Flashpoint

25

Murdock looked at the fuel gauge. It was at the halfway level. The pilot could be lying.

“Ask him how far he can go on the fuel he has left,” the platoon leader said.

Ching asked the pilot in Spanish.

“He says he isn’t sure, twenty miles, maybe more.”

“Fine. Tell him to head directly at the mountains. He must know of a pass through them that’s less than the height of the tallest peaks. These aren’t supposed to be the highest in the country. Tell him if he can’t get over the mountains, we’re going to crash into them.”

Murdock listened and watched the expression of the pilot as Ching talked to him in Spanish. He was not an actor. What he felt showed at once. First it was stark fear, then the idea of the pass came, and he relaxed a little.

“The bastard was faking the fuel. Now, get out your MP-5 and hold it on him all the time. Tell him if he does anything wrong, he dies. Remind him we have two men who can fly the plane in case he comes up with a dozen rounds in his black heart.”

The pilot had turned pale by the time Ching finished the small tirade at the man. He began sweating again. He looked at Ching, then at the submachine gun, and nodded.

“Sí, sí. Paso, paso.” He struggled then but said in English. “I know mountain pass. Maybe get through. Plane old, tired.”

Murdock relaxed a little. There was a chance they just might make it over the hump. The mountains were nearer the coast than to Plato. Once over the mountains, they would have a chance to get to the coast.

Murdock could feel the plane climbing, not sharply but probably as steep as the old engines could go. The plane could have been built back in the 1950s or before then. The DC-3 was a workhorse, but even horses have to be shot at some point and put out of their misery. He hoped it wasn’t misery day for this old DC-3.

The climb continued. Murdock caught his men up to date on the cockpit talk.

“So, if he can make the pass over the mountains, it will cut down the altitude needed. This old bird isn’t exactly a spring chicken looking to cackle.”

“This is the same bird the Air Force used to call the C-47,” Jaybird said. “First ones came out in 1935. Let’s hope this one was built a hell of a lot later than that. They should have a top cruising speed of a hundred and eighty-five miles an hour, so it shouldn’t take long to get thirty or forty miles to those mountains.”

They looked out the small windows but came up with nothing but blackness.

“We’ve been in the air for fourteen minutes,” Canzoneri said. “Stopwatch counts up as well as down,” he said before any challenged him.

Murdock went back to the small cockpit. Ahead, he could see a few lights sprinkling the ground.

“He says it’s a small village, and the road leads sharply west into the only pass he knows of. He drove over it once and it was over twenty-seven hundred meters. That would be about eight thousand feet.”

“I’d feel better if those mountain folks were much farther below us,” Murdock said. “Now I wish we had our chutes.”

“Everyone else had the same idea,” Ching said. He turned and jabbered something to the pilot. The man nodded.

“Just reminded him that he lives or dies by getting us through that fucking pass. He gets the idea.”

Murdock thought of trying the SATCOM. He wasn’t sure they could hold a satellite with their antenna as they were flying. They’d never tired that before. He really didn’t have anything to tell Stroh or the Navy. When they got down, if they could, he’d yell and scream at the CIA asshole. How could they hang the whole platoon out in the wilderness this way with every chance they would get their balls shot off?

The pilot yelled something.

“He says the pass is right ahead. He’s been following the headlights of a few cars. He figures we need another three hundred feet altitude.”

“Tell him to circle around until he gets the vertical feet that he needs,” Murdock said.

The pilot frowned when he heard the orders. He shrugged and pulled the aircraft in a half-mile-wide circle, climbing as fast as the old engines would permit.

They made six circles, and Chin yelled at the pilot. “Nobody is coming to help you. We have the altitude, we’re at almost 8500 feet if you set your altimeter right.” He shouted it in Spanish at the man. “Now, get us over these mother fucking mountains or your ass is stretched and blasted and cut in half with nine-millimeter rounds. Does that sound good?”

The pilot wiped his dripping eyebrows, glanced at Ching and his leveled submachine gun, then stared straight ahead. He pulled the bird out of the circle and angled slightly to the northwest.

Ching looked out the cockpit window on his side, and he could see the loose string of lights below. Then a few miles to the side, he saw the pattern of streetlights that lit up a small subdivision of houses. No mistaking it.

He grabbed the pilot by the throat. “Are we heading west? What’s a housing project doing up here on the mountain?”

