State of Emergency

CHAPTER 67


2:00 PM Bolivian time





Quinn recognized the high-pitched whine of the Cessna A-37B before it screamed over the treetops, rolling slightly so the pilot could get a better look at the cramped jungle runway. The twin GE turbofan engines gave rise to the aircraft’s nickname of the Tweety Bird or Super Tweet—but Quinn had always agreed with those who called it a six-thousand-pound dog whistle. All but mandatory in just about every South American coup since the 1970s, the A37 had a slender tail and broad, tandem cockpit that gave it a toady look. Bulbous tip-tanks hung at the end of each Hershey Bar wing. A seven-round rocket pod was attached to the pylons on either side, midway between a second set of fuel tanks and the fuselage. This one was painted olive and brown and bore the red and white flag of the Peruvian Air Force.

“We are supposed to leave on this flying tadpole?” Kanatova scoffed as the little jet made another low-altitude pass. It skimmed the trees, low enough Quinn could clearly make out the pilot as he turned his head back and forth, planning his landing—and his eventual takeoff—in such cramped quarters.

Two minutes later saw the squat aircraft banking over the treetops, minus the external fuel tanks that had been under each wing. Engine whining, airbrake deployed, it settled in over the grassy strip and rolled to a stop with a nearly two hundred feet to spare. Both Quinn and Kanatova plugged their ears as the twin turbofans—little more than kerosene-burning sirens—pushed the little jet to the end of the field and finally spooled down.

A short, bantam rooster of a man with broad shoulders and stubby legs to match his airplane flipped up the bubble cockpit cover and climbed out. He wore a green Nomex flight suit and a flight helmet with a dark face-shield.

He peeled off a Nomex glove and extended his hand.

“J. C. Fuentes,” he said with only the slightest of Latin accents. Black hair hung across his forehead in a Superman curl. “Fighter Squadron 711 of the Peruvian Air Force. Are you Señor Jericho Quinn?”

“I am.”

“Very well then,” Fuentes said. “Climb aboard and we’ll get under way. My orders are to fly you to Talara at once.”

Aleksandra looked at the cockpit, then turned to the pilot. “There are only two seats.”

Fuentes shrugged. “I am lighter on fuel now. It will be tight, but you are small enough we can fit you in on Señor Quinn’s lap. Unfortunately, neither of you will be able to wear a parachute.”

“Then do not crash,” Kanatova said, giving the jet a sullen frown.

“As you wish.” The pilot smiled. “I will remove crashing from my list of things to do today.”

Aleksandra wrinkled her freckled nose, not amused.

Quinn worked his way into the Super Tweet’s right-hand seat, one leg on either side of a control stick matching the pilot’s. He was surprised to find the low sidewalls made him feel as though he was sitting on rather than in the plane.

“It’s interesting to see the Peruvian Air Force here in the middle of Bolivia,” he said, buckling in.

“Your friend Señor Palmer is our friend Señor Palmer.” Fuentes held Kanatova’s hand as she stepped gingerly into the aircraft. “He made a call to my commanding officer and my commander made a call to me. It is simple really.”

“But Peru?”

“Bolivia is landlocked.” The pilot shrugged. “My government has an agreement to give her access to our seaports. In return, she is friendly to us at times such as this when we need a little favor.”

Quinn put his arms around Kanatova, resting them on her thighs to keep them out of the pilot’s way. Though spacious for two pilots, shoehorning three into the cockpit wasn’t anywhere in Cessna’s specs. Quinn found himself hyperaware of the rudder pedals at his feet and the array of controls just asking to be bumped or flipped in the close confines of the cockpit.

“I used the extra tanks to get here from my base in Arequipa.” Fuentes nodded toward the wings once he was seated. “I have enough fuel to get you to Talara in time for your connecting flight.”

“What sort of connecting flight?” Quinn asked. Oppressive heat and humidity closed in around them and he was anxious to get into the air.

“I honestly do not know, señor.” Fuentes buckled his seat belt and turned before putting on his helmet. “I only know Señor Palmer wants you back in the United States as soon as possible. I am left to assume that, whatever it is, it will be extremely fast. Now, if you will excuse me, I must figure out how to make this airplane jump off the ground like a helicopter.” He pulled on the helmet, then pushed a button in the console to bring the Plexiglas bubble down over the cockpit.

Fuentes had plenty of swagger. He’d been able to set the plane down in the narrow jungle gash without a problem, but taking off with the added weight of two more people would prove much more difficult. He’d need every bit of his swagger—plus a healthy dose of skill and luck.

Quinn pulled Aleksandra closer in an effort to make them both as small as possible during the dicey takeoff. The smoky odor of the jungle clung to her hair.

Fuentes brought the turbofan engines to whining life, standing on the brakes as the entire plane began to shake and tremble, trying to move. When he appeared to be satisfied that all the instruments on the console were reading correctly, he released the brakes and let the plane jump forward, hurtling down the narrow strip. The jungle loomed ahead, dark trees growing quickly as the end of the bumpy runway screamed up to meet them. Three fourths of the way down, with less than five hundred feet to spare, he tugged back gently on the stick.

The little jet leaped into the air, engines screaming. Without warning, Fuentes fired two missiles at the trees in front of him. Each left its respective wing-pod with a hissing shriek. The little jet flew straight through the rolling ball of flames and black smoke.

“Did you do that to clear the trees?” Quinn said, surprised at the tactic.

Fuentes flipped up his dark visor, chuckling. He appeared relaxed now that they were safely in the air. “No, señor.” He grinned. “Far too much peace lately. I do not often have the opportunity to fire missiles.” He banked the airplane hard, coming around again over the little strip. “I think I will shoot a few more and give the drug lords a little surprise the next time they try to land.”