Passage Graves (29 page)

Chapter 70

SUNDAY 10:49 a.m.

3 km north of Inveramsay

Aberdeenshire, Northern Scotland

According to the highway sign, Aberdeen was only 16 miles away. Bumper-to-bumper traffic spanned the road and disappeared over the horizon. Without warning, authorities had shut down A98, stopping all traffic traveling east. Both directions of the highway were being used as a one-way funnel out of the evacuation areas. All four lanes were crowded with cars trying to flee to the city.

Thatcher
lowered her head to the steering wheel. “We are going nowhere fast.”

David turned
up the radio. They’d been listening to media reports on the UK emergency broadcast system.

“Edinburgh, Glasgow, Perth, and Prestwick safe houses
have filled to capacity. Traffic is being rerouted to the coastal villages of Bieldside, Cults, Dyce, Foveran. U.K. borders are closed. International flights have been suspended indefinitely.”

Thatcher
leaned out the window for a better view. Several policemen were moving from car to car, instructing the drivers. An officer stopped at a Volkswagen two cars ahead of them. The driver rolled down his window and then handed his ID to the policeman.

The officer returned the man’s ID and
moved on to the compact car in front of them. He slowed his walk as he met Thatcher’s eyes. A look of recognition crossed his face. Thatcher glanced in the side mirror. Patrol vehicles were speeding their direction a mile back along the highway. Their sirens were still too distant to hear.

She
shifted into reverse and slammed on the breaks. Four cars had materialized behind them and even more in the opposite lane. There was nowhere to go. The driver in the car behind them adjusted a communication device in his ear. They weren’t evacuees.

“Da
vid,” she said.

“I see them
.”

“They’re looking for somebody.
”

Cranking
the steering wheel to the left, she shifted into drive and floored the gas pedal. The SUV slammed into the car ahead of them. The officer jumped behind a truck and fired at their windshield. 

Thatcher
powered forward, keeping the wheel turned left. She had to get off the highway. Metal twisted with an agonizing screech as the car ahead began to crumple. The grill tore off the front of the SUV, and they broke free. She sped off the pavement, over the shoulder and down into the drainage ditch. 

“Which way?” she yelled
.

“Clochtow.” David held tightly to the dash.

More policemen opened fire. The civilians scattered around them, trying to pull away from the barrage of bullets. Thatcher’s heart jumped into her throat. This was insane! There were people everywhere. How could they be shooting so recklessly?

She veered
away from the road, up onto the moor.

“Wh
ich way is Clochtow?” she yelled over the roaring engine. The SUV was speeding 90 kph over the matted terrain.

David pointed in the direction of the coast.
“Southeast!”

Chapter 71

SUNDAY, 11:25 a.m.

Clochtow, Scotland

David pounded on the rickety station house door.

Behind him, Thatcher laid on the horn.

The
airfield was deserted. His friend Brian Rosenlund had been forced out—or he’d taken off himself during all the chaos, the latter seemed more plausible. A true anarchist, the man deplored authority. His private landing strip was overrun with weeds and potholes. The pavement began at a metal hangar at the east end of the property and ended in the direction of the oncoming militia. Officials had pursued them off the highway, dipping in and out of the drainage ditch, and powering over the rolling hills.

“Go to the hangar!
” David jumped inside the SUV. “Let’s hope he left her.” 

Thatcher sped d
own the runway. A fuel station with rusted petrol tanks stood to the left of the hangar. Brian had constructed the airstrip around it. The station looked straight out of the 1950’s with a dilapidated gas pump island and a vintage garage. On the other side of the hangar towered a radio mast with thin metal legs. Affixed to its top was a radar jammer. Highly concentrated energy pulses transmitted a sweeping cover of background noise that concealed any aircraft flying in or out of the field. The device jammed every frequency within a 15 mile radius. It was the most expensive piece of equipment on the property. Beyond the hangar, wild terrain continued east and then abruptly ended at the coastal cliff.

David jumped out
of the SUV and forced open the hangar door. Brian was paranoid, but he never locked anything. He helped Thatcher and Asor out of the car and inside.

They stared up a
t the cargo prop plane with skepticism. Constructed mostly of American C-119 parts, the twin-engine was a genuine bucket of bolts. Brian had built the thing from the ground up, fashioning missing parts out of welding scraps. It was airworthy. That’s all that mattered.

David
opened the hatch.

Thatcher climbed i
nside with an ‘are you crazy’ look on her face.

Asor had
stopped at the rear of the plane. He pulled the tarp off the duckbill nose of a retired British Air Ministry Anson. The Anson sat in a junk pile at the back of the hangar. It had been salvaged for parts and was missing a few odds and ends. The low mounted wings, each with rounded tips, were covered with scrap wire and metal debris. The entire heap was buried in dust.

“
Come on!” David yelled, pushing the old man into the cargo plane. They climbed into the cockpit. Asor sat by the fuselage and Thatcher in the navigator’s seat.

Da
vid pressed the hangar switch, and the massive metal doors began to retract. He dropped in the captain’s chair and turned the overhead knobs to start each engine. The propellers coughed and then whirled to life. He flipped on the fuel switch. The starter cut out as the engines reached self-sufficiency.

“Come on.”
He flicked the gauge with his finger. It read empty.

Thatcher bu
ckled herself into the seat. She took in a deep breath. Whatever militia force was following them, they weren’t far away.

The gas level rose.
They had a full tank. He flipped the wing flaps into the up position and winked at Thatcher.

She didn’t see him. H
er mouth fell open.

“Where’d they come from?” David asked incredulously.

At the opposite end of the runway, heavy artillery lined the airstrip. There was an army of short range munitions. Guns, launchers, mortars. No one was fooling around this time.

