16
Valverde was just beyond a small rise. Eddie stopped
the truck and opened the cab’s rear window to speak to the men in
the back. ‘Okay, the soldiers in town’ll be looking for us – or at
least me. So what do we do?’
‘Can we get to the
phone in the hotel?’ Osterhagen asked.
‘That’ll be the top
thing on their watch list,’ said Macy. ‘Is there anywhere else we
can go?’
‘San Fernando de
Atabapo is the next town,’ Valero told her, ‘but to reach it by
road we have to drive through Valverde.’
‘How about flying
there?’ Eddie suggested.
‘We can – but if we
are flying,’ said Valero, an idea striking him, ‘we should get as
far from Callas’s men as we can. My plane is fully fuelled. It can
reach Caracas.’
‘Can we use its radio
to contact the militia?’
‘Yes – yes, we can! I
can put an emergency call through to air traffic
control.’
‘Okay, so we go for
the airfield,’ Eddie decided.
Macy made a pensive
face. ‘Hate to be Debbie Downer, but we kinda have to drive through
town to get to the airfield.’
It was true.
‘Bollocks! Okay, how about walking? We skirt round town and get to
the plane from the jungle.’
‘What about Ralf?’
said Osterhagen. Becker, lying between the German and Valero in the
rear bed, had fallen into a state of drifting semi-consciousness.
‘He will slow us down – and we can’t leave him behind. If the
soldiers find him, they’ll kill him.’
Osterhagen was right;
they couldn’t abandon the injured man. ‘That doesn’t leave us much
choice, then. We’ll just have to charge through and hope we’re in
the air before they catch up.’ He addressed the two men. ‘Can
either of you drive a truck?’
‘I can,’ said
Valero.
‘Good. Get in here,
then.’
Macy was mildly
offended. ‘How do you know I can’t
drive the truck?’ she demanded.
‘Can you
double-declutch?’ asked Eddie.
‘Can I
what?’
‘You can’t drive the truck. Stay in the cab and keep
your head down.’ He picked up one of the AK-103s and hopped out.
Valero clambered inside and took his place. Eddie climbed into the
cargo bed and crouched at the rear window. ‘Okay, Oscar, soon as
any soldiers see us we’re in trouble, so gun it through the
town.’
‘What are you going
to do?’ Macy asked.
He waved the
Kalashnikov. ‘Have a guess. Everyone set?’ ‘No,’ she said in a
small voice.
He smiled at her,
then banged the cab roof. ‘Oscar, let’s go.’
Valero put the truck
in gear and set off. The Russian-built vehicle was designed for
carrying heavy loads over poor terrain, not speed; it took more
than half a minute for it to reach thirty miles an hour. Eddie
looked ahead. They were at the top of the rise, Valverde coming
into view.
The town’s military
presence had increased. A pair of Jeeps was parked at the
settlement’s edge – not a roadblock, but certainly a
checkpoint.
And they would have
to go through it.
‘Two Jeeps,’ Eddie
warned Valero. ‘Aim for the one on the left – don’t ram it, it’ll
slow us down too much. Just try to smash the front.’
‘What about the other
one?’ Macy asked.
Another shake of the
gun. ‘Again, guess!’
He checked the road
ahead. The soldiers at the checkpoint had seen the approaching
truck, but weren’t yet concerned.
That would change
when they realised it wasn’t going to stop.
‘Grab on to
something,’ Eddie warned Osterhagen, before bracing himself for the
impending collision.
The truck bore down
on the soldiers. One man stood in the road waving his hands over
his head – then dived out of its way. Another unshouldered his
rifle.
Eddie readied his own
weapon as Valero swerved—
There was a colossal
crunch as the truck’s girder-like front bumper smashed into the
Jeep, sending it spinning into a ditch. The second soldier brought
up his AK—
Eddie fired first,
aiming not at the soldier, but at his vehicle. A burst of fire hit
the Jeep, ripping into the radiator and engine.
