Gitmo getaway, p.15
Gitmo Getaway, page 15
"Corrosion? How bad?"
"It's pretty bad. The engine needs a complete strip down and overhaul."
"Will it start up?"
He thought for a few moments and then nodded. "Probably, yeah. It's a simple piston engine, and it seems to be turning over okay. But think about it, Chief. The electrical cables are hanging by a thread, and the fuel feed, well, I wouldn't use it for my garden hose."
"Will it make it?"
He felt a presence behind him and turned. Vega. He turned back to Will and waited for an answer.
He sucked in air through his teeth. "Maybe, maybe not. It flew in here, so there's nothing seriously wrong, not mechanically. But who knows what problems the corrosion has caused? You ever flown a piston-engine twin and lost an engine on take off?"
"I have," the Cuban interjected.
They both looked at Vega. "You did?"
"Yes, and it was this exact same aircraft. A wealthy sugar plantation owner, a friend of President Batista, brought it to Cuba before the revolution. The communist government got a hold of it and used it for training military pilots. Part of my training for Special Forces was learning to fly multi-engine aircraft. I checked out on the Twin Commander so we could use it to fly our men where they were needed."
"You say you lost an engine on take off?"
"Yes. The problem is there is little reserve power with older piston-engine aircraft. It means there is no room for maneuver when things go wrong. At the time, I was lightly loaded, me and another man. We had passed V1, but had not reached V2, the minimum safe take off speed. It was difficult. One engine started to misfire prior to shutting down, and I had to make a quick decision."
"What did you do?" Will asked, fascinated.
"I took off. The runway was too short for the aircraft. It was just a dirt strip hacked out of the jungle. There was no time to stop; we would have piled up at the end of the strip. I applied maximum power, and we barely cleared the foliage at the end. In fact, when we landed, the wheels were choked with branches and leaves."
Nolan nodded. "You're still alive, so you called it right. What about this baby, any ideas?"
He regarded it for a few moments and smiled. "It comes down to how long the engine will run. We'll be fully loaded, so we can only do it if the engine keeps running during take off. Afterward, she'll fly on one engine, although it'd be hard to keep her level."
"So we can do it?"
He shrugged. "If the engine cuts on take off before V2, all bets are off. I will fly her, if you wish."
Nolan considered the offer for a few seconds. A man with actual experience of flying one of these museum pieces was a valuable asset. Then again, Vega was not the man he was back then.
Can we entrust our lives to an emaciated, washed-up alcoholic?
He studied the Cuban and saw something new. He hadn't seen him drinking recently, and his eyes blazed with a fervor he hadn't seen before.
Their desperate scramble from Cuba, through Mexico to the US, had re-ignited a spark in him, one that had been missing for a very long time. He looked like a man with a mission, and Nolan understood then. He'd committed himself to beating the Islamist scum who would destroy innocent lives. He was a man with a sacred mission. He stared at him.
"She's all yours. Just make sure we get to Miami in one piece."
He could see Will's look of astonishment. De la Vega would take the left hand seat.
* * *
It took them two hours to clear enough space to tow the Twin Commander out of the hangar and onto the strip. Vega started both engines and began his pre-flight checks. Almost immediately, they hit trouble. Nolan was in the cockpit with him, acting as co-pilot. He scanned the gages.
"Pressure is dropping on the starboard engine."
Vega looked at the console and nodded. "It's still within limits, but I suggest we get everyone on board and take off while it still holds. There's no way to know how long it'll last, so I'll cut the power until we're ready to go."
"I'll get them moving."
They climbed up into the rear cabin, and Will latched the door. When Will gave him the okay, Nolan turned to Vega.
"We're set to go."
The Cuban didn't answer at first. Nolan saw his lips moving.
He’s praying! Dear Christ, is it that bad?
His lips stopped moving. He looked across to Nolan and started the starboard engine. At first it ran ragged, but the motor was cold. Vega started to taxi to the far end of the crude runway, ready to take off into wind. Several times, the starboard engine stuttered, but he made light of it.
"It needs time, time for the fuel to flow and the wiring to dry out. If nothing breaks, we'll be fine. We'll check the magnetos when the revs reach 2200."
And if something does break on take off? If that happens, we're not going to need magnetos. We have to get airborne. After that the biggest risk is taking a bullet from Montez's thugs when we reach Miami. But first, we have to get in the air.
Vega slowed at the end of the strip and applied more power to the port engine to make the turn, throttling back the starboard powerplant. They swung around, and at the other end of the strip, Nolan could see the DEA buildings. Vega applied the brakes and turned to Nolan.
"Mixture rich."
"Check."
"Pitch fully fine."
"Check."
"Undercarriage lock off."
"Check."
"Fuel selector valves on center tank."
"Check."
"Electric booster pumps on."
"Check."
"Flaps set at the quarter extended position."
"Check."
He pushed the throttles forward all the way to the stops. The engines screamed as he waited to build up full power. Vega watched the gages on the console, sweeping his eyes across and back. The fuselage rattled and vibrated. Everything seemed to be trying to break loose, and Nolan glanced at the revolution counters.
Close to the red, too close.
"Vega, the revs, we're..."
