Clear and present danger - Tom Clancy [357]
"Where are we going - I mean, where's this chopper going?"
"I don't know." Ryan keyed his intercom to ask. He was surprised by the answer and communicated it to Clark.
"Look, let me handle it. I got an idea. I'll take him out of here when we land. Larson and I will tidy that part of it up. I think I know what'll work."
"But -"
"You don't really want to know, do you?"
"You can't murder him!" Jack insisted.
"I won't," Clark said. Ryan didn't know how to read that answer. But it did offer a way out, and he took it.
Larson got there first. The airfield was poorly lit, only a few glow lights showing under the low ceiling, but he managed to get his aircraft down, and with his anticollision lights blinking, he guided the way to the fuel-service area. He'd barely stopped when the helicopter landed fifty yards away.
Larson was amazed. In the dim blue lights he could see numerous holes in the aircraft. A man in a flight suit ran out toward him. Larson met him and led him to the fuel hose. It was a long one, about an inch in diameter, used to fuel private aircraft. The power to the pumps was off, but Larson knew where the switch was, and he shot the door lock. He'd never done that before, but just like in the movies, five rounds removed the brass mechanism from the wooden frame of the door. A minute later, Sergeant Bean had the nozzle into one of the outrigger tanks. That was when Clark and Escobedo appeared. A soldier held a rifle to the latter's head while the CIA officers conferred.
"We're going back," Clark told the pilot.
"What?" Larson turned to see two soldiers taking Juardo out of the Beech and toward the helicopter.
"We're taking our friend here back home to Medellín. Couple of things we have to do first, though…"
"Oh, great." Larson walked back to his aircraft and climbed up on the wing to open his fuel caps. He had to wait fifteen minutes. The helicopter usually drank fuel through a far larger hose. When the crewman took the hose back, the chopper's rotor started turning again. Soon after that, it lifted off into the night. There was lightning ahead to the north, and Larson was just as happy that he wasn't flying there. He let Clark handle the fueling while he went inside to make a telephone call. The funny part was that he'd even make money off the deal. Except that there was nothing funny about anything that had happened during the preceding month.
"Okay," PJ said into the intercom. "That's the last pit stop, and we're heading for home."
"Engine temps aren't all that great," Willis said. The T-64-GE-7 engines were designed to burn aviation kerosene, not the more volatile and dangerous high-octane gas used by private planes. The manufacturer's warranty said that you could use that fuel for thirty hours before the burner cans were crisped down to ashes, but the warranty didn't say anything about bad valve springs and P3 loss.
"Looks like we're going to cool 'em down just fine," the colonel said, nodding at the weather ahead.
"Thinking positive again, are we, Colonel?" Willis said as coolly as he could manage. It wasn't just a thunderstorm there, it was a hurricane that stood between them and Panama. On the whole, it was something scarier than being shot at. You couldn't shoot back at a storm.
"CLAW, this is CAESAR, over," Johns called on his radio.
"I read you, CAESAR."
"How's the weather ahead look?"
"Bad, sir. Recommend that you head west, find a spot to climb over, and try to approach from the Pacific side."
Willis scanned the navigational display. "Uh-uh."
"CLAW, we just gained about five-kay pounds in weight. We, uh, looks like we need another way."
"Sir, the storm is moving west at fifteen knots, and your course to Panama takes you into the lower-right quadrant."
Headwinds all the way, PJ told himself.
"Give me a number."
"Estimated peak winds on your course home are seven-zero knots."
"Great!" Willis observed. "That makes us marginal for Panama, sir. Very damned marginal."
Johns nodded. The winds were bad enough. The rain