“I’m not sure I should ask why….”
“Rumor has it that’s all they speak inside the Siberian gulags.”
CHAPTER 42
The President paced the Oval Office and pointed his finger at Fischer. “So our out-of-control, pain-in-the-ass, loose cannon has flown the coop. What do you propose to do next?”
“If the Chileans are working with Paulson,” Fischer continued, “we won’t get any help from them. The only suggestion I can make, Mr. President, would be some kind of military interdiction before they get to the continent.”
“Christ, we can’t shoot them down,” the President said in disbelief. “For better or worse, they are American citizens.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a luncheon scheduled with the Secretary of State in one hour.” He looked up and glared at Fischer. “You wanted this job — now give me some options.”
CHAPTER 43
Paulson piloted the Gulfstream into southern Chile with the light of early dawn casting a pink-and-orange glow over the Patagonian range. As the jet descended through 10,000 feet, the rocky spires of the Torres de Paine thrust up through broken cloud cover, and the Straits of Magellan spread out toward the southern ocean in lazy fingers.
An exhausted Jack Hobson stared out through the cockpit windows at the city of Punta Arenas. Red-and-blue tile roofs covering tin-sided homes flowed in a mosaic toward the sea. PA was a beautiful city, full of the life and spirit of Patagonia. The colorful and friendly Chilean people always made him and his clients feel at home in this magnificently picturesque country.
The views of the city disappeared in the distance as Paulson maneuvered the Gulfstream on final approach into the international airport. He touched down on the tarmac at just after six in the morning, local time, and expertly maneuvered the private jet off the runway toward a remote part of the airport, as instructed by the control tower.
“Let’s get out of this can,” the billionaire said, forcing his body out of the cockpit. He walked stiffly toward the locking mechanism on the forward hatch/doorway.
Jack nudged Leah, who slept curled against the window.
“I’m sleeping,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
“Don’t you want to get out and walk around?”
“Not one bit.” She pulled a parka over her head.
“What about you guys?” Jack asked.
Garrett, Juan, and Marko were stretching and staring out the windows.
“I’m dying to get out of this thing,” Garrett said.
“God… what a flight,” Juan said, rubbing his neck.
Jack peeked over Paulson’s shoulder. “What? No greeting committee?”
Paulson grinned. “They’re headed this way.”
A trio of black SUVs pulled up next to the Gulfstream. The driver of the second SUV hopped out and opened the passenger door. A short but solidly built man with cropped salt-and-pepper hair stepped out, wearing the uniform of the Chilean Air Force.
“Mr. Paulson,” he said, speaking flawless English. “I’m General Martinez. Welcome to Chile.”
“Good to be in Chile again, sir,” Paulson said. He grasped the general’s hand in a firm handshake.
The general grasped the billionaire’s hand in return. “I’m looking forward to watching you fly our Las Tortugas off the ice — right under the nose of the Russians.”
Jack couldn’t help but notice the gold-capped teeth and the genuine twinkle in the general’s eye.
“We’ll give it our best effort,” Paulson said.
“I wish we had time to provide you and your fine crew with a proper Chilean welcome,” the general said with a shrug. “Unfortunately, your government has ordered us to impound your aircraft and detain its crew.”
Paulson blinked in surprise. “Did they give you any reason?”
“Your President has sided with the Russians.”
“But it’s your aircraft!”
“Yes, of course,” the general said. “You must know the United States of America carries a heavy hand around the world. It’s very difficult for a small country like ours in need of assistance to resist such threats.” He flashed a smile. “However, the documents were faxed in English — and we are in the process of completing the translation to Spanish, to make it legal, of course.”
Paulson slumped in relief. “How long will this ‘translation’ take?”
“Perhaps one more hour,” the general replied with a shrug.
A young Chilean walked up to the general and spoke in soft Spanish. The general nodded twice and then turned toward Paulson.
“The other aircraft is approaching the airport.” General Martinez shaded his eyes and looked out over the horizon. “They are not declaring an emergency but have requested fire equipment standby.”
The Caribou flew down toward the runway, wings dipping slightly to one side, then the other. The pilots walked the main landing gear down on to the runway. Once the aircraft was firmly on the ground, he reversed the pitch on the propellers, and the Caribou slowed and turned off on to a taxiway.
When both engines had been shut down, the ramp at the rear of the Caribou lowered to the tarmac, and Ridley strolled out of the fuselage. He walked underneath the left wing and inspected the landing gear and tire assembly.
Paulson jogged toward his chief mechanic. “What the hell happened?”
“You know about the trouble in Oakland. It was complicated by a missing air compressor in the hangar. We’ve got one onboard somewhere, in all this gear.” Ridley pointed toward the left main gear. “We inflated the flat tire using propane from the hangar barbecue.” He stretched. “We’ve been landing like an eagle with a compound fracture ever since we busted out of Oakland.” Ridley wiped fatigue from his eyes. “It will take time to remove the wheel, bleed the propane out of the tire and install it. Besides,” he said wearily, “we’re all beat.”
“The heavy hand of some State Department bureaucrat has reached clear down here. We have an hour, give or take. Sorry.”
Ridley’s face registered surprise and disgust. “We’ve been flying nonstop in that piece-of-shit tuna can for almost forty hours. We’ve got to have a break.” He waved toward Chase and Rooster. “You guys come here. You won’t believe this crap.”
The Parker brothers looked at each other and then walked over toward Paulson. “Al says we’ve got a few hours at the most and then we’re out of here.” Ridley looked disgusted. “I told him there’s no way. We’ve got to have some sleep.”
Fatigue lines ran vertically and horizontally on Chase Parker’s face. His clothes were wrinkled, and coffee stains spotted his jacket. “Give me a minute to chat with my brother.” Chase nodded toward Rooster, and they walked several feet away, spoke quietly, and then returned.
“We are counting on this ferry job to get us back on our feet,” Chase said. “We’re willing to continue — as long as Mac’s on board.”
Ridley’s faced twisted into a grimace. “All right, for fuck’s sake.” His eyes bored into Paulson. “I’m taking time off after this — lots of time.”
Paulson beamed. “Whatever you want, you got it.”
“Seriously, though, Al. We’re pushing it with that tire. It wasn’t designed to carry propane.”
“Can you change the tire out on the ice?” Paulson asked.
Chase looked at his brother and nodded. “Sure, we anchor a couple of steel plates down on the ice for the jacks. We figured we might have to anyway, if that ice runway’s anything but smooth.”
“Great,” Paulson said, clearly relieved.
Chase wiped at his eyes. “We need weather information.”
The general pointed toward the Suburban. “Come with me. You can talk by radio to our scientists at Bernardo O’ Higgins base.”