"I know, don't worry about it. It's the only way we'll get off the ground on such a short strip. "
Another couple of seconds, when it seemed the aircraft would shake itself apart, he released the brakes. It was as if they were fired from a gun. The heavy Twin Commander raced forward, picking up speed, faster and faster.
"Mr. Nolan, tell me when we reach V1."
"Sure."
"And then V2."
"Roger that."
He eyed the gages. It was too soon. The starboard engine misfired, stuttered, and Vega stamped on the rudder to correct the yaw. It picked up again, and once more, he corrected. They hurtled along the strip but not fast enough.
"Vega..."
"I know."
The buildings were growing nearer, and still they hadn't reached V1.
"Sixty knots," he called to the pilot.
"Roger that."
They needed seventy knots to get the heavily laden Twin off the ground. They'd already used up three-quarters of the dirt runway.
"V1." They were going beyond the safe distance to abort the take off.
"Roger that."
"Sixty-five knots."
"Nearly there," the Cuban acknowledged cheerfully.
"Sixty-eight knots."
No reply. Vega was concentrating every fiber of his being, willing the old aircraft to leave the runway.
"Sixty-nine."
"Roger."
The starboard engine faltered. A loud bang made Nolan glance out along the wing, to see a puff of black smoke pour from the nacelles.
"We have a problem with the ..."
"I know. Speed?"
He looked down. "Sixty-eight, we're slowing."
"Mierda, tu puta," he shouted, something about calling the aircraft a whore. At the same time, he hauled back on the column.
"Vega, I didn't call V2."
"No, you didn't."
The nosewheel tilted up, yet the rear wheels were still on the ground. The buildings at the end loomed even larger, and he could see Jerry Jackson now, starting to run to get out of the way.
"You have to abort!"
Vega ignored him, and they plunged on. The starboard engine misfired again, ran, misfired, and spluttered, but somehow kept turning the big propeller. And he realized they were off the ground. Only just. The rear wheels no longer bumped on the dirt, but they were way too low.
"Undercarriage up?" They needed the ground clearance. Even a couple of feet would help they were that low.
"Negative."
"I hope you know what you're doing."
Vega made an adjustment and aimed for a tiny gap between two of the barns. It was barely wide enough for the wings, but he guided the faltering aircraft through with light, deft touches to the control column and rudder pedals. Nolan realized he was watching a great pilot at work. He'd wondered several times if he'd called it wrong, allowing Vega to fly the Twin Commander. Now he knew it was the right decision.
There was a low rise in front of them, and the Cuban deliberately allowed the Rockwell to veer toward it. The rear wheels touched, and the aircraft bumped and edged up a notch higher in the sky. And then a couple of meters more, they were free from the ground effect. For the first time since she'd landed in this place, the Twin Commander was doing what she'd been built for all those years ago. Flying.
Vega kept adjusting the trim, calling out orders and requests for information. At one time, he shouted for Nolan to tell the people in the cabin to move aft.
"Just a meter, no more. We need to correct the trim."
Shit!
Meter by meter they climbed, and they held their breath each time the starboard engine faltered. He kept the engines at full throttle until they'd achieved a long, slow climb to three thousand meters.
"Throttle back to cruising speed," he called to Nolan.
He moved his hand to the levers, and the starboard engine spluttered one last time. There was a noise of tearing metal, and it stopped.
"Belay that! Full throttle on the port engine; feather the starboard engine, starboard fuel cocks off. Magneto off. Is it on fire?"
Nolan peered out of the cracked Perspex window.
"No sign of fire, no."
"Good."
He looked at Vega and saw the strain reflected in his face, as he fought to correct the vicious yaw threatening to hurl them from the sky in a never-ending stall until they hit the ground. The Cuban fought on, working to keep the aircraft flying and prevent a slow, descending glide that would end when they hit the ground.
"Help me hold her steady," Vega grunted. Nolan put his hands on the column. The pilot was exhausted. He'd aged ten years in ten minutes from the colossal strain of keeping the aircraft in the air.
"I've got it," he told him, "You look all in."
"I feel all in," he smiled, "It brought it all back to me. The last time I flew one of these things it was bad."
"But you got her off the ground."
"I did."
He was silent for a couple of minutes. Then, "That time there was structural failure. The machine broke up on landing."
"You're kidding me, right?"
"No."
"Okay."
Nolan became used to the heavy controls, the need to battle to stop a yaw to starboard that would send them into an uncontrolled spin. Incredibly, they gained height. It was slow, agonizingly slow, but they reached three and a half thousand meters, and he set the trim and throttled back slightly. They were on course for Miami, but whether they'd make it was in the lap of the Gods. He glanced at Vega.
"How's the fuel?"
A pause. "We're good, more than enough to reach our destination." He looked out the window, "One moment."
He played with the buttons on the console, and Nolan looked aside to see a white haze emerging from the defunct starboard engine. He pointed it out.
"What's that?"
"Nothing important. There was smoke coming from the engine. It was probably smoldering before we feathered it. I used the extinguishers to make sure."
"Got it."
