Minutes later the boat keel scraped on a sandy beach and they walked ashore through shallow water. An opening in what was otherwise a solid jungle wall was immediately ahead.
If they had had more time, Partridge would have attempted to hide the boat or push it toward midstream and let it drift. As it was, they left it on the beach.
Then, about to enter the jungle, Fernández halted, motioning everyone to silence. Cocking his head to one side, he stood listening in the still morning air. He was more familiar with the jungle than the others, his hearing more finely attuned to its sounds. He asked Partridge softly, “Do you hear?”
Listening, Partridge thought he could hear a distant murmuring sound from the direction they had come, but wasn’t sure. He asked, “What is it?”
“Another boat,” Fernández answered. “Still a good distance away, but coming fast.”
Without further delay they moved into the jungle.
The trail was not nearly as difficult to follow as that from the highway landing point to Nueva Esperanza which Partridge and the others in the rescue team had traversed three days earlier. It was obvious that the trail they were on was used more frequently, because it was only slightly overgrown and not at any point impassable, as the other had been.
Just the same, it was treacherous underfoot. Uneven ground, protruding roots and soft patches where a foot could sink into mud or water were continual hazards.
“Watch very carefully where you step,” Fernández warned from in front where he was setting a fast, forced pace.
Partridge echoed, trying to be flippant and keep spirits high, “We don’t want to have to carry anyone. I’m sweating enough.”
And so they all were. As during the other jungle trek, the heat was sweltering and steamy and would get hotter as the day advanced. The insects, too, were active.
The uppermost question in Partridge’s mind was: How long could Jessica and Nicky last under this grueling pressure? After a while he decided Jessica would make it; she had determination and also, apparently, the stamina. Nicky, though, showed signs of flagging.
At the beginning Nicky hung back, clearly wanting to be close to Partridge, as he had earlier. But Partridge insisted that the boy and Jessica be up forward, immediately behind Fernández. “We’ll be together later, Nicky,” he said. “Right now I want you with your mother.” With obvious reluctance, Nicky had complied.
Assuming the boat they had heard was carrying their pursuers, Partridge knew an assault would come from behind. If and when that happened, he would do his best to fight off the attack while the others continued on. He had already checked the Kalashnikov rifle he was carrying over his shoulder and had the two spare magazines in a pocket where he could get to them easily.
Again Partridge checked his watch: 7:35 A.M. They had been on the trail almost forty minutes. Remembering the eight o’clock rendezvous with AeroLibertad, he hoped they had covered three quarters of the way.
Moments later they were forced to stop.
Considered afterward, it seemed ironic that Fernández, who warned the others about stepping carefully, should himself misstep and fall heavily, his foot trapped in a muddy mess of roots. As Partridge hurried toward him, Minh was already holding Fernández while O’Hara struggled to free the foot; at the same time Fernández was grimacing with pain.
“I appear to have done some damage,” he told Partridge. “I am sorry. I have let you down.”
When the foot was free, Fernández found it impossible to walk without excruciating pain. Clearly his ankle was broken or very badly sprained.
“That’s not true; you’ve never let us down,” Partridge said. “You’ve been our guide and good companion and we’ll carry you. We need to make some kind of litter.”
Fernández shook his head. “Even if possible, there is not time. I have not spoken of it, Harry, but I have heard sounds behind us. They are following, and not far away. You must go on, and leave me.”
Jessica had joined them. She told Partridge, “We can’t leave him here.”
“One of us can take you on his back,” O’Hara said. “I’ll try it.”
“In this heat?” Fernández was impatient. “You would not last a hundred yards and it would slow all of you.”
About to add his own protest, Partridge knew it would be an exercise in futility. Fernández was right; there could be no other choice than leaving him. But he added, “If there’s help at the airstrip and it can be done, we’ll come back for you.”
“Do not waste more time, Harry. I need to say some things quickly.” Fernández was sitting beside the trail, his back against a tree; the brush was too thick to move him farther in. Partridge knelt beside him. Jessica joined them.