The panicked
Venezuelan had dived when the gunfire started, but now he was back
on his feet. ‘Get down!’ Eddie shouted, ducking. Osterhagen dropped
flat, holding Becker. Bullets cracked against the tailgate, and the
rear window shattered. Macy shrieked, Valero sliding as low in his
seat as he dared.
Eddie held the AK
over his head and sent a couple of shots blindly back down the
road, forcing the gunman to take shelter. The firing stopped. The
truck roared past the hotel, townspeople running for
cover.
Eddie rose again,
rapidly turning to search for danger. Most of the soldiers on the
streets were more interested in their own safety than in opening
fire, and were sprinting out of the truck’s path. Another couple of
shots deterred the others from retaliating.
A bend in the street
put the troops out of sight behind a building. Eddie looked ahead.
They were almost through the little settlement already; a few
hundred metres away was the turning to the airfield. ‘Okay, Oscar,’
he shouted, ‘slow down for the turn. Crash the gate and head
straight for your plane – I’ll sort out anyone following
us.’
Valero complied. The
track’s condition was even worse than the main road’s, and everyone
was thrown from side to side. Becker cried out in
pain.
The airfield came
into sight. Across the track was a wooden barrier, but it snapped
like a toothpick as the truck thundered through. An angry civilian
ran from the terminal hut after the intruders, but the sight of
Eddie’s AK made him do an aboutface and flee for the ruined gate
instead.
Valero skidded to a
stop alongside his plane. ‘Macy, grab the other gun, then help the
doc with Ralf,’ Eddie ordered as he jumped down. On foot, at a run,
it would only take the soldiers a couple of minutes to catch up,
and if they had another Jeep it would be even sooner. He took up
position behind the truck to watch the airfield entrance. Macy and
Osterhagen carried Becker to the plane. Valero, rather than
climbing into the cockpit and starting the engine, was examining
something on the wing. ‘Oscar, what’re you doing? Get it
going!’
‘I have to do the
pre-flight checks,’ Valero shouted back.
‘There’s no
time!’
‘But if something
goes wrong—’
‘Don’t worry about
gremlins, worry about bullets! They’ll be here any
minute!’
Clearly unhappy,
Valero nevertheless abandoned his inspection and climbed into the
Cessna’s cabin. Osterhagen and Macy lifted Becker through the large
main hatch on the port side.
Eddie looked back at
the gate. The airfield worker was gone, but the track wouldn’t be
empty for long. Seconds passed. The plane remained silent. ‘Oscar,
start the bloody thing!’
‘It’s not a car!’
Valero protested. ‘I have to check the circuit breakers and set the
engine mixture.’
‘Then check ’em and
set ’em faster!’
Movement at the
gate—
Two soldiers ran
towards the terminal hut. Eddie fired two shots; neither hit, but
they forced the men to dive for cover. Still no sound from the
Cessna’s engine. ‘Get the fucking thing going, Oscar!’
A third soldier
appeared, keeping low. A round clanked off the truck’s flank as he
took a shot. Eddie returned fire. This time, the bullets were on
target, the soldier flailing backwards.
But now another three
men had arrived, opening up with their AK-103s. More shots hit the
truck like hot hail. Eddie ducked behind the rear wheels, crouching
to peer under the cargo bed. The first two soldiers were moving
again. If they advanced much further, they would have a clean shot
at the plane as it taxied to takeoff position.
Grey and red metal
barrels, stacked in a little fenced compound near the
hut—
Eddie emptied the
AK’s magazine into the fuel drums.
A barrel exploded
with a crump and a great splash of
liquid fire, others following in a chain reaction. Burning drums
shot skywards on trails of flame, falling back to earth like bombs.
A tumbling keg crashed through the roof of the terminal hut, and
the entire building exploded in a storm of flying corrugated
panels.
The destruction had
the desired effect. The soldiers retreated as fast as they could
from the spreading flames.