They flew on. Vega dozed in the pilot's seat, no doubt from exhaustion, and too many years of boozing and hanging around bars. Nolan checked and double-checked their course, and saw they were over the sea, heading straight for Miami. When he looked down, he could see the choppy waters of the Gulf of Mexico, waves with white caps rolling in from the Caribbean. If they put down there, they'd be in serious trouble. The chances of this aircraft carrying lifejackets and rafts were less than zero. They had a thousand klicks to travel, most of it over water. He rechecked their speed and made a rough calculation. They were flying slower than normal because of the loss of one engine. If they were lucky, they'd be there in six hours.
He looked around, as Will entered the cockpit and asked how it was going.
"Could be worse. Our friend," he nodded at Vega, "did a great job. He knows how to fly. I mean, really fly."
"But does he know how to land on one engine? That's what I'm worried about," Will smiled.
"We'll soon know. Everything okay in back?"
"We're good. Sitting on a hard, cold, aluminum floor is a chore, but we'll survive. Ryder had a mad moment with Eva. He accused her of invoking God's wrath or something like that, for being a whore. She punched him, real hard. Told him to shut his stupid Texan face."
"I bet that went down well."
"Yep. I think he's praying for the dark angel to swoop down and carry her to the pit of hell."
"Could be a long wait."
"Yeah."
They watched the unending panorama ahead of them, ocean and more ocean, plenty of boats, big and small.
No doubt many of them are smugglers, Nolan thought to himself, The Latin America growth industry, maybe it’s time to invest in some shares.
"Boss, have you given any thought to when we get there?"
He turned to look at Will. "How do you mean?"
"Well, we gotta land sooner or later. The question is, where?"
Vega opened his eyes. "Montez has a strip next to his place."
"You're awake! How're you feeling?"
"Like shit." he grinned, "but I've been worse, a lot worse."
"What's the deal with this strip?"
"While I was dozing, I was thinking the same as your friend Will. Obviously, we can't go straight into Miami International, not without papers."
"My thoughts exactly," Will grinned.
"So I thought about Montez's strip."
Nolan was instantly suspicious. "You know about it, how?"
"I flew in once, a smuggler flight when a pal of mine was ill."
"Okay."
He went on. "It has the advantage of being well away from the nearest law enforcement offices, customs, and immigration. Which I imagine is the reason he chose the location. But you know we're likely to run into a squad of armed men when we land."
They talked it over for several minutes, but they had little choice. They had to intercept the fugitives before they began the final leg of their journey to New York City. Except they still had no idea of how they were planning to reach their target, whatever it was. One thing was certain, the tangle of ruined, burning buildings, and dead bodies that would follow the attack.
"I'll talk to Evers, see if he has anything that may help us. CIA are bound to have ongoing operations in Miami."
He left them to go aft and returned several minutes later. "Danny found a window where he can get enough of a signal for the satphone. He's asking around."
"Understood."
Minutes later, Evers came forward.
"I'll take it," Vega murmured, "I guess you have things to discuss."
He put his hands on the column, and Nolan turned to listen.
"There's good news and bad news," he said immediately.
"Give us the bad bit first."
"My people were surprised we were overflying the Gulf. There's a storm warning, and it's due to hit in a couple of hours."
They stared down at the sea. The white caps of the waves were bigger as the swell built up in strength. The real telltale was the boats. The few that remained were heading at high speed for the nearest harbor.
"What's the good news?"
"Our intercepts report unusual activity around Montez's facility. They can't explain it. There's also an Iranian registered cargo vessel waiting offshore. And a powerboat tied up to his wharf."
"What's the big deal about that? You'd expect to tie up a boat at a wharf."
"That's the thing. This one's a beast, an H&Z high-speed powerboat, big enough to carry at least nine men. And she's fast enough to evade most things on the water."
"I still don't get it. What's the connection?" Nolan persisted, "They can hardly travel all the way to New York in a powerboat."
Evers sighed in frustration. "Look, guys, I joined CIA as an analyst. I shouldn't have been down in Panama when I first met up with you. Another guy got sick, and I jumped at the chance to go see the wide, wicked world."
"You saw more than you bargained for," he chuckled.
"I guess. My work with CIA is to connect the dots, and here's how I see it. They want something fast and powerful to hit their target before anyone sees them coming. That boat hits the bill. To reach New York City, they'd need a vessel to transport them. I checked, and that Iranian ship has suitable derricks to winch the H&Z aboard and plenty of deck space to stow it. They could load the boat, hide her under a tarpaulin, and carry her to New York. They stop outside the territorial limit, and at the right time, drop her into the water. Hey presto, they come barreling inshore to make the hit."
"Hit what?"
Evers shook his head. "That's the sixty-four dollar question. I don't know."
"I still don't get it," Nolan shook his head, "A powerboat that can carry nine men, how fast can it go, thirty, thirty-five knots? They'll see it coming and blow it out of the water."
"Ninety knots, I checked," Evers affirmed, "That's a minimum, depending on how they've modified the engines."
"You're joking," Will said, shocked, "Ninety knots?"
"Ninety knots."
"Oh, fuck." He shook his head in astonishment, "How do we stop that thing? They could hit a shore-based target in less than two minutes from leaving the mother ship."