Ching had screeched it in Spanish. The pilot pawed at his throat. The plane took a steep turn to the left. Ching let go of the pilot, who righted the plane.

“Yes, big government project. Need many men, so build houses. Mountains here. Look at compass. West.” Ching looked closer at the floating compass and saw that the heading was generally west.

“The pass, can you find it?”

“Yes, ahead, three miles. Almost high enough. More power and maybe get over.”

“Damn well better, or like I say, you die first, in the air, not in a crash.” Ching clicked the safety on and off on the MP-5 sub gun and pushed the muzzle into the Colombian’s side.

“Now fly us the fuck over this mountain.”

Murdock watched the small drama play out. Ching was handling it perfectly. No chance to fake it on the pilot’s part. If he did, he was dead meat. So were the rest of them in the plane, but he didn’t know that.

Murdock looked out the window at the dark shadows ahead. The mountain or clouds? No clouds out tonight. It was solid Colombian soil, rock, and trees.

“Get us higher,” Ching shouted.

The pilot grimaced and pulled the controls back a little more. The throttle was on maximum.

Murdock watched the mountain come closer. He could see the headlights crawling along below. Then all at once he realized the headlights were no more than a hundred feet below them. They were almost on top of the road. Now he could see the opening where the road went. It was a good three or four hundred feet below the peaks on both sides. Plenty of room for the wingspan of the old DC-3.

The sudden rumbling of the air and the screaming roar of a plane overhead slammed into the transport and made it veer to the left. The pilot swore and pulled the ship back on course.

“Fighter overhead,” Murdock said. “He knows we’re here, he’s probably asking for permission to shoot us down.”

“What was it, a MiG?”

“Heard they had a few.”

“Yes!” the pilot shouted. Murdock looked out the cockpit windows to the front and couldn’t see the mountain.

They were over it, through the pass.

“Now, get as low as you can go,” Ching said. “We want to be right on the treetops all the way to the coast. Can you do that?”

“Yes, but not too low. Some small mountains out front. Lower, but not good to crash into.”

“Was that a MiG jet fighter that buzzed us?” Ching asked the pilot.

“Oh, yes, my country has twelve now. And twelve pilots to fly them.”

Ching checked the fuel gauges. One for each engine. He saw the one on the right was down to a quarter of a tank. That was the one he figured took a rifle round. The other one had the needle hitting the red line of empty.

“Fuel!” Ching brayed.

The pilot checked the gauges. He swore in Spanish before he looked at Ching. “One engine quit in two, three minutes. Fly some with one engine, not far.”

“Find us a place to land,” Ching said. “We’ll belly land it with the wheels up. You understand?”

Sweat poured down the pilot’s face again.

“Yes, long valley, maybe with grass.”

“Good,” Murdock said. “Can you find one in the dark?”

The pilot grinned, suddenly the man in control. “Yes, have flown this way before. Another five miles or so. Long valley, much farmers there.”

Murdock wondered about the farming fields. There weren’t a lot of options. He went to the cabin and told the men they would be making a belly landing without wheels.

“When I give the word, hold onto something. Brace against something forward because that’s the way you’ll be pushed as the bucket here stops suddenly.”

“Just not too suddenly,” Jaybird cracked.

Murdock went back to the cockpit. He saw that the pilot had slowed the airspeed and was turning to his left. Then he saw it out the window in the moonlight. An open valley maybe five miles long.

A few lights showed at the sides of the valley.

“No chance go around for second try,” the pilot said. “First time. Slow as much as possible.”

They came in over the valley, in a steep glide, then leveled out twenty feet over the ground. All Murdock could see were a few fences and land plots, and then a field filled with bales of hay. He couldn’t see directly below, but they must be within fifty feet of touching down.

The pilot yelped and nosed the plane down sharper, then brought up the nose and flared out as he waited for the plane to stall out just before it touched.

The nose dropped a foot, then the whole transport eased to the ground and skidded along.

Murdock had glued himself to the forward cabin door and held on. Ching had strapped himself in the copilot’s seat and had both feet on the instrument panel.

The plane jolted forward, rumbling and groaning. Murdock felt himself slammed against the door frame as the rig hit something that slowed it even more. Then it skidded again and slowed more and more.

Twenty long seconds later, it came to a stop.

“Open the hatch, everyone out,” Murdock bellowed in the sudden silence. Both engines had shut down. Murdock ran into the cabin. The men were jostled about, but none looked broken up.

