Blue Gold

by Clive Cussler

  In fact, Zavala looked anything but spooked. He would have retired from the Special Assignments Team long before if he succumbed easily to panic. His eyes calmly scanned the interior of the hangar looking for something that would give them even the slightest edge.

  The reverberations from the blast had barely faded when there was a loud hammering on the steel door at the rear of the hangar.

  “So much for our pitfall,” Austin said.

  They raced behind the plane and grabbed tool chests, benches, and storage lockers, anything they could move, stacking them against the door. The makeshift barricade would stall determined attackers only a few minutes. They were more concerned with the front of the hangar, where the main firepower appeared to be concentrated. As they darted under the plane’s fuselage Zavala glanced up at the jet engines. The yawning black exhausts protruding from the rear of the wing resembled cannon barrels lined up on a fort. He grabbed Austin by the arm.

  “Look, Kurt, those jets are pointed right at the rear wall. If we got the engines started, we could give those guys coming in the back door a warm welcome.”

  Austin calmly walked under the plane’s fuselage, seemingly oblivious to the steady thumping from the rear of the hangar. He stood in front of the plane, where the wing’s thin edge came to a point, his hands on his hips, and gazed up at the cockpit.

  “Even if we somehow made it out of the hangar, we’d have no place to go. Maybe I’ve got a better idea,” he said thoughtfully.

  Working with Austin had given Zavala insight into the unorthodox way his partner’s mind functioned. He caught Austin’s drift instantly. “You’re kidding,” he said.

  Austin’s eyes were deadly serious.

  “You said the systems are working. If we can crank up the engines, why waste fuel toasting a few bad guys when we can simply leave them in the dust? Admit it,” he said, catching the gleam in Zavala’s eye. “You’ve been itching to fly this thing.”

  “There are a lot of ifs here. The engines may not start, or the fuel could have gone sour,” Zavala said. He listed a few more undesirable possibilities, but from the way the corners of his mouth were turned up in a smile it was clear he was discounting disaster. Austin had tapped into Joe’s desire to fly every type of aircraft that had ever been built.

  “I know it won’t be easy. Those trucks over there were probably used to tow the plane outside where it could take off. We won’t have that luxury. We’re going to have to make a running start.”

  “I’d be happy if we could make any kind of start. Those engines haven’t been cranked over in fifty years,” Zavala said.

  “Just keep thinking about the scene in that Woody Allen movie, where the Volkswagen starts right up after centuries in a cave. Should be a piece of cake.”

  Zavala grinned. “This isn’t exactly a Volkswagen,” he protested, although it was clear from his excitement that the idea had gone beyond a matter of life and death. It was now a challenge. “First I’ll have to see if I can get this old buggy cranked up. We’re not going anywhere with those flat tires. We’ll have to get air into them.”

  “I saw some air hoses, but we don’t have much time.”

  “We’ll start with the two outside tires under the fuselage and the nose wheel. We’ll get to the inside tires if we can.”

  They quickly uncoiled the air hose and fed the air into the tires. The rattle of the compressor was slightly slower than their heartbeats. Austin stopped pumping air and listened. The pounding had stopped although the back door was still firmly secured. Austin didn’t like it. The halt could mean the attackers were preparing to blow the door. He didn’t have time to worry. Another horrendous explosion came from the front of the hangar. The blast sent them both sprawling face-first onto the oil-soaked concrete floor. A second rocket had been fired to open up the gap below the first hole. Smoke from burning vegetation hovered near the ceiling.

  “We’re out of time!” Austin yelled. “We’ll have to stop for air at a gas station. Leave the belly hatch open. As soon as I hear the engines cranking I’ll hit the wall switch. While the door’s on its way up I’ll run for the plane.”

  “Don’t forget to detach the plane from its power umbilical,” Zavala said as he ran for the belly hatch.

  Austin took up his post next to the wall with his hand on the switch. He knew the odds were against them but hoped American wartime engineering would prove its worth.

