Nighthawk

56

Kurt and Joe made excellent time in the Zodiac. They ran with the engine wide open and the current at their backs. A few sets of minor rapids caused little problem and they’d soon traversed twelve miles on the looping river, enabling them to move nearly seven miles as the crow flies — or the Nighthawk flew.

“This is as close as we’re going to get,” Joe said, navigating based on his memory of the chart and the time.

“I’m ready,” Kurt said. “Let’s go on foot.”

Kurt had changed into regular clothes, and both men were wearing their boots. As soon as Joe beached the Zodiac, they leapt off and began a hike that would be more of a sprint than a walk.

Darkness had fallen, the night air had cooled dramatically and the stars had come out. They shone up above like diamonds on black velvet. Using the stars to navigate, Kurt and Joe continued to cross the rocky ground, moving toward the airfield.

A few yards behind Joe, Kurt felt his knees begin to ache from old football injuries.

“You’re getting slow in your old age,” Joe needled.

“While some of us were sitting around all day, I was working,” Kurt said.

“Floating on the lake in an inner tube doesn’t count as work where I come from,” Joe said.

“I’ve basically created my own kind of extreme triathlon,” Kurt insisted. “Swim under a waterfall, climb up a sheer cliff and now a 2K uphill run in the rarefied air at ten thousand feet of altitude.”

“Under a waterfall?” Joe said. “Why didn’t you swim around it?”

“I tried,” Kurt admitted. “Not as easy as it sounds.”

Joe laughed. “I just hope all this running is worth it and we haven’t missed our flight.”

Kurt was hoping that, too. There was no way to know until they got there, but having lived near several air bases during his time in the Air Force, Kurt knew how far the roar of military jet engines carried. “Unless they launched while we were in those rapids, I think we’d have heard a supersonic bomber taking off; I’m sure they’ll need full afterburners to do it.”

A droning sound rolling across the plateau stopped the conversation. Both Kurt and Joe slowed down to listen.

“Turboprop,” Joe said, turning until he was facing the sound. The droning grew louder and picked up an odd resonance as a second engine came online.

“They may have switched planes,” Kurt said.

The hike turned into a dead sprint, and with the sound of the turboprop to hone in on, they never wavered. They were still rushing toward the edge of the airstrip when the small plane clawed its way into the night sky, banked to the northeast and flew off into the dark.

“If we get to the Air-Crane,” Joe said, “we can use the radios. And get them back before they get too high.”

Both men kept running. They arrived at the outskirts of the airstrip, breathing hard and dropping down beside a pine tree for cover.

The Air-Crane was visible across the field, lying on its side and smoking. “The radios probably still work,” Joe said. “But the antennas might be sheared off.”

Kurt pointed to a second outline in the gloom, darker than dark, sinister in shape. Blackjack 2 was still there, with the Nighthawk perched on top.

“They wouldn’t have bothered placing it so carefully if they were going to leave it behind.”