Another loud noise,
this time behind him – the Cessna’s engine turning over. A choppy,
reluctant coughing . . . then the propeller burst into motion.
Eddie dropped the empty AK and leapt through the cabin door.
‘Oscar, go, go, go!’
Valero opened the
throttle. The Cessna hauled itself complainingly out of the
indentations its weight had left in the earth and jolted over the
uneven ground towards the runway.
Eddie faced the door.
‘Macy, gun!’ She passed him the second AK. He grabbed a dangling
strap above the opening with his left hand, then leaned out and
pointed the weapon back towards the gate. The soldiers were still
scattering as the fires spread, oily smoke boiling into the
sky.
Backwash from the
propeller whipped past him as Valero increased power, swinging the
plane into line with the runway. Eddie braced himself. The last
takeoff had been a bumpy ride, and this was likely to be a lot
worse . . .
‘Shit!’ A Jeep raced
through the gate, two soldiers inside. The passenger stood in his
seat, supporting his AK-103 on the windscreen. ‘Take off,
now!’
Valero brought the
throttle to full power. The plane picked up speed, landing gear
crashed over bumps.
The Jeep speeded up
too – closing in.
Eddie and the soldier
fired almost simultaneously. Their aim was thrown off by the rough
ride, but the Venezuelan had a larger target. Bullets pocked the
wing as Eddie fired again. The Jeep’s windscreen crazed, but
neither soldier was hit. Another burst from the 4×4, followed by a
crack-crack-crack of lead punching
through aluminium. Valero yelped as the instrument panel was
hit.
Eddie pulled the
trigger once more. The Jeep’s windscreen shattered. The shooter
dropped back into his seat, hanging on tightly as the driver
swerved sharply to take the vehicle behind the Cessna’s
tail.
Out of Eddie’s firing
line.
‘Dammit!’ He turned.
The Jeep came into view through the rearmost starboard window, but
trying to shoot out the toughened acrylic might result in a lethal
ricochet. Instead, he gripped the strap more tightly and leaned
from the open hatch, swinging round to bring his gun arm over the
top of the fuselage.
‘Eddie, Jesus
Christ!’ Macy shrieked. ‘Get back inside!’
But he could no
longer hear her, the propeller’s piercing rasp joined by the rising
roar of wind. He fired another burst at the Jeep. The rifle bucked
in his hand, banging against the metal roof.
The soldier shot
back. Bullets pierced the fuselage.
One of the Cessna’s
wheels ran through a deep dip. The whole aircraft jolted violently
– and Eddie’s right foot slipped.
Unbalanced, he swung
further out of the plane. The strap creaked, biting into the flesh
of his wrist. His other foot was hooked round the hatch’s frame,
metal digging painfully though the leather of his
boot.
His right arm started
to slip back down the fuselage’s curved roof. . .
The Cessna’s nose
tipped upwards. The Jeep was falling behind, but still firing. More
bullets riddled the plane.
Eddie kept
sliding—
With a last straining
swing of his arm, he jammed the AK over the base of the tailfin –
and swivelled the weapon to fire at the Jeep.
The remaining bullets
spewed out, most of them harmlessly hitting soil and grass – but
one caught the speeding Jeep’s front tyre, which deflated abruptly,
the wheel rim shredding it. The Jeep flipped over and tossed both
soldiers high into the air.
The Cessna’s wings
flexed as they took the plane’s weight—
The ground made one
final attempt to claw the plane back down to earth, a wheel
striking a muddy hump. The Caravan lurched – and Eddie’s boot lost
its grip on the doorframe.
The seventy-five mile
an hour wind snatched him out of the hatch. He lost his hold on the
AK-103, the weapon spinning away as the Cessna took to the sky. He
slapped his hand against the roof, but there was almost no grip to
be found on the smooth metal. The strap around his wrist creaked
and strained, the fastener attaching it to the hull buckling under
his weight.
‘Eddie!’ Macy cried.
She yanked at her seatbelt release.
