“Oxygen,” Leah said breathless. “The tube is being filled with oxygen!”
The fogging cleared and the chest of the girl began expanding at decreasing intervals. At first it had been one breath every five seconds, then once every three seconds, and then she appeared to be breathing normally. The skin on her cheeks and chest went from the color of ash to bright pink.
The top half of the tube retracted seamlessly into the bottom half, leaving the girl exposed to the pressurized air within the aircraft.
“Get me a blanket!” Leah shouted.
An army-green blanket was pressed into Leah’s hands, and she laid it over girl’s body. As she did so, she felt breath on her face. The girl opened her eyes. She blinked several times, and then opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Leah reached down to the girl’s hand and held it, hoping that it would comfort her.
The girl blinked several more times then opened her mouth, appearing, to Leah, determined to speak this time.
“Anihiilaaigii,” she whispered just loud enough Leah could hear inside the noisy interior of the C-130.
Leah jerked her hand back in shock. The last thing she expected was to hear the Navajo language.
Fischer bent over the tube. “It’s talking?”
“It’s a girl, Fischer. She’s speaking Navajo.”
“Anihiilaaigii,” the girl repeated in a stronger voice.
“What’s she saying?” Fischer asked.
“I think she wants to know if we are her — Creator.”
Before Leah could reply, there was a shout. “Another one of these tubes is gonna go bad!”
“Shit.” Leah pressed the little girl’s hand and whispered softly in Navajo, “Adahayoiyi T’aadoo t’oo nihi.”
The girl blinked in understanding and the muscles in her face relaxed.
One of the scientist looked up from another tube. “It’s going into convulsions! You’d better get over here!”
Leah turned to Fischer. “You stay the fuck away from her.”
Fischer’s eyes remained cold, but he smiled. “I knew you’d be helpful, Ms. Andrews.”
Leah pushed Fischer out of her way, knelt, placed both palms on the next tube, and pressed hard, silently commanding it to safely release its captive.
CHAPTER 109
Teresa Simpson tried unsuccessfully to fight her encroaching fatigue while sipping espresso out of a small porcelain cup. From her vantage point at the airport terminal, she enjoyed a clear view of Paulson’s Gulfstream. The private jet sat on the tarmac near what appeared to be military hangars, gleaming white with blue striping.
On occasion, armed men wearing green fatigues strolled causally around the aircraft but paid it no particular attention.
Guards ordered to watch the multimillion-dollar jet, she thought.
Teresa had booked a room at the hotel Terra Del Fuego in downtown Punta Arenas near the town square. It was a twenty-minute cab ride to the airport, but most hotels were located in town and she’d had a difficult time even getting a room because it was the southern hemisphere summer and Punta Arenas was filled with tourists.
She’d set up a special arrangement with the hotel’s assistant manager to allow her to get a few hours of badly needed sleep. Without offering any details, she told him she had interest in a large private jet parked on the military side of the airport. She’d then pulled out a stack of American bills and asked if he could arrange to have one of the hotel staff watch the Gulfstream and call her the instant anyone appeared to be ready to use it. She’d been surprised and more than a little alarmed when he’d asked why she wanted Señor Paulson’s private plane watched?
“How do you know Al Paulson owns that jet?” she’d asked.
“He’s bringing back our Las Tortugas,” replied the assistant hotel manager. He smiled widely. “You must be with CNN — or perhaps a diario? Do you want an interview when he returns?”
Teresa Simpson opened her mouth — and then shut it. “Yes,” she said with her best “you got me” facial expression. “I’m writing a major story about the recovery of the Las Tortugas, and I’m desperate to get the first interview.” She’d even pulled a digital camera out of her hand bag, hoping it made her look more authentic.
Apparently, no one had approached the jet while she slept. Upon waking, she’d left a message for the assistant manager, saying she was headed for the airport to keep an eye on Paulson’s plane herself.
Teresa now stood at the window, fighting off the effects of stress, fatigue, and bone-numbing jet lag. She sat for a moment, and her eyelids felt as if they might reach down and touch the collar on her denim jacket.
“This is a waste of time,” she muttered in frustration. She emptied the last of the espresso and set the cup back on the counter. After one last glance out the window, she hoisted a soft-sided bag over her shoulder and headed for the exit.
Teresa walked up to the cab line and was about to enter a minivan when a beat-up yellow Toyota Corolla careened around the corner and screeched to a stop. The driver missed the reverse gear on his first attempt to back up, and the worn transmission whined in distress.
Señora Simpson!” shouted the front-seat passenger after the Toyota backed into the curb.
Teresa looked up to see the familiar face of the hotel’s assistant manager. “The Las Tortugas—it approaches the airport!”
She joined him in the Toyota, and his young driver stomped the accelerator.
“Miguel’s cousin works in the control tower,” said the hotel manager, pointing toward the driver. “He says the Las Tortugas will land in less than ten minutes.” The hotel manager leaned forward, speaking rapid-fire Spanish to Miguel. “The pilot has declared an emergency, apparently due to engine trouble.”
The driver swung the steering wheel, and the cab turned onto an access road that cut around the perimeter of the airport.
“But to enter the aviation area….” He shrugged. “We will need more—”
“You just get me to the gate,” Teresa cut in. “I have what’s necessary.”
They drove down the access road for two miles, where it dead-ended at a series of hangars. In front of the hangars stood a tall chain-link fence with razor wire wrapped around the top.
The driver stopped near the guard tower. “You wait here a minute,” said the hotel manager.
He spoke to the guard, who glanced toward the car on several occasions. The guard nodded and the hotel manager ran back toward the Toyota.
“I have told him you are an American reporter covering the return of the Las Tortugas.” He glanced around nervously. “He won’t allow us to drive through, but for $100 he will allow you to pass.”
Teresa opened her bag and pulled out three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. “One for him and one for you and one for Miguel,” she said with a smile.
The manager nodded. “We must go now — he doesn’t want the car to be spotted loitering around the gate.” He smiled. “Best of luck to you.”
The guard at the gate pointed her ahead between two hangars and then nodded toward the right, where he waved a finger as if to say, ‘Don’t walk that way.’ Teresa got the message.
She jogged through the first series of hangars. After making sure the coast was clear, she ran toward the second set of hangars and caught a glimpse of asphalt-covered runways and taxiways. As she approached the open tarmac, the sharp nose of Paulson’s Gulfstream appeared around the edge of the last hanger. As she rounded the corner, a loud noise came from beyond and above the private jet. Through the mist, she saw the Las Tortugas descending steeply toward the runway. The bomber rocked from side to side as if the pilots were having trouble controlling it at low air speed.