Borozdin offered a more plodding solution. “We have an Antonov 124 cargo plane waiting in Havana,” Borozdin said. “Why not dispatch it with a hundred men on board? It’s designed for heavy lifting and short fields. It will easily be able to land there, pluck the Nighthawk up and carry it away. And you won’t have to expose yourself to this treachery.”
The Antonov 124 was a four-engine, heavy-lift transport. It would be perfect for the job. But getting that large aircraft into Peru unnoticed would be near impossible.
“You forget the balance of the message,” Davidov said. “The Americans are watching. I have no choice. I will ride in one of your infernal helicopters to the coast. We can charter a small turboprop aircraft to take me from there.”
“And if the Falconer double-crosses you?”
“Others will hunt him down,” Davidov said. “A fact I will remind him of when I see him.”
39
Kurt and Emma were back in the water. They’d positioned four straps beneath the Nighthawk, two at the front, two at the back. The straps were spaced so that the aircraft’s center of gravity was directly between them.
While Emma attached lifting bags to the ends of each strap, Kurt filled them with air. Known as parachute-style bags because the bottom end remained open even after they were filled, they arrived in a compact folded state but expanded into teardrop shapes the size of a small car.
To keep the strain balanced and prevent the straps from slipping toward one side or the other, Kurt moved from spot to spot, partially inflating one and then swimming to the other side and inflating its counterpart to equalize the buoyancy.
When he was finished, eight inflated yellow bags floated around the sunken craft, jostling against one another in the current. Still, the Nighthawk hadn’t budged.
“Air bags filled,” Kurt said. “Straps are tight.”
“And it hasn’t moved an inch,” Emma’s voice announced.
Kurt hadn’t expected it to. “The lifting bags aren’t enough to pull it from the bottom,” he said. “But they’ll help the Air-Crane overcome the suction effect created by the layer of silt.”
Salvage teams called this additional effort the breakout force. Depending on the texture of the sediment, it could be a small or large problem. Kurt expected the latter.
At first, it looked as if the Nighthawk had touched down without lowering its landing gear and had come to rest on its wide, flat underside. A quick investigation proved otherwise. Burrowing beneath the nose, Emma had found the landing gear not only down and locked but sunk directly into the sediment like the spikes on the bottom of an athletic shoe. Because of this, and the large surface area now in contact with the silt, the breakout force would be huge. Almost as much as the weight of the Nighthawk itself.
“I was hoping it might break loose just a little,” Emma said.
She was floating above him. The light strapped to her shoulder illuminating the side of the Nighthawk and the hardpoints near the nose. Kicking steadily, she guided a steel cable with gloved hands, connecting it to an attachment point and testing the assembly with several solid pulls. That done, she moved to the other side of the aircraft to connect the second hook.
Kurt looked toward the surface. The Air-Crane hovered somewhere above them, hidden by the silt in the water. Kurt could just make out the dull thumping of its rotors as the sound reverberated off the surface of the lake.
“Lifting cables secured,” Emma announced as she swam out through the forest of yellow bags.
“Looks like we’re ready to go,” Kurt said.
“I’ll inform Joe,” Emma said.
She swam toward the surface, navigating what was now a maze of cables and straps above and around the downed aircraft.
When she disappeared behind the inflated yellow bags, Kurt was left alone on the lake bottom. “Moment of truth,” he whispered to himself.
It would only be the first of many. But, if they didn’t get that craft off the bottom, nothing else mattered.
Hovering above the lake in the Air-Crane, Joe kept one eye on the gauges and one on the surface of the lake below.
He could just see the circular tops of the yellow air bags through the dark water. They were bunched together and stationary. They looked fully inflated.
“It won’t be long now,” he said. “Are you ready?”
The question was meant for Paul, who sat behind him in the crane operator’s seat. “Yes,” Paul said. “I’ve become an expert at operating cranes over the last week. I even know how to throw a submersible like I was casting for a fish.”
Joe could hear the mischievous tone in Paul’s words. “I heard how you launched the Angler from the deck of the Catalina,” Joe said. “A neat trick. At this point, it’s all about reeling in a big fish and not letting it get away.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself.”
Joe made another scan of the gauges. The engine temperature was running high, not in the red zone yet but getting there.
Hovering wasn’t easy on the turbines, it meant less airflow to cool the blades. It meant the engine had to work harder and hotter. And even though he was only fifty feet off the lake’s surface, the altimeter read ninety-four hundred and change. That meant the air was thin, the rotors getting less bite of air with each circular sweep.
Joe had studied plenty of crashes during his flight training. It was a way to learn from the mistakes of others. As he recalled with a certain morbidity, a great many of those crashes came when operating hot, high and heavy.
The old-timer who’d taught him to fly had insisted that was not a place any pilot ever wanted to find himself, but Joe had no choice. The Air-Crane was already hot and high; as soon as they pulled the Nighthawk free of the water, it would be very, very heavy.
He tapped the temperature gauge, thankful for the breeze that was helping cool the turbine. “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Do you see any dye?” Paul asked.
