Nighthawk

10

The sleepy airport on the coast of Ecuador appeared abandoned in the middle of the night. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire and a few perimeter lights were the only efforts at security. Occasionally, a guard in a white pickup truck with a yellow rotating beacon on top would drive the taxiway and runway, but more out of boredom than anything else.

“Not exactly Fort Knox,” Emma noted from the driver’s seat of a car she’d rented under an assumed name.

“Why do you think I chose it?” Kurt said, stepping out and walking to the gate. “Under normal circumstances, there’s nothing here worth stealing.”

Kurt found the gate unlocked and eased it back. He waved Emma through, closed the gate behind her and hopped back in the car. “Over that way,” he said, pointing to the left.

Emma drove carefully, navigating by the moonlight and sticking to one side of the crumbling taxiway. They passed a few small planes tied down at the edge of the ramp: single-engine Cessnas and Pipers. Judging by the weeds growing up between them, few of the planes had moved in weeks, if not months.

“How did you even know about this place?” Emma asked.

Kurt pointed across the runway. “On the other side of that fence, the waves of the Pacific are pounding the beach with rhythmic precision. This is one of the better surf spots in all of South America. I was going to come here when the season begins in a few months.”

They continued on, passing a small hangar and pulling up beside a mammoth orange helicopter that looked more like a giant mutant insect looming in the dark than a machine made by human hands.

The helicopter stood on spindly, outstretched legs, its long rotors drooping like a dragonfly’s wings. A thin, pointed tail stretched out into the dark behind it, while its large, bulbous head bent near to the ground, giving the appearance of a locust gnawing the grass.

The Erickson Air-Crane was a modernized version of the famous Sikorsky Skycrane. It was seventy feet long, sported a huge, six-bladed rotor and was powered by two Pratt & Whitney turboshaft engines. It could carry a crew of five and a ten-ton payload. Most of the working models were used to haul heavy loads to places no truck could possibly reach or to battle forest fires. Its heavy-lifting capacity and precise maneuverability allowed it to drop tons of water or flame-retardant on hilltops, in box canyons and other tight spots normal firefighting planes could not target.

Since Erickson had taken over the design, each newly built helicopter was christened with a distinct name of its own. One named Elvis fought fires in Australia. Another named Jaws ferried parts to oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. The craft sitting on the tarmac in front of them was named Merlin and had a small caricature of a wizard painted on the nose.

As Emma parked beside it, a light came on inside the cockpit and a figure stepped out through the door.

“About time you got here,” Joe Zavala said. “This must be Hurricane Emma.”

Emma shot Kurt a suspicious look and then shook Joe’s hand. “I’ve been downgraded to a tropical storm. But don’t make me angry.”

“Duly noted,” Joe said. “Care to step on board?”

“I thought we’d have some loading to do,” Kurt said. “Did you get all the equipment on the list?”

“Of course,” Joe said. “It’s stored away in the aft cargo container. We also have a drop tank filled with extra fuel.”

He pointed at two pods attached near the tail: the cargo container was black and had the aerodynamics of a brick; the drop tank was sleek and tapered, with the appearance of an orange bomb.

“Did you run into the security guard?”

“Of course,” Joe said. “Who do you think helped me load this stuff?”

Kurt laughed. “Joe has a way with people,” he explained to Emma. “He was once pulled over for speeding and instead of getting a ticket, he wound up with a police escort to the Boston Pops.”

“I was late for a date,” Joe explained. “The officer was very understanding.”

Kurt checked his watch. “Getting late here, too. If we’re ready, let’s go.”

They boarded the Air-Crane through a door in the back of the cockpit. To reach it one had to walk under the fuselage, which was like walking beneath a small bridge. Even standing straight up, the backbone of the craft was several feet above their heads.

Joe took the pilot’s seat in the surprisingly tight cockpit and began to go through the start-up checklist. He had almost a thousand hours in helicopters of various types, but this was the first time he’d flown one this size.

“Are you sure you know how to fly this thing?” Kurt asked.

“They’re all the same, more or less,” Joe replied.

“It’s the less part that I’m worried about.”

“Trust me,” Joe said. “Have I ever let you down?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” Kurt said.

