Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

The silt was dark, the color of coal, but flecked here and there with just enough quartz to sparkle like a black gemstone. Tiny rills in the sediment looked like the ridges of a huge fingerprint.

“Spread out a little and drift with the current,” Kurt suggested. Most of the lake would be free of any appreciable current, but they were still getting a little push from the waterfall and for that reason had gone into the lake upstream of the target area.

Emma did as Kurt suggested, feeling a surprising pang of isolation as Kurt’s and Joe’s lights dimmed with the distance.

She concentrated on the task at hand, scanning back and forth, looking for any sign the Nighthawk’s tail or the reflective strips glued to the upper surface of her wings. But the first item of consequence was a blur of color, orange and white, billowing gently along the bottom.

Emma felt her heart rate quicken. “Contact,” she said. “Parachute.”

She moved toward it and found both of the Nighthawk’s parachutes lying on the bottom, half buried in the silt. The free sections were wafting like sea grass as the water flowed over them.

As Kurt and Joe converged on her, she grabbed ahold of the settled nylon and ha

uled on it. The line was taut.

“Still attached,” she said. She pulled herself forward, making her way down the line arm over arm, until a bulky shape came into view. Kurt and Joe swam in behind her. Their lights played across a midnight black curve. Stamped on the side in low-resolution gray were the letters USAF.

With all three of their lights pointed down on it, the craft came into view. It was resting solidly on the bottom, its belly and the lower half of its wing touching the silt. Though she’d seen it plenty of times before, it still appeared surprisingly small.

“Finally,” she said.

“How’s it look?” Kurt asked.

Emma drifted over the top of it, checking for damage. “The fuselage and payload bay are still sealed,” she said. “The wings seem to have some gouges where the Russian clamps locked onto it, but nothing catastrophic.”

She swam forward, arriving at the nose. With her gloved hand, she brushed a layer of silt from a panel on the side of the aircraft. It revealed an electronic touch screen display protected by a scorched plate of transparent Kevlar.

Tapping the panel, she brought it to life. It offered a bright glow in the dark water. Three bars indicated the condition of the cryogenic system: all were solidly in the green. Another section of the screen indicated that containment units were operating as planned while the final part of the display indicated the power supply in a yellow condition.

“One battery pack has already failed, but the others are compensating,” she said.

“Is this a problem?” Kurt asked.

“Only if another pack goes down. Even as is, we should have at least twenty-four hours to get this thing topside, get the containment units out of it and plug them into the portable fuel cells.”

“No reason to wait,” Kurt said.

Joe floated over beside them. “What about opening the cargo bay and removing the containment units without ever lifting the aircraft? It would save time and eliminate the danger of something going wrong with the lift. Not to mention prevent any satellite from spotting the Nighthawk once we get it up on the surface.”

Emma shook her head. “It’s too risky in the aquatic environment. All the electronics are sealed and self-contained, but we can’t be certain of their condition. Between the vibration of the launch, three years in space, the heat of reentry and the Russian attempt to capture the aircraft, there may be internal damage on a small scale. Loose connections. Gaps in the insulation. If we get everything wet and end up with a short—”

“The lake goes up along with a big chunk of northern Peru,” Kurt said.

“Exactly,” she replied. “No shortcuts. We have to raise it and get it onto dry land before we do anything else.”

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.