The pilot was clearly annoyed, but Nordhausen had hold of the mike and he thumbed it heavily as he began to speak. “Hello there, may I be of service?” He looked at the pilot. “Does this thing have a speaker? How will I hear them?” His gestures indicated what he wanted and the pilot flipped a switch to enable the cabin PA.
“You suppose they know any English?” He looked at Paul as he squinted at the radio handset mike.
Paul rolled his eyes. “You’re in luck. A Chinese pilot can’t land in Peking without knowing English. It’s the universal language of flight everywhere on earth. But what the hell do you think you’re going to tell them? Excuse me, gentlemen, but we’re making off with a national treasure.” He mocked the professor to dig in his point.
There was a wash of static on the speaker, an then they heard a voice, speaking English, but heavily accented.
“This is the Royal Jordanian Air Force Border Patrol. Who are you? What are you doing out here? Over.”
Robert thumbed the mike switch. “Archeology team,” he began. “We’re working a permitted dig out near Bailar Ridge. It’s all been cleared through the University of Amman.”
“I thought you said we were going to be tourists,” Paul hissed, but Nordhausen shushed him.
“This is better. A good lie always needs a hint of truth in it to be believed.”
There was a long silence before the signal came back.
“You are a long way from Bailar. Are you lost? Do you need assistance? Over.”
“Lost? No, we’re well on our way. No problem at all.”
Again a silence.
“You’re supposed to say over when you finish speaking,” Paul put in.
“Be quiet and let me handle this!” Nordhausen gave him the wide eyed look he was famous for when anyone dared challenge his assertions.
“What are you carrying? Over.”
“Carrying? Oh… We’re moving supplies to a dig party in Wadi Rumm. Returning borrowed equipment.”
“You are landing soon? Over.”
“Just long enough to off load this equipment. Then we’ll be heading north to Bailar again.”
“I assume, you have filed a valid flight plan. Please read us your number. Over.”
Robert instinctively cupped his hand over the mike as if the men in the other aircraft could hear him. He rasped out a question to Paul, who couldn’t help breaking into a smile with the scene. “What does he mean by that?”
“Don’t worry, they can’t hear us until you press the send button, Robert. And what he means is this: when you fly somewhere in a small craft like this you file a flight plan. They want your plan number so they can verify you. The jig is up, my friend.”
“Shit!” Nordhausen’s charade was beginning to unravel. The voice on the other aircraft came back again, more impatient.
“I repeat: What is your flight plan number, please. Over.”
Nordhausen had a desperate look on his face. “We never filed one.” He made his confession to Paul, but was still cupping the mike handset close to his chest. Paul just folded his arms and waited, letting the professor boil in his own stew.
Robert fiddled with the mike. “I say oh… fiver… two…” he was clicking the send button on and off as he spoke to deliberately break up his transmission.
“Say again, blue helo. You are breaking up. Over.”
“Must be… damn hills… Over.” Nordhausen was going to play his game for as long as he could. “Think we can outrun that thing, Paul?”
“A Super-Puma? Not a chance. Particularly with a ton of contraband dangling from the undercarriage.”
“Speed this thing up!” Robert gave the Arab pilot a rude gesture, but the man was very upset and kept shaking his head in the negative.
“This very bad,” he said with a pleading tone. “Maybe we land now, yes?”
“Absolutely not! I’m paying you a thousand dollars for this run. So get this thing moving!”
“Blue Helo, Blue Helo. We do not copy. Say again. Over.”
The professor was very frustrated now. All his careful planning was coming to naught on this single mischance, and he knew Paul would never let him hear the end of it. It was obvious to him that the men in the other aircraft were going to crank the scenario up a notch in a moment. He needed time, but what should he do?
“Radio bad…” he shouted at the mike. “Landing soon…. Have a nice day. Over and out.”
“Landing soon?” The pilot understood what he wanted to hear in any case, and began to lower his altitude.
“See here,” Nordhausen complained. “You pay no attention to that other helo and just get us out over the Red Sea.”
“No, no, no…” The pilot was shaking his head, sweat dampening his Arabic headdress.
“Yes, yes, yes. Go that way!” Nordhausen pointed. “Fast!” He rolled his hand over and over to illustrate his point, but the pilot wanted nothing more to do with him. Robert could see the man needed other persuasion, and the professor knew just what to do. He reached into a small haversack in the side compartment and, to Paul’s amazement, produced a Glock pistol!
“Allah u akbar…” There was obvious fear in the pilot’s eyes now as Nordhausen brandished the weapon. “You go to the sea!” he pointed the way. “Hurry! Go fast! What the hell’s a Super-Puma, Paul?”
Paul was aghast. “You are crazy. What are you doing with a gun?”
“What does it look like I’m doing, for God’s sake? I’m hijacking this man’s helicopter! Now what’s a Super-Puma, and how do you make our odds of reaching the coast before that thing catches up?”
Paul clasped both hands on the sides of his head, unwilling to believe this was happening. “What’s a Super-Puma? It’s a Eurocopter—One of the Big Cats, at least that’s what they call the military version. It’s big, but relatively fast, and has a mean bite. What’s a Super-Puma? How about forward mounted search radar, torpedoes, Exocet missiles on side mounted pylons—but don’t worry about those. They’re for killing ships like the Arabesque. They’ll probably just blast the hell out of us with those two nasty rocket pods… or perhaps they’ll just fly along side and riddle us with fifty-caliber machine gun rounds from the gun mount. That’s what a Super-Puma is, Robert! Now, what are you going to do with that sidearm? You going to take pot shots at the damn thing when it realizes we aren’t responding to military orders? We’re in some deep shit, my friend. This is crazy!”
Nordhausen had a desperate look on his face. He ran his forearm over his brow as he worked the situation through. “Now what…” he breathed.
“Now what?” Paul was still firing his salvo. “Let’s see: grand theft, piracy, smuggling, hijacking, armed assault, failure to yield, and navigating without a valid flight plan. This thing started off with an infraction and has mushroomed into a life sentence for the both of us. Congratulations, professor. You’ve got your Ammonite.” He folded his arms again, sullen and angry at the fate that had overtaken them. It appeared that the other aircraft had exactly that in mind. It was getting closer, gaining on them with each passing moment.
Nordhausen was finally forced to admit his defeat. “Alright, alright. Then land the damn thing.” He looked out the window, secreting the Glock back into his satchel. To his surprise, he caught sight of a small group of men on camels in the wadi below. “There!” He shouted, grasping at this one last straw before they sank. “Land there—near that little caravan! But be careful. You have to hover and then move off to one side so we don’t hit the cargo.”