Juan called out to his men, “Numero dos,” and held up two fingers in case Trono’s Spanish was as bad as he said

.

It took ten minutes to find the plutonium power cell. It was a silver rectangular object, a foot and a half long and about as wide and thick as a dictionary. Its surface was made of some mysterious alloy that Murph might know about but was outside Juan’s purview or interest. All he cared about was that they had it and, for the moment, the Argentines didn’t. He marveled, though, that for all the abuse it had just endured there was only a minute dimple on one side. Murph ran the gamma detector over every square inch of it.

“It’s clean, Juan,” he pronounced. “No radiation above what it’s been giving off all along.”

“That’s a relief,” Pulaski said. “I might want to have more kids someday. Hate for the little buggers to have tentacles and flippers and such.” He turned to Cabrillo. “So now what?”

Juan scratched at the stubble covering his jaw. Down at the base camp, he could see pandemonium had erupted. The “accident” had been plain for everyone to see, and the reserve Ninth Brigade soldiers were scrambling to get up the mountain in order to help the wounded. Loggers, too, were racing for vehicles to lend a hand.

A sly smile crossed Cabrillo’s handsome face. The three greatest assets in combat—and it doesn’t matter if it’s two men squaring off or whole armies meeting on the field of battle—are numbers, surprise, and confusion. He didn’t have the first, the second had already been sprung, and now the third reigned over his adversaries. Jerry had wrestled the power cell into the carrying harness and stood with it strapped to his back. The others wore his same questioning expression.

“Mike, how many hours do you have with Gomez?” Juan asked. George “Gomez” Adams was the pilot of the MD-520N helicopter hangared below the Oregon’s aft hold.

“Hold on a minute,” Mike Trono protested. “We’ve only been working together a couple of months. I’ve only soloed twice. And they didn’t go so well. I bent a landing strut on one and nearly clipped the ship’s rail my second time.”

Juan looked at Jerry. “Do you really feel like lugging that thing all the way back to the RHIB?”

“Hell no.”

“What do you say, Mr. Trono?”

If Mike couldn’t fly them out of here in one of the Argentine’s helicopters, Juan knew he would admit it. He selected each member of the Corporation not only for what they could do but also because they were aware of what they could not.

Trono nodded. “Let’s hope my third solo’s the charm.”

SEVEN

Fooling the injured Argentine soldiers had been easy. Those men saw what they wanted to see. It was going to be something altogether different getting past the reserve troops below and making their way to one of the helicopters.

Juan thought for a second and found inspiration amid the moans of the wounded. “Okay,” he said. “Back to the truck, but move like you’re injured. Murph, lean against Jerry. Mike, pretend I’m helping you.”

They crawled up the hill as though they were victims of the accident, moving stiffly but surprisingly quickly. Cabrillo had the three men crawl into the old pickup’s bed while he got behind the wheel. Before engaging the manual transmission, he pulled a clasp knife from his pocket. The blade’s edge was honed as sharp as a scalpel, so when he drew it across his forehead at his hairline he felt no pain, only the liquid rush of blood, which quickly began dripping into his eyes and cutting runnels through the dirt and grime that caked his face.

He glanced back through the rear window so his men could see what he’d done. They caught on immediately, and by the time he’d gotten the truck up to speed the three men in back looked like they’d just walked out of a slaughterhouse. They met a ragtag convoy of vehicles coming up the mountainside—pickups, mostly, but also ATVs, and a fire engine that had first been put into service in the 1950s. Juan slowed as he approached the lead truck. The driver was a civilian, but next to him was a man in uniform, a man who would be considered handsome in other circumstances but whose features were drawn by what he’d seen.

“What happened?” he shouted across the cab to Juan.

“A log truck overturned, sir,” Juan replied. He wiped blood from his eyes, smearing it over his face to better disguise his features. “The men in back are the most seriously injured.”

On cue, Jerry, Mike, and Mark moaned pitiably.

“The others have only minor injuries,” Juan continued. “These should be flown out immediately.”

“What about Lieutenant Jimenez and the recovered part of the satellite?” Major Espinoza asked.

“He has it up where the trucks overturned,” Juan replied.

“And you, how bad are your injuries?”

“I’m okay to drive.”

Espinoza made a quick decision. “All right, get these troops down to the chopper and tell my pilot to fly you back to our forward operations base. Make sure he radios ahead so medical staff are standing by.”

“Yes, Major,” Juan said, recognizing the insignia on the other man’s collar. He took his foot off the brake and slowly passed the convoy on the narrow road. It took all his self-control to keep a grin off his face.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the base camp. Down here where the brush piles burned, the smoke haze was so thick they couldn’t see more than thirty yards, and each breath was like inhaling razor blades. Juan knew they only had a tiny window to make their escape. As soon as the Argentine Major figured out he’d been tricked, his entire reserve force would come down the mountain like the hammers of hell. He drove toward where the choppers were parked.

Tags: Clive Cussler Oregon Files Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net