Nighthawk

36

The rattle of the gas-powered air compressor carried across the lake from the stern of the Zodiac, a jarring disturbance into an otherwise peaceful setting.

Paul Trout sat beside it, keeping an eye on the compressor and the line that ran over the edge and disappeared into the water. Fifty feet away, a circle of bubbles boiled and churned as the excess air rose up to the surface.

For now, Paul was alone in the boat. Kurt, Joe and Emma had gone back down to prepare the Nighthawk for lifting, while Urco had volunteered to go ashore, where he was scouting around for a solid place to set the aircraft down.

Squinting across the lake, Paul could just see the Peruvian. He was higher up on the slope, moving behind a section of tall grasses, thrusting a staff down into the ground in an effort to determine if the soil would hold the Nighthawk’s weight.

Using a handheld radio, Paul reached out to him. “Urco, this is Paul.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Paul,” Urco replied.

“Wondering if you’re having any luck out there?”

He saw Urco turn his way and wave. “The shoreline is too soft and muddy to hold much weight. And even back here, away from the edge, it’s marshland. I’m going to make my way to higher ground.”

“Roger that,” Paul said. “Keep us posted.”

Urco waved and moved off, carrying his staff. Paul watched until Urco was out of sight. Perhaps other eyes were watching him, too, Paul thought. And then he turned his attention back to the compressor and the pressure gauge.

Down below, Kurt was holding the business end of the air hose and feeding it underneath the Nighthawk. The compressed air blasting out through the front acted like a drill bit, scouring out the dark silt. The power of Kurt’s arms acted like a hydraulic press, forcing it forward.

With each shove, another burst of bubbles and sediment came flowing backward and out toward Kurt, billowing forth in a dark, swirling cloud. As the sediment churned around him, Kurt kept feeding more line into the opening. “Anything yet?”

Joe’s voice came back slightly distorted as if he were standing in a deep tunnel. Joe was on the other side waiting for the line to pop out. “Not yet. Keep pushing.”

Kurt worked the line back and forth and gave it another shove.

“I’m seeing bubbles,” Joe announced. “You’re almost there.”

Kurt gave the line one more push and felt it move freely. The billowing cloud of silt that had been streaming back toward him relented.

“Got it,” Joe said.

“Phase one complete,” Kurt said. “Time for you to do some work, amigo.”

On the far side of the Nighthawk, Joe grabbed the tip of the air hose and pulled it toward him. Using a length of wire, he hooked one of the lifting straps to the valve and tugged hard to make sure it was secure.

“Strap one attached,” he said. “My job is done.”

“That was quick,” Kurt said. “Maybe I should rethink the division of labor on this project.”

Joe laughed, watching as the hose and the attached strap were pulled back beneath the Nighthawk, moving one arm’s length at a time.

While Kurt and Joe placed what would eventually be four braided nylon straps beneath the aircraft, Emma inspected the wings, examining every blemish she found. Many of the outer tiles were damaged. She found hairline cracks and plenty of chips and scrapes, even several spots where the tiles had been torn off completely, presumably when the Nighthawk broke the grasp of its Russian captors. But the high-strength alloy beneath was untouched.

“The wing doesn’t appear to be compromised,” she announced. “It won’t have taken on any water.”

“Good to hear,” Joe replied. “We’re fairly close to the max lifting capacity of the Air-Crane already. We don’t need a few tons of lake water to make it worse.”

“Agreed,” Emma said. “I’m going to check the hardpoints for corrosion and pitting. Would hate for something to break loose just as we claimed victory.”

As she swam across the top of the aircraft, the air hose broke through the silt once again, releasing a swarm of fine bubbles that swirled up around her. For an instant, it was like swimming in a glass of champagne. She didn’t want to get ahead of herself but imagined they’d soon be raising glasses to celebrate the victory.