“I have a wife and four children,” Fernández said. “I would like to think someone will take care of them.”
“You work for CBA,” Partridge said, “and CBA will do it. I give you my solemn word, an official promise. The children’s education—everything.”
Fernández nodded, then motioned to an M-16 rifle he had been carrying and which lay beside him. “You had better take this. You may need it as well as what you have. But I do not intend to be taken alive. I would like a pistol.”
Partridge gave him the nine-millimeter Browning, first slipping off the silencer.
“Oh, Fernández!” Jessica’s voice was choked, her eyes filled with tears. “Nicky and I owe you so much.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.
“Then go!” Fernández urged her. “Do not squander more time and lose what we have won!”
As Jessica rose, Partridge leaned forward, held Fernández tightly and kissed him on both cheeks. Behind him Minh and O’Hara waited to give a farewell hug.
Rising, Partridge moved forward. He did not look back.
The moment Miguel saw a boat beached at the entrance to the jungle trail, then recognized it as from Nueva Esperanza, he was glad he had made the decision to join the Sion airstrip sortie.
He was even more pleased when Ramón, leaping quickly from their own boat as it nudged into shore, ran to the other boat and announced, “Un motor está caliente, el otro frio—fundido.”
The hot engine meant their quarry had not been in the jungle very long. The cold, burned-out engine told them the other boat’s speed had been reduced, its occupants delayed in getting here.
As well as Miguel, the Sendero group comprised seven well-armed men. Speaking in Spanish, he told them, “The bourgeois scum cannot be far ahead. We’ll catch and punish them. Let us move like the wrath of Guzmán!”
There was a ragged cheer as they filed quickly into the jungle.
“We’re a few minutes early,” Rita Abrams told the Cheyenne II pilot, Oswaldo Zileri, as they approached the Sion airstrip—first point of call on their aerial itinerary. A moment ago she had checked her watch: 7:55.
“We’ll circle and watch,” he said. “In any case, this is the least likely place for your friends to be.”
As they had yesterday, all four in the plane—Rita, Crawford Sloane, Zileri and the copilot, Felipe—peered down at the quilt of green beneath them. They were looking for any sign of movement, particularly around the short, tree-lined airstrip, which was hard to see until they were directly overhead. Again, like yesterday, there was no visible activity of any kind.
Along the jungle trail, Nicky was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain the punishing pace. Jessica and Minh were helping him, each grabbing an arm and partially pulling him, partially lifting him over difficult patches as they continued forward. Eventually Nicky might have to be carried, but for the moment the others husbanded their remaining strength.
It had been about ten minutes since they left Fernández. Ken O’Hara was now up ahead, leading. Partridge had dropped back to his position in the rear, from where he occasionally glanced backward. So far there had been no sign of movement.
Above their heads, the trees appeared to be thinning, more daylight coming through their branches; al
so the trail had widened. It was a sign, Partridge hoped, that they were nearing the airstrip. At one point he thought he heard the distant sound of an airplane, but could not be sure. Again he checked his watch: nearly 7:55.
At that moment, from somewhere behind, came a short, sharp crack—unmistakably the sound of a single shot. It had to be Fernández, Partridge reasoned. And even in using the Browning, from which Partridge had deliberately removed the silencer, the zealous stringer-fixer provided a final service—a warning that pursuit was close. As if in confirmation, several other shots followed.
Perhaps the pursuers, having seen Fernández—presumably dead—thought they saw others ahead and had fired at random. Then, for whatever reason, the firing ceased.
Partridge himself was near exhaustion. Through the past fifty hours, with scarcely any sleep, he had pushed himself to the limit. Now he was having trouble keeping his attention focused.
