Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (99 page)

 
          
He
paced the front of the office, then said, “We have already won a major victory.
The
U.S.
has denounced the Border Security Force for what it is—a terrorist
organization that tried to dominate the entire hemisphere with their weapons.
We taught them a lesson by attacking the Hammerheads’ radar installations. Our
actions were vindicated by the people and the Congress when they deactivated
the Border Security Force. It took the dedication of all of you .. . and the
lives of comrades.

 
          
“You
are soldiers and you have a mission.” His voice rose slightly, its intensity
deepened greatly. “You fly because you are the best pilots in the world, and
now you test your skills and courage against a huge, meddling superpower. Money
is fine, and you deserve all you receive, but the mission is manhood, which you
test in the night sky and against overwhelming odds. You are the Cuchillos. You
will be victorious ...”

 
          
Salazar
waited as his young pilots erupted as planned and prepared by him. He let them
carry on for a few moments longer, then raised his hand.

 
          
“I
must also tell you that I will be aboard the Mirage F1C fighter to protect the
Antonov transport as it makes its way into the
United States
. I will be the last line of defense for our
flagship.” Which announcement brought forth a second outburst, followed,
ironically, by the Cuban national anthem.

 
          
After
the pilots had gone to the buses to be taken to the airport, Van Nuys had to
compliment Salazar on his hold over the Cuchillo pilots. “My only purpose is to
make sure my crewmen believe in themselves and in what they are about to do.”

 
          
“Whatever
you say,” Van Nuys said, “but you seem to whip these guys up pretty easy. It’s
almost like they’re on something themselves.”

 
          
“Not
exactly. Their food and drink were ... fortified with amphetamines, to keep
them alert on their long trip.”

 
          
“You
drugged your own pilots?”

 
          
“They
keep their fighting edge better with a little stimulation. The same will be
done in
Valdivia
before they depart for the
United States
and the drop sites. Don’t worry about my
pilots, Van Nuys. Worry about the Customs procedures and the money. If even one
of my men has trouble with Customs anywhere, your services are terminated.
Worry about that for a while.”

 
          
Carmen
del Sol Airlines,
Ciudad del Carmen
,
Mexico

 
          
Two Hours Later

 
          
The
launch went off with military precision. The smallest plane of the group, a
single-engine Cessna Caravan cargo plane, was the first to begin the
fourteen-hundred-mile flight from
Mexico
to the
Medellin

 
          
Cartel’s
drug-distribution center at
Valdivia
; it would take the plane nearly ten hours to make the trip, including
quick-turn refueling stops. One by one the twin-engine planes, the other
Cessnas, Pipers and Aerospatiales leaped into the warm night sky to begin the
largest single air-smuggling operation in history. They were followed by the
higher-performance turboprops, commuter and business jets, and the smaller
cargo planes, most sporting Carmen del Sol Airlines livery.

 
          
Finally
the big boys rolled down the taxi way and took their place at the end of the
runway for takeoff—the huge Soviet Antonov-26 Curl transport, modified and
upgraded to boost its load-carrying capacity to 22,000 pounds; the boxy,
droop-nosed Shorts 440, built in Northern Ireland and one of the most modern
planes in the Cuchillos’ fleet; and the venerable old Douglas DC-3
tail-dragger, spewing great volumes of black smoke as its engines were started
and its huge silver props began to turn. All these planes had been modified to
carry huge volumes of drugs—all creature comforts had been either pulled out or
bolted in temporarily, able to be removed on very short notice, and the engine
horsepower had been boosted well above safe limits to increase its load-carrying
capacity.

 
          
All
would be fitted with extended-range fuel bladders to boost their effective
ranges by at least fifty percent; with the bladders on board and a full load of
drugs, the Antonov-26 was able to fly for over two thousand miles without refueling,
plenty of range to fly directly from Colombia to the United States, make its
drops and return to Mexico or an alternate. The other planes would land and
refuel at prearranged spots in the
Bahamas
,
Cuba
or
Mexico
; or they would be forced to ditch their
planes near land and make their escape on their own.

 
          
In
the Carmen del Sol Airlines traffic office Van Nuys, ordered there by Salazar,
watched as the Cuchillos’ controller logged the departure of each flight and
began tracking their progress on a chart. They could communicate with each
plane via high-frequency radio either directly or by relays through the
country’s international flight-following system. He was amazed at the precision
of these men—it must be like this to stand in the War Room at the Pentagon.

 
          
After
checking that all the flight plans were activated and flowing through the
currents of international commercial air traffic, Van Nuys went back to the
airline director’s office and closed the door. It was going to be a long, long
night. The Caravan would be stopping in five hours at its first refueling stop,
a seldom-used airport outside San Salvador; because it was only a quick-turn
refueling on a stopover flight plan, El Salvadoran Customs had already signed
off the plane for landing and would probably not even show up at the airport.
That was going to be the routine for most of the Cuchillos; but if it turned
out differently there wasn’t a hell of a lot he figured he could do about it
except hope the Customs official could be bribed or scared over the phone. Van
Nuys had a Learjet and a suitcase full of cash waiting, ready to speed out to
some foreign airfield to bail a plane out, but he hoped like hell he wouldn’t
have to do that.