The plane kept
climbing: one hundred feet, one-fifty. Valero struggled to keep the
controls steady. ‘Close the hatch!’ he yelled.
‘Eddie’s out there!’
Macy screamed back. She staggered to her feet, clinging to the
seats as she made her way down the steeply sloping
aisle.
‘No, you’ll be
killed!’ Osterhagen shouted, but she kept moving. With a curse, he
unlocked his own seatbelt.
Outside, Eddie felt
what little hold he had on the fuselage slipping away as the plane
picked up speed. He was flapping like a flag, legs trailing
helplessly.
And the strap was
giving way. He could feel the fastener breaking . . .
A hand grabbed his
wrist. He squinted into the wind. Slim fingers, neat nails. Macy.
She poked her head through the hatch, black hair whipping round her
face. ‘Get back in!’ he yelled.
‘No, hang on!’ she
shouted, tugging at his arm. Eddie shook his head, desperately
willing her back inside. He didn’t want to die – but he wanted to
drag her with him even less. Macy just didn’t have the sheer
physical strength needed to pull him through the hatch against the
wind – and his fingertips were slipping off the hull . .
.
Another hand seized
his arm. Osterhagen. The German leaned out of the hatch behind
Macy, gripping the upper frame with his free hand. ‘Oscar!’ he
bellowed. ‘Now!’
Valero jammed the
control stick hard to the right, putting the plane into a steep
roll – and simultaneously pitching it downwards.
Eddie lost his grip,
swinging away from the hull. Macy and Osterhagen both hauled on his
arm with all their strength—
And Eddie dropped
head first into the cabin as gravity overpowered wind resistance,
bowling them with him against the cabin’s starboard wall as the
plane banked practically on its side.
‘Hang on!’ Valero
howled. They were far from out of danger. The plane was still at a
low altitude – and getting lower by the moment. He shoved the stick
back over to level out, throwing his passengers to the floor. The
Orinoco wheeled ahead. The Cessna was only two hundred and fifty
feet above it.
And still in a
dive.
‘Oh, mierda!’ he wailed, yanking back the
stick.
Eddie looked up,
seeing nothing but water through the cockpit windows. Two hundred
feet, the Caravan pulling up, but slowly, too slowly. Greenery on
the far bank replaced the river as the plane’s nose rose, but they
were still too low—
Whumph!
A slam of impact –
and a huge spray of water came in through the open
hatch.
But the plane was
still in the air, even if only by inches. The landing gear had
skimmed the great river, Valero levelling out just in time. The
Venezuelan whooped in relief, then worked the controls to gain
height again. The Caravan climbed, trailing sparkling raindrops
from its wheels.
‘Everyone okay?’
Eddie gasped.
Osterhagen crawled
back into a seat. ‘I feel . . . airsick.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Macy
squealed. ‘I’m alive. You’re alive. We’re alive!’ She kissed the Englishman. ‘I can’t
believe it, we’re all still alive!’ She kissed him
again.
‘Steady on, love, I’m
married,’ said Eddie. ‘Oscar, how’s the plane? Can we make it to
Caracas?’
‘It will fly okay,
but some of the instruments are broken.’ Valero gave him an almost
apologetic look, indicating the bullet damage. ‘And so is the
radio.’
‘What?’ Eddie sat up.
‘You’re fucking kidding me! How are we going to call the
militia?’
‘More to the point,’
added Macy, ‘how are we going to land if we can’t talk to air
traffic control?’
‘I can fly a distress
pattern to tell the airport we have no radio,’ Valero assured her.
‘They will give us priority.’
‘How long will it
take us to get there?’
‘About two and a half
hours. Although it will be hard to know exactly.’ The Venezuelan
shot an irate look at Eddie. ‘I can’t get a proper airspeed reading
because you wouldn’t let me take the cover off the pitot
tube.’
Eddie laughed a
little. ‘So long as we get there, that’s the main thing.’ He stood.
‘First, can someone shut that hatch? It’s a bit draughty in
here.’