Kurt and Emma had dye capsules with them. Red to indicate a problem; green to give the all clear and show Paul and Joe the exact flow of the current, so they could align themselves with it as they lifted.
“No,” Joe said. “But someone’s coming up.”
A diver appeared on the surface. In the full suit and helmet, it was impossible to tell which one. The diver flashed a light on and off three times, offered a thumbs-up, and then broke open the green dye capsule.
Joe responded by toggling the landing light on and off. The diver acknowledged and went back down. “Cables are in place,” he said. “Ready to lift.”
“Finally,” Paul replied. “Hauling in the slack.”
As Paul manipulated the controls, the cables began rising out of the dark lake. One led to the nose of the Nighthawk and one to a spot near the tail.
Joe felt weight on the helicopter as soon as the slack was taken up. “Lock it there,” he said. “I’ll do the rest.”
As Paul locked the winch, Joe added power slowly. This was the most dangerous point: the lift itself. Manipulating the controls with a light touch, he pulled up, allowed the Air-Crane to settle and then pulled up again.
The cables strained and stretched tight, shedding water each time, but after several attempts, the Nighthawk remained stuck in the silt down below.
“Come on, baby,” Joe whispered. “Don’t play hard to get.”
He pulled harder and longer on the next try. The rotors thundered above him. The turbines howled. The swirling pattern on the water below swept around and around, but despite continued attempts, the Nighthawk would not break free.
A yellow warning light came on indicating high temperature in turbine number one.
“It’s no good,” Paul shouted from behind him.
“It’s got to come loose soon,” Joe said.
Joe relaxed the power and watche
d the temperature stabilize just below the red line. “One more try,” he said. “I’m going to full power.”
Down below, Kurt and Emma could tell the Air-Crane was struggling. The cables had groaned and creaked with each successive pull while the drumming of the rotors rose to a crescendo, but the black spacecraft never moved.
“Is it caught on something?” Emma asked.
“It’s the suction,” Kurt said. “Get under the wing. Dig out as much silt as you can.”
Emma swam for the tip of the right wing and began digging with her gloved hands, scooping at the muck and pushing it out behind her.
Kurt swam to the tail, shoved the air hose beneath the fuselage and opened the valve to full. He fed it in, trying to build up an air bubble that would spread across the underside of the plane and break the effect of the suction.
When he’d pushed the hose in as far as possible, he left it there and swam to the left wing.
Diving beneath it, he began digging out the black silt with his arms and shoveling it away. Reaching deeper and deeper, he was soon beneath the craft—where he’d be trapped and crushed if it rose and then settled.
The sound of the rotors torquing up to full power came again. The cables strained. Kurt stretched deeper and deeper beneath the plane, pulling at the muck with his long arms.
Suddenly, a wave of bubbles surged across the underside of the aircraft. It rose with surprising abruptness and Kurt heard a sucking sound, like the last of the water going down a drain.
He and Emma were pulled in beneath the Nighthawk along with the tons of water that were rushing into the space the aircraft had suddenly vacated.
In the swirl of bubbles and sediment, it was impossible to make out anything aside from the light on Emma’s shoulder.
Kurt grabbed her arm and pulled.
They kicked hard, swimming together through a storm of swirling black water. After the initial surge, the Nighthawk was settling back. Kurt felt his flippers hitting against the underside of the plane as he kicked out from under it. By the time he turned around, the aircraft was rising again, traveling upward through the water, moving slowly but surely. A fountain of bubbles pouring from the air hose chased it toward the surface.
“Let’s get topside,” Emma said. “I want to be there when it lands.”
Kurt nodded and the two of them swam toward the Zodiac’s anchor line and then began moving slowly upward.
By the time they emerged into the bright sunshine, the black tail of the Nighthawk had broken the surface. It looked like the dorsal fin of an oversized shark or killer whale.
The yellow air bags appeared next, breaching and flopping over on their sides, deflating slowly as the trapped air came out through the open collars.
Above it all, the Air-Crane howled as it began the next stage of the epic lift, hauling the space plane from the grasp of the water and up into the air.
The nose came up first, and then the rest of the craft. Sheets of water poured off the Nighthawk’s wings and mud sloughed from the extended landing gear in heavy, dripping globs.
Floating beside the Zodiac, Kurt and Emma watched in awe as the Air-Crane began a slow pivot and moved off toward the firm section of higher ground that Urco had picked to land it on.
Emma pointed to the center of the lake. Silt and foam swirled in an effervescent circle where the Nighthawk had been lifted free. The air bags were left behind, sagging on the surface as they slowly deflated.
“We’ll clean up later,” Kurt said. “Let’s get to shore and see this thing land.”
Emma removed her fins, tossed them into the boat and grabbed the cargo net they’d set out as a makeshift ladder. She pulled herself upward and flipped up over the edge with surprising speed.
Kurt heard a shout of surprise as she entered the boat and the distinct sound of a struggle. He pulled himself up and spotted a man in the boat wrestling with Emma.