In one of those moments, mentally meandering, he decided that what he wanted most was relief from action … When this adventure ended he would resume the vacation he had barely started and simply disappear, be unavailable … And wherever he went, perhaps he should take Vivien—the only woman left to him whose loving was available … Jessica and Gemma had been the past; Vivien could be the future. Perhaps, until now, he had treated her unfairly, should consider marriage after all … It was not too late … He knew it was something Vivien would like …
With an effort, he snapped back to the present.
Suddenly they had emerged from the jungle. The airstrip was in view! Overhead an airplane was circling—it was a Cheyenne! Ken O’Hara—reliable to the end, Partridge thought—was loading a green-banded cartridge into the flare gun he had carried all this way. Green for Land normally, everything is clear.
With equal suddenness, from behind, came the sound of two more shots, this time much closer.
“Send up a red flare, not a green!” Partridge yelled at O’Hara. “And do it fast!”
Red for Land as quickly as possible, we are in danger!
It was several minutes past eight o’clock. In the Cheyenne II above Sion airstrip, Zileri turned his head toward Rita and Sloane. He told them, “Nothing’s happening here. We’ll go to the other two points.”
The plane turned away. As it did, Crawford Sloane called out, “Hold it! I think I saw something!”
Zileri aborted the turn and swung the airplane back. He asked, “Where?”
“Somewhere down there.” Sloane pointed. “I’m not sure of the exact spot. It was just for a moment … I thought …” His voice mirrored his own uncertainty.
Zileri flew the plane in a circle. Again they scrutinized as much of the ground as they could. When the circle was complete the pilot said, “I don’t see a thing. I think we should go on.”
At that moment, a red flare curled upward from the ground.
O’Hara fired a second red flare.
“That’ll do. They’ve seen us,” Partridge said. The airplane had already turned toward them. What he needed to know now was which way the plane would land. Then he would pick a position to fight off the pursuers and occupy it while the others boarded first.
The answer quickly became evident. The Cheyenne II was in a tight descending turn, losing height fast, and would come in over their heads. After that, it would land facing away from the jungle trail from where the shooting had been coming.
Looking back, Partridge could still see no one in sight, despite the shots. He could only guess the reason for shooting. Perhaps someone, while advancing, was firing blindly, hoping for a lucky hit.
He told O’Hara, “Get Jessica and Nicky down by the landing strip fast, and stay with them! When the plane gets to the far end, they’ll swing around and taxi back. Go forward to meet the airplane, and all of you get aboard. Did you hear that, Minh?”
“I heard.” Minh, with an eye glued to his camera, was imperturbably taking pictures, as he had at various moments throughout the journey. Partridge decided not to worry anymore about Minh. He would take care of himself.
Jessica asked anxiously, “What about you, Harry?”
He told her, “I’m going to cover you by firing down the trail. As soon as you’re aboard I’ll join you. Now get going!”
O’Hara put an arm around Jessica, who was holding Nicky’s good hand, and hurried them away.
Even as they moved, looking back toward the jungle Partridge saw several figures now in sight, advancing on the airstrip, guns pointed forward.
Partridge dropped behind a small hillock nearby. Lying on his belly, he rested the Kalashnikov in front of him, the sights of the automatic rifle directed at the moving figures. He squeezed the trigger, and amid a burst of fire saw one of the figures fall, the others dive for cover. At the same time he heard the Cheyenne II swoop in low above his head. Though he did not turn to watch, he knew it should be landing now.
“There they are!” Crawford Sloane shouted, near-hysterical with excitement. “I see them! It’s Jessica and Nicky!” The airplane was still on its landing run, traveling fast on an uneven dirt surface.
The end of the short strip was looming nearer, Zileri braking hard. As the landing run ended, employing brakes and one engine, the pilot swung the airplane around to face the way they had come. Then, using both engines for acceleration, he taxied back down the airstrip, moving fast toward its opposite end.
The Cheyenne II stopped at the point where Jessica, Nicky and O’Hara were waiting. The copilot, Felipe, had already left his seat and moved aft. From inside the fuselage he released and lowered an air-stair door.