  Zavala scrambled into the pilot’s high seat and peered through the plastic cowling. The dials blurred as he stared at the strange instrument panel. This was going to be a fast learning curve. He blinked his eyes and relaxed, trying to remember the procedure he used to fly the Catalina, trying not to look at every dial, only for needles that indicated trouble. All systems checked out fine. The center-line console between the two pilot stations contained the radio and the fuel and air speed gauges. His fingers flew over the switches, and the dials lit up like a pinball machine display.

  Holding his breath, he hit the ignition switches for the engines one at a time. The turbines began with a throaty rumble and worked themselves up to a high pitch. Satisfied that the engines were working, he waved at Austin, who stood next to the wall. Austin waved back.

  As Zavala jumped into the copilot’s seat and adjusted the fuel feed, Austin hit the wall switch. A thin line of daylight began to shine under the rising door. Kurt dashed beneath the plane and disconnected the umbilical. Then, using the sledgehammer he had set aside for the task, he knocked the wooden wheel chocks away. Austin groped his way through the smoke, pulled himself into the plane, and battened the hatch.

  The hot exhaust from engines blasted the rear of the building. Anything not nailed down was blown against the wall by the tremendous force or melted by the intense heat. The noise was so loud it was almost impossible to think, and hot, choking fumes and smoke filled the hangar.

  Austin crashed, gasping for breath, into the copilot’s seat. “She’s all yours, pal.”

  Zavala gave him the thumbs-up sign. “She’s a little cranky but not bad for an old gal.”

  Zavala’s eyes were glued on the rising door. He kept the brakes set and pushed each throttle forward until they were at full power. If they had the luxury of a full crew, Zavala would have relied on a flight engineer to tell him if the engines were running the way they should, but the best he could do was rely on his experienced ear. It was impossible to distinguish individual engines, but the unbroken roar was a good sign.

  The door seemed to catch for an instant, then it pulled free. He released the brakes, and the plane lurched forward. Zavala pushed the throttle levers smoothly forward and let out a rebel yell as the power from thousands of pounds of thrust pushed the plane out into the open, but his jubilation was short-lived.

  The big green helicopter was directly in the line of takeoff. The helicopter had landed after blasting the second hole, and now it sat on the tundra about a half mile away. Men in dark green uniforms were outside the hangar preparing for an assault when the wing emerged like a monstrous black bird hatching from its egg. Their surprise quickly turned to terror, and they scattered like leaves before the wind.

  The helicopter pilot was leaning against the chopper smoking a cigarette when he saw the monstrous aircraft bearing down in his direction. He jumped back into the helicopter, where he was faced with an immediate decision. He could stay where he was and be rammed. He could fire his rockets or guns at the oncoming wing and hope that his hurried shots would hit the slim fuselage. Or he could head for the sky.

  Austin was distracted by the sound of a giant woodpecker rapping on the fuselage. Zavala thought it was one of the engines falling apart and was only partially relieved when Austin said, “They’re shooting at us. Are you going to fly this rig or drive it all the way to Nome?”

  Because of the unusual position of the instrument panel, Zavala could not see all the gauges. Aiming for the helicopter to keep the plane on a straight line, Zavala shouted at Austin to call out the air speed
.

  “Forty!” Austin yelled.

  Zavala was surprised at how quickly the plane accelerated, despite its huge mass and the partially deflated tires. He had to maintain a firm hand on the controls to keep the nose from lifting.

  “Sixty!”

  The landing gear hit the water of the shallow lake, but the plane’s speed continued to increase.

  “Eighty!”

  Even as Austin called out, Zavala felt the lightness on the wheel indicating that the plane was near takeoff speed.

  “One hundred!”

  Zavala counted to ten, then pulled back on the wheel. Both men practically drove their feet through the floorboards as they pressed on imaginary accelerators. The massive plane seemed to leap into the air. Zavala had assumed that they would easily clear the helicopter, but once the plane was up at an angle all he could see was blue sky.

  The helicopter pilot had finally chosen a course of action, but it was the wrong one. He mistakenly assumed that the huge bat-shaped aircraft lumbering across the permafrost in his direction would hit the chopper on the ground. He lifted off about the same time Zavala got the wing airborne.