A b
ang resonated across the runway. There was a flash of light. A missile slammed into the gas station. The petrol tanks lit up like roman candles, erupting in a monstrous fireball. Another missile shrieked across the pavement and ripped through the radio tower, crippling the legs. It curled the metal as if it was ribbon. The tower collapsed under its weight, landing on the hangar roof. The ceiling caved inward.

This wasn’t going to work.

“Get out of the plane!” David yelled.

“Are you crazy?” Thatcher
shouted back.

The roof began to fall apart
around them. Thatcher ducked as if that would help.

David unbuckled he
r seatbelt. He flipped another switch and the plane rumbled as its cargo door lowered to the ground. He forced them out of the plane and down the ramp. “Trust me!”

“David?”

He ran back into the plane without them.

“Come on.”
David slowly increased the throttle to 2,000 rpms.

The
cargo plane lurched out of the hangar. Its propellers screamed, picking up speed, guzzling air and siphoning it out. With the throttle fully open, he moved into position for departure. The open cargo ramp dragged along the cement.

He w
edged a wood block against the pedal, keeping the plane pointed at the armada. Making his way back to the cargo hold, he supported himself with both hands on the fuselage while the plane bounced over potholes. A trail of sparks followed behind the ramp as it dragged over the pavement. He zipped up his jacket and took in a deep breath. He dove down the ramp, tumbling as he hit the landing strip. His body spun over the cement. He cradled his head with his arms, but the ground was unforgiving, bruising everything it came into contact with. He rolled to a stop.

Sprinting
for the hangar, he could hear the plane charging the taskforce behind him.

They fired off another
missile, hitting the aircraft broadside and knocking the engine off the wing pylon. The right wing exploded, throwing David to the ground. Debris showered overhead. There was another detonation as the plane hit the armada. The sky was raining metal. Isolated fires broke out across the landing strip.

He
forced himself up again. His heart was beating in his ears.

There was the cough of another motor. Hesitantly, the engine groaned
awake. Thatcher drove the Anson out of the east end of the hangar. Asor held open the door and waved him inside.

David took the pilot’s seat and
steered toward the cliff. He checked the breaks and rudder pedals, then hand on the throttle he pulled it full open. The ailerons on the wings moved up and down. Wing flaps were up. Increasing the back pressure, he lifted the nose, trying to reach 70 knots on the air speed indicator. They were going to need a hell of a lot of speed to takeoff before reaching the cliff.

T
he radial piston engine fired and misfired. Neither engine was reliable. The entire flight would be touch and go. Wing flaps extended, the nose lifted into the sky. The wind was in their favor but they still weren’t fast enough. The wheels touched back down and dipped along the uneven surface. It was a hell of a runway.

David fought
with the yoke.

The plane
popped into the air again as land dropped out beneath them. The engines were shrieking—it was a miracle they worked. The fuselage groaned under distress. The twin-bladed propellers sputtered and stalled. The takeoff was too abrupt. With a stomach-sinking lurch, the plane dropped toward the sea. The wings fought with the wind, and the world began to spin.

David pushed the yoke
forward in a belligerent struggle against gravity. The left engine restarted. Smoke tailed from its turbine. They were inches from the water. Sea spray splashed the windscreen. Picking up speed, the plane groaned as it leveled out. It banked sideways. David pulled the wheel back and the elevators moved upward. The plane pulled up, away from the rocky coastline. The landing gear tucked into the bottom of the engine nacelle.

They
’d made it.

With a sigh of relief, he
looked at Thatcher. She was equally dazed.

He smiled.

Apparently, Asor wasn’t the only one capable of pulling off miracles.

Chapter 72

After the initial b
rimstone, the fiery opiates left his muscles warm and relaxed. His body was acclimating to the drug. When he wasn’t moving, the fugue was almost pleasant. Over the course of the day, he had managed to turn onto his stomach. He stretched over to the ventilation shaft where he could see the world below.

Moonlight reflected off the
ocean. They had been flying southwest for a good ten hours, across the Atlantic toward Mesoamerica. During the last half hour, the plane had dropped in altitude to a few thousand feet above sea level. The floor vibrated as landing gear lowered into place. He could see ocean currents break into wave crests as saltwater swept the beach. Then the sea disappeared altogether, giving way to dense jungle, where the plane descended onto a private runway.

A
few minutes after landing, the cargo door opened.

Ian rolled away from the vent
. The liquid fire Javan had injected into him churned and blazed inside every nerve bundle throughout his body. His eyes blurred from the severity of pain. Movement was blinding agony.

Dettorio untied Ian’s bindings
and carried him out of the plane. He set him on ground.

Ian stayed
motionless. The pain wouldn’t dull unless he was perfectly still. He could hear men arguing a short distance away, but his eyes were all fireworks and auras. It was impossible to see anything.

Javan’s accent intruded upon the conversation. The word
padre
was repeated several times. They were discussing Ian. He could barely make out the shapes around him. The longer he lay on the ground, what was blurry became recognizable. They were at the end of the landing strip, which was lit by the high beams of four Unimog SUVs. A large sign painted on a derelict radio tower behind him read
Dos Estrellas
. He didn’t recognize the name.  Men unloaded supplies from the plane into the back of the Unimog truck beds. Box by box, they slowly cleared the area around Ian, until Ian’s view of Javan was clear. The Chancellor was arguing with two Hispanic men, also dressed in suits. The men didn’t say much as Javan ranted in Spanish. His movements were flamboyant with rage.

Something had gone wrong.

“What are you doing awake?”

Ian saw Dettorio out of
the corner of his eye.

The henchman lifted the butt of his pistol and knocked the side of Ian’s skull.