Ed DeWitt rammed open the side hatch and dropped to the ground.

“Out, out, out,” Murdock roared. “This thing could explode at any minute.”

The SEALs stormed out, most leaving their equipment behind. Murdock pushed the pilot out and was the last man to clear the aircraft.

DeWitt came up to him, grinning.

“Lucky bastards. He set us down in a field of just-mown hay. Not raked or baled. The cut hay made a perfect slide for us. A plowed field could have killed us all.”

Murdock saw the cut weeds and hay. The plane would never be able to take off.

“Anybody hurt? Casualty report, Alpha.” His men all reported in. DeWitt made a check. His men were all in good shape.

“Let’s get any gear out of the aircraft we left there. We just might need it before we get to the coast.” He frowned. “What the hell ever happened to that barracks bag full of hundred dollar bills? Jefferson, that was your eight million dollar baby. Where is it?”

“Cap, it was too fucking heavy. We split up the cash. Every man ’cept you and JG got some bundles.”

“I’m a rich son of a bitch,” Franklin crooned.

They pulled weapons and two drag bags from the plane and then hunkered down, waiting for the decision where to go. Murdock checked his wrist compass. “Due west leads over that little hill. Anybody have any MREs left?”

“Hell, they been gone for a day or more,” Ronson said. “Damn flight attendant on this bucket didn’t even give us breakfast.”

Murdock and Ching talked with the pilot.

“Where do the farmers live who work the land?” Ching asked.

“Small village, far end of valley. Two miles.”

“We need some food,” Murdock said. The pilot nodded.

“Village, we find food,” the pilot said.

“Mount up, troops, short walk to our new mess hall.” Murdock checked his webbing. He had one more WP grenade. He ran to the plane and tossed it into the cockpit. It exploded with streamers of white phosphorus arcing through the craft.

By the time they were half a mile away, they heard the fuel tanks explode with what was left of the fuel.

Ten minutes later, Lam was out front of their column of ducks when he went to ground. Murdock hurried up beside him. Ahead in the moonlight, Murdock saw four good-sized one-story houses. All had small barns and sheds in back of them. No light showed. He checked his watch. It was almost 0400. He passed the word to send the pilot up with Ching.

“Go down there and pick the best-looking house and get them up. They have sixteen guests to feed. Ching, watch what the pilot says. Tell him he’s dead meat if he tries to hurt us. Nobody leaves the house once you’re inside.”

Ching talked to the pilot a moment, then they both stood and walked quickly toward the houses. They all still had on their Motorolas.

“Lam, take a tour. See what kind of transport you can find. Two old cars or a farm truck would be handy. We came across a road back there, so there must be roads that lead all the way to he coast.”

Lam nodded and took off at a trot toward the last house in the group.

Jaybird settled in beside Murdock. “Wonder why that jet didn’t come back and blow us out of the sky. He must have air-to-air missiles and radar and guidance systems.”

“Maybe he couldn’t find us.”

“Sure he could, with his radar.”

“Maybe he wasn’t sure if we were one of the smugglers’ planes. The pilot said he’d flown through that pass before, coming this way.”

“At least we’re still alive.”

Murdock watched through his NVGs as the pilot knocked on one of the houses’ doors. It took several minutes of repeated knocking before anyone came. A light glowed inside, then the door opened.

Murdock could hear faintly some of the Spanish over his radio as the pilot spoke.

Then Ching’s voice came on. “Yes, tell him there are sixteen of us, and we will pay him well. We need food and water.”

A minute later, Ching spoke.

“All set here, Skipper. Bring in the troops. We’re getting food. We’ll give him a hundred dollar bill, and he’ll be delighted. Of course, if he tries to cash it in, he may be shot as a spy.”

“Roger that,” Murdock said. They lifted up and walked down the slight incline to the house.

The small front room in the house was sparsely furnished. Murdock liked the kitchen better. By the time they got there, women in their forties were starting a fire in a wood range and cooking. Two men came into the room and stared at the uniforms. Both talked with the pilot, and Ching monitored it.

“He’s explaining how his plane crashed,” Ching reported. “They seem satisfied.”

The food came quickly. First a mush with milk and honey and coffee, lots of good, black Colombian coffee. Then chicken, which had been pan-fried along with sliced potatoes and half a dozen kinds of steamed vegetables. There were thick slices of homemade bread and more honey and lots more coffee.

