Another jet approaching began to whistle across the desert as they sat there, catching their breath. It came in on the same path, dropping closer and growing louder as it neared.
Out of natural fugitive instinct, both men hunkered down and pressed themselves against the low wall of the well.
They needn’t have bothered. A jet aircraft on final approach at one hundred and fifty knots required the pilot’s eyes to be well ahead of the plane and focused on the landing zone. The chances of a pilot allowing his attention to be drawn to irrelevant objects on the ground was slim to none.
Then again, there was no accounting for passengers.
The jet roared over the top of them just as the first one had, a little higher this time. Kurt noticed the same odd features: a weirdly shaped underbelly, two big engines set high above the fuselage near the tail, a thick boxy wing section. It looked something like a DC-9 or a Super 80 or a Gulfstream G5 on steroids and put together with the wrong instruction booklet and a bunch of extra parts.
“Same type,” Kurt said. “Looks Russian to me.”
“It does,” Joe agreed. “Might even be the same plane making another pass.”
The gray-and-white jet dropped lower and lower, sinking toward the ground as if it were headed in for a landing. They lost it behind a sand dune before they heard it touch down.
The sound of its engines faded for a moment and then a deep howl rose up, booming across the desert for fifteen seconds or so before dissipating.
“Sound like thrust reversers to you?”
“Yep,” Joe said. “I guess the eagle has landed.”
“I think we just found our escape route,” Kurt said.
Joe looked at him sideways.
“None of the satellite photos showed any aircraft parked out here,” Kurt explained, “which means that plane isn’t going to sit around baking in the desert sun all day. It’s going to drop off whatever cargo it’s bringing in and then turn and burn at some point before sunup.”
“Sure,” Joe said. “But that’s not Terminal One at Dulles over there. We can’t just walk up to the counter and buy a ticket.”
“No,” Kurt said, “but we can sneak in under cover of darkness. They can’t possibly be expecting us.”
“That’s because we’d be crazy to attempt what you’re suggesting.”
“We have no water,” Kurt said. “No GPS. And no idea how to find the VV without it. So unless you want to go wandering through the desert trusting in dumb luck, we have to go back into the lion’s den.”
Joe appeared conflicted, though he seemed to be coming around. “You’re confusing me with these animal metaphors,” he said. “I thought it was a rabbit hole?”
“It changed when we got caught,” Kurt said. “These guys are a lot tougher than any rabbit.”
“Except for the one in that Monty Python movie,” Joe said.
“Monty Python and the Holy Grail.”
“That’s the one.”
“Right,” Kurt said, remembering the movie and trying not to laugh since it hurt his ribs and parched throat.
“The way I see it, we have a choice,” he said. “We can either run away like Sir Robin. Or we can sneak back into their base and tuck ourselves into a hidden corner on one of those jets and depart this land before we dehydrate to nothing more than dust and bone.”
Joe cleared his throat. “I am kind of thirsty.”
“So am I,” Kurt said.
Joe took a deep breath. He reached over, plucked the gun out of the sand and handed it to Kurt. “Lead on, Sir Knight,” he said. “Doubt we’re going to find the Holy Grail down there, but I’ll settle for a way out of here, or at least a well-stocked beverage stand.”
CHAPTER 30
PAUL SAT BESIDE MARCHETTI, GATHERING HIS STRENGTH for the moment. The mental and physical toll of fighting the fire had drained him. The stinging smoke, the sickly odor of fuel and the broiling heat left over from the blaze assaulted his senses. But even with all that, his only real concern centered on the flashing lights and chirping alarms connected to their breathing gear.