The heavy-barreled weapon came alive under his hands, jumping like a pounding jackhammer and sending out a pulsing rhythmic thump of huge.50-caliber shells that chewed up the crest of the sand rampart like paper through a shredder, instantly turning anyone still on the summit into so much raw meat.
The immediate threat removed, Holliday swiveled the big gun around on its mount and faced the helicopters as the truck roared across the stony plain toward the runway. The commandos had landed in a staggered formation that presented a curved line of defense blocking their way. The fat-bellied transports had sliding doors like a minivan and a rear loading ramp. They weren't usually armed but there were three large windows on each side that could be used as positions for a Gatling Minigun or a.50 caliber like the Kord.
Holliday did a long traverse of the line of choppers moving left to right, aiming for center mass in the middle of the passenger compartments, starting at the cockpit end, firing in short bursts. Even from two hundred yards away Holliday could see the exploding impact of the shells, windshield Plexiglas shattering, metal torn apart, bits of fuselage and chunks of engine flying in all directions. Something flared brightly in one of the center helicopters and then a split second later a huge fireball erupted with an oxygen-eating whump of sound. Jet fuel for the big GE turbines.
In the driver's seat of the truck, Tidyman jerked the wheel, veering away from the light cast by the exploding chopper. Holliday saw figures running in front of the blaze. Tidyman yelled a warning.
"RPG!"
One of the running figures had one of the familiar skinny launchers on his shoulder. An RPG-7, capable of stopping an M1 Abrams, not to mention a tin-can Goat. One round from a weapon like that and they'd be vaporized. Holliday swung left, traversing the gun, then twisted in the opposite direction, reverse-tracking and potshotting the running line of men, dropping them like puppets cut from their strings. The man with the RPG dropped along with the rest.
They were through, the line of helicopters behind them, the one in the middle blazing like a torch. At least two of the others had been badly damaged and probably more. Heavily armed or not, if the commando group was stranded without transport they were as good as dead; Qaddafi, father and son, weren't known for their compassion. They'd take a flight of old MiG-23 Floggers out of mothballs and blow whatever commandos survived into eternity.
Tidyman pulled up beside the runway. The Skymaster Holliday had seen that morning was tied down under a Mylar awning beside a line of fifty-gallon drums with hand pumps. Both cockpit doors were wide open.
"Where's the pilot?" Holliday called out as he dropped down from the rear of the truck. The cockpit of the push-pull twin-engined aircraft was empty. He flinched involuntarily as an explosion sounded behind them. He turned. The fire had spread; a second helicopter was burning now. The commandos had almost certainly expected a quick in and out with a minimum of casualties or damage and now it had all turned to crap.
"I'm the pilot," said Tidyman, climbing out of the truck.
"You've got to be kidding," said Rafi.
"I got my license in Canada when I was fifteen," said Tidyman. "I was flying before I could drive a car." The Egyptian went around to the pilot's-side door and got in behind the little half wheel. Rafi and Holliday climbed in after him, Holliday taking the copilot's chair.
Tidyman slammed his door shut and latched it, then started flipping switches. Holliday closed and latched the door on his side as well.
"Egypt had compulsory military service back then," said Tidyman, continuing his explanation. "I spent two years flying Sadat around in one of these."
Tidyman set the fuel mixture at Rich, the RPMs at High and held down the ignition switch. The engine coughed and died. He released the ignition and went through the procedures again. This time the engine caught. There was a sharp cracking sound from the tail section of the aircraft and then a second impact.
"Somebody's shooting at us," said Rafi.
Holliday looked out the window on his right. Except for the flames rising from the burning helicopters the night was black.
The engine roared as Tidyman advanced the throttles. More bullets hammered into the plane.
"Time to go," said Tidyman. He released the brake and they rolled out from beneath the Mylar cover, turning hard, the front of the aircraft pointing down the dark runway. Tidyman pushed the throttles as far forward as they would go, set his feet on the pedals and set the flaps at one-third down. The twin-engined aircraft leapt down the runway and threw itself up into the enclosing night. They were airborne.
18
"Which way are we headed?" Holliday asked, raising his voice over the steady roar of the engines as they leveled off.
"Northeast, toward Siwa until someone tells me differently," answered Tidyman as he adjusted the flaps. The only illumination inside the aircraft came from the control panel lights, the little radar screen in the center of the dashboard casting a green, sickly glow over their faces.
"It depends on where the choppers came from," said Holliday.
"I saw a logo on the side of the nearest one," offered Rafi. "A red hummingbird."
"That's the insignia of the Canadian Helicopter Corporation," said Tidyman, shaking his head. "They're the biggest private helicopter company in the world. Mostly servicing oil rigs and air- sea rescue, I think. They've got offices everywhere leasing helicopters to all sorts of third-party users. It doesn't mean anything."
"The man running up the outer wall said something just before I shot him. Cazzo merda. Italian for holy crap," said Holliday.
"Our friends from the Vatican looking for a little payback?" Rafi suggested.
"Looking for the gold more likely," scoffed Tidyman. "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, but the cash belongs to mother church."
"Or they were looking for something else," murmured Holliday, remembering the tomb.
"Like what?" Tidyman asked curiously.
"Nothing," said Holliday. "It doesn't matter."
"Could those helicopters have come from Italy?" Rafi asked.
"The range is about nine hundred miles, as I recall," said Holliday. "Would that do it?"
"From Sicily it would," said Tidyman.
"What's our best landfall closest to Italy?" Holliday queried.
"Tunisia," said Tidyman.
"Can we make it?"
"Yes. Alhazred kept the plane fully gassed up at all times, in case of unforeseen events."
"I guess he didn't foresee this particular event," said Holliday.
"He was a fool; he should have seen this coming or something like it," grunted Tidyman. "Gold in such quantities is a magnet for bad luck and death." The Egyptian adjusted the controls. Holliday watched as the compass needle swerved around the illuminated dial. They were now going sharply north and slightly to the west. "The old airfield at Matfur is still there, just south of Bizerte on the coast. We can refill there if you wish."
"Sound good to me," said Holliday.
There was a harsh metallic clicking sound from the rear seat. Holliday turned. Rafi had the muzzle of the big Beretta automatic pressed up against the back of Tidyman's skull.
"You're even more of a fool than Alhazred if you think you're frightening me with that," said the Egyptian. "You might as well stick the barrel in your own mouth. Shoot me and who flies the plane?"
"Where's Peggy?" Rafi demanded.
"Alhazred shipped her out a week ago." Tidyman paused. "Now put down the gun."
"Do it," said Holliday.
Rafi ignored them both.
"Shipped her out? What are you talking about?" He pushed the muzzle of the automatic a little harder.
"He has a deal with a man named Antonio Neri." Tidyman paused. "He operates a criminal organization called La Santa," continued the Egyptian.
"Ducos, the Frenchman, mentioned La Santa," said Holliday, remembering. "So did Japrisot the cop. He said that Valador, the crook with the fishing boat, had hooked up with them."