Lam had slipped into the long table and reported to Murdock.

“There’s an old farm truck out there with a stake body, ton and a half, I’d say. We can all ride on it. Has a full tank of gas and looks like it gets used daily.”

“Lam, you have some of that drug money?”

“Sure, five hundred thousand dollars. Some guys have six hundred thousand. Jefferson figured it out.”

“Let’s buy the truck,” Murdock said, grinning.

They later asked the pilot what the farm truck would be worth to the family. He looked at it in the dark and said maybe six hundred dollars, U.S.

Ching and the pilot talked to the local Colombian men and soon made the bargain. They paid them a thousand dollars, and the SEALs loaded up. Their canteens were full and their stomachs belching. It had been a weird breakfast.

The pilot climbed on board the truck. Murdock frowned. Ching saw him and asked him where he was going.

“Go with you. Guide you to coast for two hundred U.S. dollars.”

DeWitt belched. “Yeah, bring him. He might get us through something we don’t know is coming up. How far to the damned coast?”

The pilot asked the farmer, who said it was twenty miles. By then it was nearly daylight.

“Let’s move,” Murdock said. Ostercamp had checked out the rig. They paid the farmer for his truck and the meals and drove away. The road turned north and then west and held that line for five miles. By that time, it was fully daylight.

The dirt and gravel roads were not made for speed. Ostercamp was glad when they could average fifteen miles an hour. Just after daylight, they heard a jet fighter. It screamed overhead and followed the valley they had just left.

When it came to the burned-out transport, it circled several times, then went high and circled again before it turned and flew directly where the truck had been moments before.

Ostercamp had pulled the rig under three large trees that totally concealed it from the air. The jet made two more passes, then lifted up and raced away.

“We’ve been made,” Murdock said. “Five will get you fifty that we have some ground troops heading our way right now. Let’s get as far away from that burned-out plane as we can.”

Ostercamp hit the gas but had to slow almost at once on a washboard section that jarred their teeth.

Murdock figured they were halfway to the coast when he saw the roadblock ahead.

“We can take it out,” Ostercamp said. “Done it enough times before.”

“No,” Murdock said. “We hit a curve and get out of sight, then we abandon the bloody truck. It’s an albatross around our neck. That jet must have reported we were on this truck. So we dump it. We hit the shank’s mares and fade into the countryside. We can’t be more than ten miles to the wet.”

They ditched the truck and found a stream heading toward the coast. It had a friendly growth of brush and trees they could use for cover as they passed the roadblock half a mile over and kept right on going. When they were two miles beyond the roadblock, Murdock called a halt.

“Holt, let’s do it.”

Holt took out the SATCOM and aimed the antenna.

“Home Base, this is Rover. Home Base, this is Rover.”

They waited, but there was no answer. The fourth time he made the call, the answer came.

“Rover. We read you.”

“Figure we’re about three miles from the wet. On a compass bearing due west of Plato.”

“What’s your ETA on the wet, Rover?”

“Not sure. Depends on our luck and the skills of the Colombian National Army. Will give you a definite ETA on our next call. Shall we expect a Knight or a rubber raft?”

“The Knight is our choice. Keep us informed.”

“Let’s rumble,” Murdock said.

They hiked with renewed interest then. Lam was a quarter of a mile in front as they skirted farms, waded the creek twice, and stayed under cover as much as they could.

“Two choppers ahead, Cap,” Lam said. “They’re doing a pattern search. No way they can miss us if we keep moving.”

“Come back, Lam. We’ll go to ground in these trees and hope they pass over without spotting us. Odds are in our favor.”

“Hold, Skipper. Now I see. There are two of them, and they are big jobs, with about twenty men each. They’re leapfrogging over each other. Let the men out to search a half mile, then pick them up and jump them over the next group. They’re working right up this valley. Could be a dozen units like this working all the routes up to that burned-out plane.”

“Hold, Lam. I’m on my way.”

Murdock ran the two hundred yards up to where Lam lay in brush on a small rise so he could see downstream. One big chopper had just lifted off and raced toward them a half mile, dropping off its load a quarter of a mile from where Murdock lay.

He stared at the soldiers spreading out in a search formation and starting up the valley.

“Oh, yes,” Murdock said. “Now that does present us with a small problem.”