Lunging forward, half in the boat, Kurt got a hand on the assailant, but before he could do any more, a powerful set of arms wrapped around his legs and pulled him back down into the water.
40
Joe felt a strange oscillation through his hands. The Air-Crane was swaying one way and then the other as they headed for the landing area.
“Is that thing moving?” he called out.
“It’s trying to,” Paul said. “It’s torquing to the right and then swinging back to the left. Each time, it moves a little more.”
Joe understood instantly. The downwash created by the six-bladed rotor overhead was a minor tornado. That airflow was catching the Nighthawk’s vertical stabilizer. It pushed the tail to the left and that swung the nose of the aircraft to the right. When it could twist no more due to the tension on the lines, it swung back in the other direction. A movement that was slowly becoming circular.
The Nighthawk continued to sway as they crossed the shallows and then the muddy, barren shoreline. A hundred yards ahead, on higher, firmer ground, Joe saw Urco waving a makeshift flag.
Outlined by tall grasses, the spot Urco had found was flat, rocky and almost circular. It looked like a natural landing pad.
Joe continued toward it, ignoring the yellow temperature light that had come on once again and working the rudder pedals to keep the Air-Crane stable.
Finally over the clearing, he turned the nose into the wind and hovered.
“Come to the right,” Paul said.
“How far?”
“Ten feet.”
Joe eased the Air-Crane over to the right, staring through the clear Plexiglas foot well at the ground below.
“That’s it,” Paul said. “Let her down slowly.”
“No time for that.”
Joe relaxed the pressure on the controls and allowed them to descend, trying to lower the Nighthawk gracefully and quickly. It was a partial success. The craft hit with a minor crunch, landing harder than Joe had hoped. The lines went slack and the strain on the engine was reduced.
“Nighthawk on solid ground,” Paul said.
“Cut it loose.”
Paul disconnected the line and metal cable fell to the ground.
The Air-Crane rose upward in response. Freed of all the weight, it felt nimble. Joe powered back as soon as he could, but the yellow warning lights continued to glow. “We need to get on the ground or we’re going to void our warranty.”
Easing away from the Nighthawk, Joe aimed for the far edge of the clearing and brought the Air-Crane down for a landing.
The wheels hit with a trio of thumps. Joe powered down to idle but kept the engine running until it had cooled enough to bring the temperature down.
“Hot damn,” Paul said. “Let’s go take a look.”
Joe checked the temperature gauge one last time. It was settling nicely. A second light that would warn of metal shavings in the oil system had never come on. The engines were undamaged. One break in their favor.
He shut everything down, unbuckled his harness and followed Paul out the door. Cutting across the clearing, they found Urco, crouched beneath the aircraft’s nose, clearing mud from the landing gear. He looked up as they approached.
“How’d we do?” Paul asked.
“Excellent,” Urco said. “Exactly as I hoped you would.”
There was something odd about the response. Before Joe could put his finger on it, he saw movement in the tall grass. His first thought was that it was Kurt and Emma coming up from the beach, but, instead, a handful of men pushed through the high grass and out into the clearing. They held weapons in their hands, rifles and shotguns.
Joe turned to make a break for it. But it was too late. A second group of men had come in from behind them.
“Don’t fight,” Urco said, standing up and leveling a pistol in Joe’s direction. “There’s no need for you to die.”
41
Kurt had been pulled
back into the water, a surprising sensation. He’d recovered by kicking hard and pulling his legs clear. No sooner was he free than he felt something heavy wrap around his neck and pull tight. At first he thought it was a metal chain, but he came to realize it was a diver’s weight belt.
He grabbed at the belt and pulled, but it was being twisted tight by whoever had swum in behind him. As he struggled with the first attacker, a second diver moved out of the shadow beneath the Zodiac. This one wore a gray wet suit and a squared-off mask. He carried an eight-inch knife, which he thrust toward Kurt.
Using the man behind him as leverage, Kurt twisted to the side. Instead of puncturing his rib cage, the knife only skewered his buoyancy control device, or BCD, sending a flood of bubbles into the water. Before the man could strike again, Kurt kicked him in the face, shattering his square mask and knocking his regulator free. A second kick caught him in the teeth and sent the man fleeing toward the surface.
One down, Kurt thought, one to go.
The weight belt was choking him.
As he struggled, both Kurt and his assailant were sinking fast. They grappled all the way to the bottom, where they crashed into the sediment with surprising force.
With somewhere to plant his feet, Kurt gained back some control. He fired an elbow backward into his attacker. The grip loosened but the man grabbed Kurt’s main air line and ripped it free.
Kurt felt the helmet pulled to the side, saw a second explosion of silvery air bubbles and was tackled and forced down into the silt before he could do anything about it.
Kurt was on his back. His attacker—whom Kurt recognized as Urco’s associate Vargas—was holding him down, pressing him into the sediment as if to bury him. It was a simple strategy. Kurt would black out before long.