Nicky first, then Jessica and O’Hara climbed aboard, outstretched hands, including Sloane’s, helping pull them in. Minh appeared and scrambled in behind the others.
As Sloane, Jessica and Nicky emotionally hugged each other, O’Hara called out breathlessly, “Harry’s up ahead. We have to get him. He’s holding off the terrorists.”
“I see him,” Zileri said. “Hold on!” He opened the throttles again and the airplane shot forward, taxiing fast.
At the runway’s far end he turned the airplane around once more. It was now facing the way it landed, ready for takeoff but with the passenger door still open. Gunfire could be heard through the doorway.
“Your friend will have to make a run for it.” Zileri’s voice was urgent. “I want to get the hell out of here.”
“He will,” Minh said. “He’s seen us and he’ll come.”
Partridge had both seen and heard the airplane. Glancing over his shoulder, he knew it was as close to him as it could come. There was about a hundred yards between him and the plane. He would make it at a fast run, keeping low. First though, he had to spray fire back into the jungle trail to deter any further advance by the Sendero force. In the past few minutes he had seen several more figures appear, had fired and seen another fall. The others were now hugging the shelter of the trees. A burst of fire would hold them there, out of sight, long enough for him to reach the plane.
He had just put a fresh magazine into the Kalashnikov. Squeezing the trigger, then holding it, he poured a deadly hail of bullets along both sides of the jungle path. Since the firing began he had felt his old visceral zest for battle stir … that sensuous thrill; it set adrenaline running, juices flowing … an illogical, crazy addiction to the sights and sounds of war …
When the magazine had emptied, he dropped the rifle, sprang to his feet and ran, doubling over to stay low. The airplane was ahead. He knew he’d make it!
Partridge was a third of the way to the plane when a bullet struck his leg. He fell instantly. It was all so fast, it took him several seconds to grasp what had happened.
The bullet had impacted at the back of his right knee, shattering the joint. He could go no farther. A terrible pain, more pain than he had ever believed possible, swept over him. He knew, at that moment, he would never reach the airplane. He knew, too, that there was no time left. The plane must go. And he must do what Fernández had done, barely half
an hour earlier.
Summoning a final surge of strength, he raised himself, waving the Cheyenne forward. All that mattered now was that his intention should be clear.
Minh was in the airplane doorway, shooting pictures. He had Partridge in his zoom lens—a closeup—and had captured the moment when the bullet hit. The copilot, Felipe, was beside Minh.
Felipe called in, “He’s hit! I think badly. He’s waving for us to go.”
Inside the airplane, Sloane pushed toward the door. “We have to get him!”
Jessica cried out, “Yes! Oh yes!”
Nicky echoed, “Please don’t go without Harry!”
It was Minh, the realist about war, who said, “You can’t get him. There isn’t time.”
Minh had seen through his lens the advancing Sendero force. Several of its members had reached the airstrip perimeter, were running forward and firing their guns. Just then, several bullets hit the plane.
“I’m leaving,” Zileri said. He had already lowered flaps for takeoff; now he pushed the throttles forward. Minh, plus camera, tumbled in. Felipe retracted and secured the air-stair door.
As airspeed built, Zileri eased back on the control column. The Cheyenne II left the airstrip and climbed.
Jessica and Nicky were holding each other, weeping. Sloane, his eyes partially closed, was shaking his head slowly, as if not believing what he had just seen.
Minh held his camera against a window, taking final shots of the scene below.
On the ground, Partridge saw the Cheyenne II go.
And saw something else. Through a haze of pain, in the doorway of the departing airplane he saw a smiling figure in Alitalia uniform. She was waving.
Partridge’s tears, long held back, began to flow. Then more bullets hit him and he died.
20
Looking down at the body of Harry Partridge, Miguel vowed that never again would he let something like today’s fiasco happen.
In the first stage of the kidnap enterprise, which was complex and demanding, he had been fabulously successful. In this second stage, which should have been easy and uncomplicated, he had failed abysmally.