The cargo officer came to check that they had strapped themselves in correctly for takeoff. He tugged at each harness once. Satisfied, he grabbed a hard-wired headset with a mike, which was hanging from a peg on the forward bulkhead, and he spoke rapidly. The engines started to spool up seconds later. His last act, before strapping himself in, was to throw two sets of bulky ear protectors to Sean and Harris. The noise inside the bay continued to build. Even with the protectors on, it was still bone-rattling loud. With a soft jerk, the pilot let off the brakes and started to taxi to the runway.
Sean hated takeoffs and landings. The flying part in the middle didn’t bother him, and he rarely ever landed in the planes he took off in, but that first and last minute of flight were not his favorite. He gripped the hardwood sides of his jump seat and braced himself.
It amazed Harris that his friend could throw himself out of an airplane at thirty thousand feet, freefall almost all the way to the ground, open his chute and purposely steer into trees, but was worried by something as small as takeoff. But even Harris was forced to wonder minutes later, when the pilot put them through the most gut wrenching and violent takeoff, either one of them had ever endured.
BATUMI, GEORGIA
Sergei sat in the middle of a bare-walled concrete room, naked and tied to a chair. He stared with utter hatred at Sturmovic and his men. “Is this how you treat honest citizens of a free Georgia?”
Sturmovic stared down at the exposed and immobile Georgian. “Not free yet, and if you are honest, Smirnoff, I will eat one of my missiles from fins to nose.” The Colonel shook his head slowly. “No, comrade.” The words came out as a curse. “We will discuss your involvement in the deaths of three of my men. They received two series of injections. One was heroin, which you administered, and the other was lead. Those who administered the lead, we are still looking for.”
Sergei’s denial was emphatic. “I deal in whores and grass, not heroin.”
Sturmovic raised his eyebrows. “How would you explain this?” He held up an empty syringe. “This was found in one of your more foul smelling rooms, under a much stained cot.” Sturmovic held it under Sergei’s nose to give him a solid look. “I doubt you have taken to giving your guests clandestine vitamin shots. If I were you, I would save us all some time and yourself a great deal of pain by telling us all you know.”
Sergei spat at Sturmovic. “I will tell you nothing, you Checkisti bastard.”
Sturmovic motioned one of his men over. He handed him the syringe as he took the soldier’s rifle. He felt the heft of the gun, then turned and brought the butt of it down hard on the bridge of Sergei’s right foot. The bones broke with an audible “Crunch.”
Sergei screamed. Color drained from his face as the shock of the blow raced through him.
Sturmovic looked at the drug dealer as he strained at his bonds. His voice was a steel instrument made to break a man’s will. It cut through the fog of Sergei’s pain. “That was really too bad, comrade. You’re probably going to need some physiotherapy for that foot, not to mention a cast.” Sturmovic leaned forward, putting more weight on the gun. He twisted the stock savagely.
Another strangled scream broke through Sergei’s clenched teeth.
Sturmovic’s tone was clinical as the Georgian tried in vain to pull his body free. “How many more bones do you think I will have to break before you tell us all you know?”
SOMEWHERE IN ZAIRE
With the cuff of his battle dress sleeve, Sykes wiped at the sweat that ran from his forehead and stung his eyes. The stink of aviation fuel hung in the humid air of the jungle. The start of a massive headache was well on the way.
All three of the mercenaries and one of Benjamin’s Filipino kickers were perched on the wings. Fifty gallon drums sat on the ground under each wing fuel port. Motorized pumps on each drum fed precious aviation fuel through rubber hoses into the wing tanks. Benjamin and the other kicker watched the pumps.
The drums had been rolled from a storage shed well-hidden by the jungle growing at the edge of the narrow landing strip. The pilot and the kicker swapped the pumps from drum to drum as needed.
Sykes shook his head to try and clear the pain; it only made the throbbing worse. Sleep had been a commodity hard come by in the uncomfortable, noisy confines of the DC-3. This was their second stop for fuel. The last one, according to Benjamin, had been in southern Libya.
They had been airborne now for more than sixteen hours. The sleep-robbing events the preceding day and the acquirement of the cargo were taking their toll. It was clear that fatigue was a very real danger for all three of them. Sykes worried it would rob them of the ability to react. He and Reoum had functioned on less sleep before, but Petros, a dangerous man in his own right, was woefully out of sorts on land. Sykes could not shake his gut feeling that their employer would try to silence them the same way he had the Russians. It was logical. A link back to whoever commissioned an illegal sale of this magnitude would be personally disastrous to them. The only question that remained was, where? When would be as soon as the warheads were delivered and safe in their employer’s hands.
His thoughts were interrupted, as aviation fuel spilled from the now-full tank and ran down the wing in wide rivulets. Thank God, the engines were cooler now. Hot metal and AV gas was never a good combination. At least the newer turboprops weren’t as prone to engine fires as the old twin Wasp radials.
Below the wing, Benjamin swore, he had been dozing in the heat. The pilot shut off the supply pump below Sykes’ perch.
Sykes, glad to be rid of the fumes, closed the fuel port. The discarded hose slid down the wing to the ground. He walked back along the wing to the root and slid down the hot metal to the ground. Benjamin and his other kicker shut the remaining pumps off one by one as the rest of the tanks topped off.
The two kickers started to coil the hoses, preparing to move the equipment back to its hiding place. The lanky American turned to Sykes. He wiped the fuel residue from his hands with a dirty rag. He looked as tired as Sykes felt.
“I’m beat. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to stop here for a few hours and grab some sleep.”
Sykes was relieved, but wanted to see what Benjamin’s full commitment was to his boss. “Won’t the man paying for this be upset at the delay?”
Benjamin spat on the ground in reply. “Screw him. This cargo is no good if it’s spread all over the landscape ’cause I fell asleep at the wheel.”
“Fair enough, I’ll post a guard.”
Benjamin shrugged. “Suit yourself. Worried I’m gonna set you up?”
“Shit happens. It never hurts to be ready for it.” Sykes watched the kickers wheel the empty drums across the narrow landing strip back to the shed. He wondered who filled the things up again. “You have any idea what the cargo is on this run?”
Benjamin ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I know what’s in them but the boss pays me well enough I don’t give it any further thought. This is strictly a personnel and cargo pick-up for us.”
Sykes’s face hardened. “I’m sure you can feel the weight in those three crates when you fly.” Faded blue eyes locked onto Benjamin’s face. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have had your kicker place them over the wing root.”
“That’s just standard procedure man. It keeps my trim easier to maintain.”
“You the only one who flies into that strip?”
“Well, yeah, but I don’t see.”
Sykes cut him off. “You’re the only one this local talent Sergei Smirnoff ever sees, right?”