  From his level in the copilot’s seat, Austin had a clear view of the chopper rising into the path of the flying wing. Unaware of the impending collision, Zavala had been concentrating on the takeoff. From his reading Zavala knew that the wing’s rapid acceleration would blow the covers off the slow-moving landing gear. The gear had been designed for slower-moving propeller-driven planes and took too long to retract. Pilots compensated by retracting the gear while the plane was only a few hundred feet off the ground and pulling the nose up at a fairly steep angle.

  If not for the unusual maneuver the aircraft would have collided. Instead they missed by several feet, but there was a horrendous metallic crunch as the landing gear grazed the whirling rotors. The rotors disintegrated, and the helicopter seemed to hang for a moment before it plummeted back to the ground, where it exploded in a ball of flame. The wing wobbled from the impact, but Zavala got it back under control. He kept climbing before he leveled off at five thousand feet.

  Zavala realized he had forgotten to breathe. He puffed out his cheeks and gulped air into his lungs so quickly the effort made him dizzy. Austin asked him to do a damage check. He did a visual inspection of the plane from his perch. The fuselage was riddled with bullet holes. Scraps of aluminum continued to peel off, and a second engine was starting to smoke.

  “She looks like a wedge of Swiss cheese, but she’s a tough old bird.”

  He put the flying wing on a course that would take them into the vicinity of Nome. There was no need for altitude, and he kept the plane at a few thousand feet. After a while he started laughing.

  “What’s so funny, compadre?” Austin called out from his perch, where he was fiddling with the radio.

  “I was just wondering what they’re going to say when we come tooling in all shot up with a fifty-year-old stealth bomber.”

  “Simple. We’ll say we were flying a mission and were kidnapped by a UFO.”

  Zavala shook his head. “That’s almost as unbelievable as the real story,” he said.

  • • •

  The arrival of the bullet-riddled flying wing had been the biggest event to hit Nome since the original Iditarod. Word of the odd-shaped black plane that had landed without landing gear on a sheet of foam had spread like wildfire, and before long it was surrounded by curious townspeople. Austin had called Sandecker from the airport to report his findings and to request some muscle power. Sandecker got in touch with the Pentagon and learned that a Special Operations team was on maneuvers at Elendorf Air Force Base outside Anchorage. The team was ordered to fly into Nome. After Austin briefed the Special Ops leaders at a strategy session, they decided to send the helicopter ahead to scope the situation out, with a quick follow-up by the main assault force.

  It was something of a coincidence that Austin and Zavala returned to the secret blimp base in a Pave Hawk helicopter. The sixty-four-foot-long aircraft was the same kind of helicopter that patrolled Area 51, the top-secret location that UFO buffs say holds alien remains and a spaceship that crashed in Roswell, New Mexico. The helicopter had come in alone at a speed of a hundred and fifty miles per hour, flying low over the tundra to avoid detection. As it came up on the base, it made one pass over the water-covered airstrip, scouring the ground with its motion and vibration sensors. Finding no signs of life, the chopper went into a wide circling pattern. On board was a crew of three, eight heavily armed Special Operations troops, and two passengers, Austin and Zavala, who scanned the skies expectantly. They didn’t have long to wait.

  A fixed-wing plane appeared from the direction of the sea and passed over the base. The four-engine turboprop Combat Talon was especially designed for inserting a Special Operations Team under any conditions. Dark objects dropped from the fuselage and within seconds blossomed into twenty-six parachutes. The paratroopers floated down into the low hills behind the flying wing hangar.

  The helicopter continued to circle. The plane brought in the first contingent as part of a one-two punch. If the initial assault group ran into trouble the chopper would blast the opposition from the air with its twin 7.62mm guns and land the backup force where it was most needed.

  Several tense minutes passed. Then the voice of the team leader on the ground crackled over the chopper’s radio.

  “All clear. Okay to come in.”

  The Hawk darted in over the scattered wreckage of the ski plane and the blackened hulk of the chopper that had been dispatched by the flying wing. It landed directly in front of the hangar whose massive door gaped wide open like a patient in a dentist chair. A contingent of camouflage-clad Special Ops troops armed with M-16A1 assault rifles and grenade launchers, each man a killing machine of formidable power, guarded the outside while another squad explored the hangar’s cavernous interior. The helicopter troops poured out of the side doors as soon as the wheels touched the ground and joined their comrades.

