The Storm - Cussler Clive - Страница 38
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The tire hit bottom with a noisy clunk, but Kurt and Joe held on tight high above it.
“We have to do this part at the same time,” Kurt said, “otherwise someone’s going back down.”
They pulled themselves up side by side, arm over arm, until they were able to grasp the metal of the A-frame. It burned their hands as it had Kurt’s earlier, but they held on, pulled themselves up and clambered over the low wall.
Kurt hit the sand face-first and was damn glad of it. Joe crashed down beside him.
Breathing hard and resting for a moment, Kurt could feel his legs shaking. It seemed like they’d been in that well for days. He looked to his wrist. His watch was still with the guard in Male.
He held a hand toward the setting sun.
“What are you doing?” Joe asked.
“Trying to make a sundial.” He gave up. “What time do you have?”
“Six forty-five,” Joe announced. “It must be a new record. Left for dead and back to the action in less than an hour.”
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.
“How much time do we have?”
“Ten minutes,” Marchetti said. “Give or take.”
A sweeter voice came over the speakers in his headgear. “Paul, can you hear me?”
“I hear you Gamay,” he said.
“What’s going on?”
“The fire’s out,” he said. “The Halon did its job. But we’re low on air. How soon can you open the doors?”
“Hold on,” she said.
A few seconds of silence lingered and then she came back. “Chief says you guys dumped enough water down there to keep the temps reasonable. We’ll be safely below reignition temp in about seven minutes.”
“That’s good news,” Paul said. He helped Marchetti up. “Let’s go find your crewman.”
“This way,” Marchetti said, moving stiffly toward the rear of the huge room.
They began to make their way back through the debris field. The series of explosions had destroyed half the engine room. They picked their way past ruined machinery and across the metal deck. Steam rose from it in ghostly boiling sheets as the water they’d used to fight the fire evaporated. The smell of fuel was everywhere.
“Here,” Marchetti said, moving to a sealed door.
It wasn’t a watertight bulkhead, but the scorched steel door was formidable looking, and the edges appeared to be tight. Hope rose in Paul’s heart.
“It’s designed as a shelter,” Marchetti said, “though I wasn’t sure it would survive something like this.” He grabbed the locking bar and then pulled back.
“A little hot?” Paul asked.
Marchetti nodded, got himself ready and grabbed it again. He grunted, trying to force the bar down. It wouldn’t budge and he let go again.
“The heat might have expanded the door,” Marchetti said.
“Let me help,” Paul said. He moved into position, and together the two of them grabbed the bar and put all their weight on it. It snapped downward. Paul shouldered the door and it swung open. He let go of the bar instantly, though his hands felt as if they’d been burned through the Nomex gloves.
Air from the compartment streamed out, mixing with the steam and smoke in the engine room. It was pitch-black in the control room. The only illumination came from the lights on their masks and the flashing strobes on their gear.
They split up. Near the back wall, Paul spotted a man in mechanic’s coveralls lying on the ground. “Over here.”
UP IN THE COMMAND CENTER, all eyes were on the central monitor and the flashing red number indicating the temperature in the engine room. It was slowly dropping, winding down until eventually it changed from red to yellow.
“Almost there,” the chief said. “I’m going to arm the doors.”
Gamay liked the sound of that. She checked the clock. Six minutes had elapsed since Paul’s and Marchetti’s oxygen supply warnings had gone off. For once it felt like they had a margin of error, but she wouldn’t feel safe until her husband was out of that room and back in her arms.
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