 
          
He
was settled in the chair and beginning to doze oflf when there was a loud knock
on the door and a clerk said in broken English, “Senor, a man waits for you
outside.”

 
          
“I'm
not expecting anyone, tell him to go away.”

 
          
“He
says give you this.” The clerk came in and presented Van Nuys a small dark .22
caliber automatic pistol—Salman’s gun. It was a special, manufactured from
advanced plastics and Kevlar that made it undetectable by metal detectors,
which meant his ex-bodyguard, butler and secretary always had a gun no matter
where he went. “What is this man’s name?” Van Nuys asked.

 
          
“He
says his name is Salman.”

 
          
“Big
guy? Tall? Big shoulders?”

 
          
“Si, senor. Muy grande. Muy gordo. Shall I
bring him in?”

           
Van Nuys waved a hand at the clerk.
“No, I’ll go out.” But before he did he caught up with the clerk and pulled out
his sidearm, an all-steel Walther P38 that had to be at least twenty years old.
He wasn’t going out unarmed.

 
          
Salman
was standing outside the airlines building in the alley between the rear
entrance and the first set of hangars, guarded by a Cuchillo soldier. Van Nuys
waved the guard away. “Salman? How’d you get here?”

 
          
“I
was released on bail a few days ago,” he replied in his customary monotone. “I
heard you were in
Mexico
so I came as fast as I could.” Van Nuys was going to ask who put up
bail but decided to table that question for now. The fact he had not done so
would have teed oflf Salman . . . “How did you find out I was here?”

 
          
“Why
did you not come to my help?” was Salman’s answer. “I was in jail, you did not
come to help ...”

 
          
The
big guy’s tone of voice was as always, but coming from a man as big as Salman,
the accusing words sounded like a physical threat. Van Nuys pulled out the
Walther and aimed it at Salman’s stomach. “I asked you a question. How did you
know I was here?”

 
          
“We
told him, Max,” said a female voice—immediately preceded by a loud
snik
of a hammer being locked into
place. Van Nuys glanced out of the corner of his eye. Beyond the muzzle of a
.45 caliber Smith and Wesson he saw . . . Sandra Geffar.

 
          
With
the .45 directed at Van Nuys’ right eye, Geffar quickly reached over and
plucked the Walther from Van Nuys’ hand. “Hello, Max. I’ve come for a visit,
you left so abruptly last time. Straight ahead to the left of that hangar. Not
a sound or Salman will remove your tongue through your ears. He’s pretty well
annoyed with you.” Salman reached over, put an arm on Van Nuys’ shoulders and
led him to the darkness of a small alleyway between two vacated aircraft
hangars.

 
          
“What
are you doing here, Sandra . . . ?” Van Nuys began, trying to recoup. Salman’s
hand moved to the back of his neck, his big fingers clamped down.

 
          
“I
said not a sound, Max.” Geffar checked behind her, then hurried them between
the hangars, stopping at the other end. Curt Long appeared from around the
corner, dragging an unconscious guard. “Curt, what happened?”

 
          
“Foot
patrol. We’re running out of time.” They heard a voice behind them near the
airline offices calling for Van Nuys—the guard had come back. “Scratch that.
We’ve
run
out of time.”

 
          
“Can
we make it ofif the airport?”

 
          
“No
good. We saw armed police in the streets—the town wouldn’t be safe for us.”

 
          
“Call
the Huey in,” Geffar said. Long reached into a pocket, extracted a
lighter-sized device and punched a button. A red light flashed on, followed by
a green one. “Message received. He’s on the way.”

 
          
“Rushell
Masters, no doubt,” Van Nuys said. “So, the old Customs Service gang is here.
The Hammerheads weren’t supposed to show for another two days.”

 
          
“You’re
really well informed, Max ... except this is a private party, just for you.”

 
          
A
Jeep appeared about a hundred yards away on the other side of the fence that
bordered the airport. It stopped just opposite the hangars, and a searchlight
began moving across the ground, scanning the hangars and the alleyways. The
three men and the woman between two of the hangars crouched down as low as they
could as the beam swept over in their direction into the alleyway—and stopped.
Soon they heard warning shouts coming from the men on the other side of the
fence.

 
          
“Get
back,” Geffar said. She fired at the searchlight, sending sparks flying from
the Jeep’s fender. The soldiers went for cover as Geffar lined up more
carefully and knocked out the searchlight with the next shot.

 
          
Geffar
turned and saw Salman, Van Nuys and Long climbing up a ladder bolted on the
side of the hangar leading to the roof. She fired three more times at the Jeep
to pin down the soldiers, then ran for the ladder, holstered her .45 and
started climbing.

 
          
It
was a long, hard one. the bruised muscles in her chest were throbbing after a
few rungs. The last twenty feet of the six-story climb were agony—she was sure
her fingers and arms would give out any moment. Her thighs burned and trembled.
When she dared to look up to see how far she had to go, she couldn’t even see
the top—the ladder seemed to go on forever.