator had to deal with gravity. “We’ll never get off the ground,” he said. “The runway is too short, the Nighthawk too heavy. We’ll never clear the trees with that thing on our backs.”

  The bearded man cocked his head. “Leave that to me.”

  He turned, walked back to the rope and wrapped his hands around it and began to pull himself up. The rope vanished moments later and the column of light was cut off.

  Gray darkness and white noise engulfed them once again.

  “You should eat,” the flight engineer said. “Whatever happens, we will need our strength.”

  Timonovski ignored him for a moment, pondering the situation, before giving in to the lure of the food. He didn’t believe a word of what the Birdcaller promised; somehow, it would be another lie, he was certain of it. But it seemed far better to die on a full stomach than to starve.

  38

  Off the coast of Ecuador

  The Russian salvage fleet was now within a hundred miles of the Ecuadorian coast, though they had yet to discover any sign of either Blackjack 2 or the American space plane.

  It seemed to Constantin Davidov that the race had been lost. The sudden drawdown in American naval activity suggested they’d found it.

  Alone in his cabin, Davidov considered returning to Russia and facing the consequences of failure. A knock at the door startled him.

  “Come in.”

  It was one of the Admiral’s staff. “A message has come in,” he said. “The Admiral wishes you to meet him in the communications room.”

  Davidov hurried to the communications center.

  “It’s from the Falconer,” Borozdin said.

  “He’s alive?”

  “It would appear,” Borozdin said. “And since we’ve found no sign of Blackjack 2’s wreckage, we must assume the crew and the aircraft are fine as well.”

  “Then where have they been?” Davidov snapped.

  “Maybe this will tell you.”

  Borozdin handed him a note. It was all code. The Falconer’s code. Davidov translated from memory and stared at the curious message. It was cryptic even after it had been deciphered. “Is this it? Is this the entire communiqué?”

  “That’s all we received,” Borozdin replied. “It came in with the Falconer’s identification marks. The message is from him.”

  “That, I do not doubt,” Davidov replied. “The man is nothing if not obtuse.”

  He stared at the page again. “The numbers are obviously map coordinates,” he said. “But the message . . .”

  It read:

  Full delivery.

  Bring gold. Coins only.

  The price has doubled.

  Beware, Americans are watching.

  RATO.

  You have eight hours

  “Full delivery,” Borozdin said. “Does he mean the Nighthawk itself?”

  “I suspect he does,” Davidov replied.

  “That seems doubtful,” Borozdin said. “You yourself said the Americans must have it by now. Their fleet actions confirm it. It’s a money grab, pure and simple. He’ll ambush you and take payment for what he could not deliver.”

  Davidov rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure,” he said.

  “Why is that?”

  “RATO,” Davidov said almost to himself. “Rocket-assisted takeoff. It’s a plan we discussed if one of the bombers captured the Nighthawk but was forced to land. A contingency to get it, and the Nighthawk, back
in the air together. If he’s requesting RATO, maybe he has the Nighthawk after all.”

  Borozdin shook his head. “Only you still believe in him, my friend.”

  “I believe nothing,” Davidov said. “But I must not fail, not now, not after all this. Is the satellite sweep of Ecuador and Peru complete?”

  “Nearly.”

  “And these coordinates?”

  Borozdin looked the numbers over and then moved to a computer terminal and typed them in. “Rudimentary airfield on a high plateau,” he said. “Completed by a Chinese mining company three years ago. Abandoned.”

  “Do we have a recent pass?”

  Borozdin accessed the satellite scan. “Yes,” he said.

  “Bring it up and zoom in.”

  Borozdin used the cursor to draw a box around the airfield and tapped ENTER. The resolution changed and the photograph resolved. “No sign of the Nighthawk,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Davidov said, pointing to a distorted shape at one end of the airfield.

  Borozdin zoomed in once more and shrugged. “Hard to tell.”

  Davidov disagreed. “It’s an aircraft. A large delta-wing aircraft, hidden beneath a tarp. That’s Blackjack 2. I have no doubt.”

  “If it is, then where are the crew? Why haven’t they contacted us?”

  “Who knows? It’s a very remote area,” Davidov said. “A miracle they even found that airfield to set down upon.” He stood. “I need to speak with the quartermaster. And, God protect me, I need a helicopter to get me to Peru.”

  “You’re not seriously going to fly out there with a suitcase full of gold?”

  “I’m going to do exactly that,” Davidov said. “I’ll take four of your commandos with me.”

  Borozdin clearly thought the idea was dubious, if not suicidal. But he was a sailor, a man trained to act when circumstances were in his favor and to flee when they weren’t. The intelligence service worked differently—they took chances, enormous and sometimes near-suicidal chances. It was their character and their nature and the whole reason behind the attempt to capture the American spacecraft in the first place.