He sat down and strapped himself into the copilot’s seat while Emma took the third seat just behind them. As Joe finished his checklist, he turned on the navigation lights and a flashing red glow became visible out in the dark. He held the starter switch down and the rotors began to move slowly above their heads. Seconds later, the engines came to life with a throaty roar.

“Welcome aboard Zavala Flight 251 to nowhere,” he said. “Please put your tray tables in the upright and locked position.”

“Should we call the tower?” Kurt asked.

“They went home hours ago,” Joe replied.

“In that case, I’d say you’re cleared for takeoff.”

Joe ran the throttle up to full power and pulled steadily back on the collective, controlling lift. The weight came off the wheels and the helicopter began to roll forward. It lifted from the ground and turned into the wind.

Accelerating and climbing, Joe turned the Air-Crane toward the sea, and they crossed the beach and climbed out over the Pacific.

An hour later, they were nearing the spot where the Catalina had dropped off its submersible.

“I’ve got it,” Kurt said, looking through a set of night vision goggles. “Two miles ahead, ten degrees right, bobbing up and down on the surface, right where it should be.”

A low-intensity light on the Angler’s hatch — no brighter than a handheld flashlight — appeared like a magnesium flare through the goggles.

“I see it,” Joe replied. He brought the helicopter down to fifty feet and hovered directly above the submersible.

Kurt removed the night vision goggles and switched positions. He moved past Emma to an aft-facing seat at the back of the cockpit, surrounded by a clear Plexiglas bubble, reminiscent of a tail-gunner’s position in a World War II bomber.

The payload specialist’s station offered a clear view of everything behind and beneath the Air-Crane. With the flip of a switch, several floodlights came on, illuminating the scene below. The white submersible with the broad red stripe rode low in the water, surrounded by a spiraling pattern created by the downwash of the Air-Crane’s rotors.

“Back ten feet,” Kurt called out.

“Roger that,” Joe said, easing the helicopter backward.

Activating the winch controls on a panel in front of him, Kurt released a heavy steel hook and lowered it toward the Angler. His target was a prominent bar on top of the submersible’s hull that resembled the roll cage of an off-road vehicle. The thick red band painted across the top of the submersible marked the attachment point.

“Right five,” Kurt said. “Forward two.”

As Joe maneuvered the Air-Crane, Kurt made several attempts to hook the Angler, but the task wasn’t as easy as it looked. If the submersible rose on a swell at the wrong moment, the hook bounced off its hull. Other times, the hook swung and missed as the attachment point dropped beneath it like a boxer ducking a slow punch.

Kurt was seriously considering getting wet and placing the hook by hand when a solid click and tension on the line told him he’d nabbed his catch.

“Got it!” he said, reeling in the slack. “Dropping second cable.”

The second cable didn’t attach to the submersible; it was already connected to the first cable, and also to a hardpoint near the nose gear. Its purpose was to act as a guide and keep the payload from twisting in the swirling downwash from the main rotor.

“Second cable locked.”

“Pull it up,” Joe said. “Can’t have NUMA getting fined for littering.”

Kurt set the winch control to retract and the braided steel cable went taut. The strain of lifting the four-ton submersible was felt instantly and the helicopter dipped several feet before Joe countered the effect. As the roar of the engines grew, the Angler came free of the Pacific and was soon locked in place, snugly up against Merlin’s belly.

“Outstanding,” Emma announced. “Never let it be said that the men of NUMA fail to impress.”

“It’s what we do,” Joe replied, a false tone of bravado purposely evident in his voice.

Kurt made one last check of the winch controls and turned back toward the cockpit. “Onward.”

At Joe’s command, the Air-Crane began to move forward once more, picking up speed and altitude more slowly this time as it thundered across the sea toward their next destination.

“How far to the ship?” Joe asked.

Emma checked the handheld GPS unit she carried. “Ninety miles from here.”

“That gives us time to practice our sales pitch,” Kurt said.

“Have you decided what you want to tell them?”

“I was thinking I’d appeal to the most basic universal desire.”

“I don’t think love is going to help us here,” Joe said.

“The other universal desire,” Kurt said. “Money. Everyone wants to be rich.”

“But we have no money to give them,” Emma pointed out.

Kurt nodded. “Who says we have to use our own?”

Both Emma and Joe gave him a quizzical look, but Kurt said no more; he was still working out the details.