Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

“Wondering if you’re having any luck out there?”

He saw Urco turn his way and wave. “The shoreline is too soft and muddy to hold much weight. And even back here, away from the edge, it’s marshland. I’m going to make my way to higher ground.”

“Roger that,” Paul said. “Keep us posted.”

Urco waved and moved off, carrying his staff. Paul watched until Urco was out of sight. Perhaps other eyes were watching him, too, Paul thought. And then he turned his attention back to the compressor and the pressure gauge.

Down below, Kurt was holding the business end of the air hose and feeding it underneath the Nighthawk. The compressed air blasting out through the front acted like a drill bit, scouring out the dark silt. The power of Kurt’s arms acted like a hydraulic press, forcing it forward.

With each shove, another burst of bubbles and sediment came flowing backward and out toward Kurt, billowing forth in a dark, swirling cloud. As the sediment churned around him, Kurt kept feeding more line into the opening. “Anything yet?”

Joe’s voice came back slightly distorted as if he were standing in a deep tunnel. Joe was on the other side waiting for the line to pop out. “Not yet. Keep pushing.”

Kurt worked the line back and forth and gave it another shove.

“I’m seeing bubbles,” Joe announced. “You’re almost there.”

Kurt gave the line one more push and felt it move freely. The billowing cloud of silt that had been streaming back toward him relented.

“Got it,” Joe said.

“Phase one complete,” Kurt said. “Time for you to do some work, amigo.”

On the far side of the Nighthawk, Joe grabbed the tip of the air hose and pulled it toward him. Using a length of wire, he hooked one of the lifting straps to the valve and tugged hard to make sure it was secure.

“Strap one attached,” he said. “My job is done.”

“That was quick,” Kurt said. “Maybe I should rethink the division of labor on this project.”

Joe laughed, watching as the hose and the attached strap were pulled back beneath the Nighthawk, moving one arm’s length at a time.

While Kurt and Joe placed what would eventually be four braided nylon straps beneath the aircraft, Emma inspected the wings, examining every blemish she found. Many of the outer tiles were damaged. She found hairline cracks and plenty of chips and scrapes, even several spots where the tiles had been torn off completely, presumably when the Nighthawk broke the grasp of its Russian captors. But the high-strength alloy beneath was untouched.

“The wing doesn’t appear to be compromised,” she announced. “It won’t have taken on any water.”

“Good to hear,” Joe replied. “We’re fairly close to the max lifting capacity of the Air-Crane already. We don’t need a few tons of lake water to make it worse.”

“Agreed,” Emma said. “I’m going to check the hardpoints for corrosion and pitting. Would hate for something to break loose just as we claimed victory.”

As she swam across the top of the aircraft, the air hose broke through the silt once again, releasing a swarm of fine bubbles that swirled up around her. For an instant, it was like swimming in a glass of champagne. She didn’t want to get ahead of herself but imagined they’d soon be raising glasses to celebrate the victory.

37

La Jalca Canyon, a half mile away

A half mile away, in the dark throat of a barren cave, there was no sense of victory or even hope for the men imprisoned in it. Only cloying darkness, cold, bone-aching dampness and noise. Constant, unending noise.

The bulk of the waterfall dropped downward just beyond the mouth of the cave. Its tumbling white water hid everything beyond, causing vertigo to anyone who stared into it for too long and blocking out all semblance of detail.

What it hid from the eyes it hid also from the ears as its endless roar echoed off the stone walls, drowning out soft speech, clear thought and even the din of modern men out on the lake.

The two men sitting in the cave hadn’t heard the approach of the helicopter this morning nor the outboard motor of the Zodiac nor the excited shouts of discovery that came shortly afterward. Not even the endless rattle of the air compressor could penetrate the wall of sound that shielded them. It was isolation of the body, soul and mind and it had taken its toll already.

After days in this condition, they were numb to it. They sat with their backs to the wall, their knees up and their heads down; an upright version of the fetal position. Their hands were chained in front of them while their ankles were bound together and hooked to heavy iron weights that made walking a difficult task.

Days of growth covered their faces while a layer of grime covered their uniforms. Beneath the dirt, oil and dust could be seen the double-headed eagle of the Russian Air Force and the squadron patch depicting the great claw of a flying raptor grasping another bird from the sky. A star on one man’s shoulder indicated his rank as Major. A set of wings on his chest overlaid with measuring tongs indicated he was a test pilot.

He stared in the darkness, weakened by the cold and a lack of food, but in his mind churned thoughts of revenge. So dark was his mood that it took him a moment to notice a shaft of light appearing in the back part of the cave.