  Then the two NUMA men got out and walked into the hangar. The space seemed even more enormous now that it no longer housed the flying wing. Blackened and charred debris left over from their takeoff was scattered throughout the hangar. The rear walls, which had felt the full force and heat of the jet-engine exhaust, were scorched and the paint blistered. They picked their way around the smoldering rubble and went directly to the storeroom. The door was open. The canisters were gone.

  “Empty as a bottle of tequila on a Sunday morning,” Zavala said.

  “I was afraid of this. They must have brought in another chopper.”

  They walked outside to get away from the choking smoke inside the hangar. The Talon had found a flat, dry strip of land and was landing about a quarter of a mile away. They headed toward the wreckage of the helicopter, hoping it could provide clues to the attack. Blackened corpses were visible in and around the charred hulk. The officer who had led the first wave came over and shook hands.

  “I don’t know why you wanted us to come along,” he said, jerking his thumb at the downed chopper. “You boys did fine on your own.”

  “We didn’t want to press our luck,” Austin said.

  The officer grinned. “This place is as clean as a whistle. We checked the underground bunker as you suggested. Found a couple of dead guys at the bottom of the shaft you told us to watch out for. You know anything about that?”

  Austin and Zavala exchanged a surprised glance.

  “Joe and I set up a little tiger trap for our guests. We never expected it to work.”

  “Oh, it worked. Remind me never to come in your back door without knocking.”

  “I’ll remember. Sorry you had to go through all this trouble for nothing,” Austin said.

  “You can never be too careful. You know what happened on Atka and Kiska.”

  Austin nodded. He knew the story of the two Aleutian Islands occupied by the Japanese. After U.S. troops were bloodied in the invasion of one island, they plan
ned a massive invasion of Kiska, only to find the Japanese had quietly slipped away the night before.

  “The same thing happened here. The chickens have flown the coop.”

  The officer surveyed the twisted wreckage again and let out a low whistle. “I’d say you clipped their wings.”

  Austin shook his head. “Unfortunately there was something back in that hangar they took with them. Thanks anyway for all your help, Major.”

  “My pleasure. Drills are fine, but there is no substitute for a mission where people might actually be shooting at you.”

  “I’ll see if I can arrange that next time.”

  The officer smiled a tight smile. “From the looks of that old bomber you brought into Nome, I’d say you’re probably a man of your word.”

  With that operation a bust, Austin and Zavala accepted the offer of a ride to Elendorf, where they might be able to catch a flight to Washington. When the planes stopped at Nome to refuel, Zavala volunteered to use his considerable charm and the NUMA bank account to soothe the owner of the leased Maule that had been destroyed. He was coming out of the lease office after agreeing to buy the company a new plane when he saw Austin striding toward him with a serious expression on his face. He handed Zavala a piece of paper.

  “This just came in.”

  Zavala scanned the message from NUMA: “Gamay and Francesca kidnapped. Trout injured. Come home immediately. S.”

  Without exchanging a word they hustled across the tarmac toward the waiting Talon.

  32

  PAUL TROUT LAY in his hospital bed with his chest and nose wrapped in bandages, cursing himself repeatedly for not being more alert to danger. When he and Gamay were dodging the arrows of headhunters their survival instincts were at their sharpest. But their return to the so-called civilized world had dulled their senses. They had no idea that the eyes watching from the van parked outside their Georgetown townhouse were far more savage than any they had encountered in the jungle.

  The letters painted on the van’s doors, identifying it as belonging to the District of Columbia department of public works, were still tacky to the touch. Inside the vehicle was the latest in communications and electronic snooping equipment. Bent over the TV monitors and speakers that probed the brick walls of the house were the Kradzik brothers. Watching and waiting did not come easily to the twins. In Bosnia they used a brutally simple routine. They picked their target of choice. Then they and a couple of truckloads of paramilitary troops pulled up to the house in the dead of night, bashed the door in, and dragged the terrified occupants from their beds. The men were taken away and shot, the women raped and murdered, the house systematically looted.