Jack wrote down the name Las Tortugas on a note pad next to the couch. “Why would the Russians want the airplane?”
“Like I said, this guy, Kryukov, has connections. He probably offered a cut of the Las Tortugas sale if certain high-ranking officials arranged to supply the support necessary to get it airworthy. Kryukov would have had the B-29 off the ice and on the auction block before the Chileans could say boo.”
“Probably didn’t thrill the Chileans,” Jack said.
“They’re mad as wet hens.”
“This plane is where, exactly?”
“Right where you’re headed….”
Jack’s eyes blinked as the implications washed over him. “How close?”
“Can’t be more than a few kilometers; the article says, Thor’s Hammer has served as guardian over the Las Tortugas for nearly 60 years.”
Jack rose from the couch. “So you’re planning to grab the Las Tortugas.”
“I just had a little chat with the president of Chile. They’ll supply as much support as we need through their Bernardo O’ Higgins Ice Station located on the Antarctic Peninsula.” He chuckled. “They’ll do just about anything to keep it out of the hands of the Russians. I told him we had the mechanics, spare parts and skills to fly that mother right off the ice.
“I still can’t believe you just called the president of Chile.”
“Come on, Jack. I’ve got every politician in South America kissing my ass right now. They’re all looking for investment capital.”
“So did you have to promise them the aircraft?”
“Under my deal,” said the billionaire, “Chile retains ownership of the aircraft; they simply agree to lease it back to me for one dollar a year. I provide all the funds necessary to refurbish the Las Tortugas and make it part of my traveling air-show collection. In essence, the B-29 becomes a Chilean ambassador of good will to the world. Upon my death, the vintage bomber returns to Chile permanently, as one of their national treasures.”
“What about the Russian government?” Jack asked. “They’re not gonna take kindly to you stealing the bomber after all the work and lives they put into the salvage.”
“We’ll sneak in, finish the job and fly that mother out before the Russians have a chance to regroup.” Jack could tell that Paulson was nearly dancing a jig in his office. “We also get full cooperation from the Chilean government, including unlimited use of their Antarctic bases, and fuel and equipment drops from Chilean Air Force C-130 if we need them.”
“You did all that in one telephone call?”
“Yep. Every time the Chilean President hesitated, like on the fuel drops, I just mentioned the Russians. I pressed him to fly us down to the ice, but he refused. He said while they would provide support, he didn’t want any Chilean aircraft involved in what was already a dicey situation.” Paulson cleared his throat. “He didn’t want his military tangling with Russian soldiers.”
“So you volunteered us for something the Chilean military deemed too dangerous for them?”
“Do you want to go to Thor’s Hammer or not?” Paulson paused. “Should I just call Leah directly?”
“Thor’s Hammer is one thing,” Jack warned. “It doesn’t sit inside Russian territory, and I doubt anyone would be inclined to start shooting at us for taking a little camping trip to Antarctica.”
“I told the Chileans once the Las Tortugas is off the ice, I’ll offer to reimburse the Russians for the parts and labor they invested in the aircraft.”
“Come on, Al. You’re talking about a Russian military operation under the guise of entrepreneurship. They’re going to be embarrassed and really pissed off.”
“It’s not their aircraft to salvage. This is a legitimate Chilean national treasure.” Another pause. “Besides, I need your help. You know this region like the back of your hand. I want someone running the expedition who knows how to plan and execute a trip to this godforsaken ice box.”
Jack rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “All right, but I’m counting on you to know when to call it quits. Our lives are in your hands this time — just like yours was in mine on Mt. Everest. You’ve got to know when to turn around.”
“You’re in my world now, Jack. You have to trust me, like I trusted you.”
Jack studied the carpet for a moment and then looked up.
“Okay. We’re in.”
CHAPTER 18
Gila National Monument Superintendent and Chief Ranger Glen Janssen was not happy. He’d sent two of his rangers on patrol in one of the more remote areas of Gila after receiving a tip that several suspicious individuals had been working the cliffs with high-powered binoculars.
His rangers had flushed several individuals, perhaps the same ones they’d been tipped about. The intruders had fled arrest, and one of them, an experienced climber, had intentionally dislodged a large rockslide that easily could have killed one or both of his men.
Janssen picked up a photograph lying on his desk. It was a close-up of the rear bumper of a significantly beat-up, green, mid-1980s, vintage, four-wheel-drive Chevrolet Blazer. Centered within the photograph was a rusty chrome bracket that normally framed the required license plate.
He lifted another photograph and studied the face looking out through the dusty rear window. The quality of the photo was poor, but he had the New Mexico State Police chewing on it.
Glen Janssen laid the photograph down on the steel desk and walked out of his office toward the Tourist Center Office — or, as he liked to refer to it, “Meet and Greet the Sheep.” Two rangers leaned against the varnished wooden counter used during the busy tourist season. They instinctively stood erect when their boss walked through the door. He smiled to put them at ease; their egos still smarted from having lost the suspected artifact hunters.
“Something is bothering me about this thing,” Janssen said.
“We shouldn’t have let them get away,” said Darryl Ridgeway.
“Not true, Darryl,” Janssen replied with an easy smile. “An arrowhead or piece of pottery is not worth your lives. You took more risk than necessary crossing the rock bridge on those damn machines.” He leaned on the counter. “What I can’t figure out is what the hell they were doing in Gila.”
“Probably searching for something they could sell,” Ridgeway said.
Glen Janssen shook his head. “The known encampments were cleaned out years ago. Outside of a few arrowheads, pottery shards and the occasional tool, there’s not much up there. Not for serious artifact hunters.” He studied the faded yellow lines in the parking lot. “If I were hunting artifacts, I’d head up to Grand Gulch. Hell, you’ve got 100 square miles to sneak around in and a chance to find serious artifacts or maybe even a virgin dwelling.”
When the word dwelling rolled off his tongue, he had a sudden thought. “What are the chances that we might find a virgin dwelling up in those cliffs?”
Ridgeway shrugged. “These canyons have been searched over hundreds of times.”
Janssen tapped on the counter with fingers still bearing the burn scars from his days as a Smoke Jumper. “Tomorrow I want to take a look-see around the area where you chased that crew out of the canyon.” He pointed at the younger ranger. “I want you to get into Silver City and chat with a few of the locals. See if anyone remembers seeing three or four strangers in a green Blazer — with or without plates.”