Authors: Robert Ludlum
“
Come!
” whispered Emilio. “And say nothing, for voices are
heard on this side of the island.” The Mexican started down a dark, unlighted path cut out of the woods, a forest alleyway used only in daylight. And then, thinking about Emilio’s words, Kendrick realized what was missing. The sound of the wind and the crashing waves had all but vanished—voices
would
carry across the calm of these acres, and a helicopter could maneuver into its threshold with minimum difficulty.
The metal “garage” Emilio had referred to was an apt description, but it was far larger than any garage Evan had ever seen except for those outsized, sterilized padded structures housing an Arabian royal family’s various limousines. Conversely, this was an ugly mass of corrugated aluminum with several tractors, assorted gas-operated lawn mowers, chain saws and clipping machines, none useful because of the noise they would make. On the side wall and the floor below, however, were more practical objects. They included a row of gasoline cans, and above, on hooks and suspended between nails, axes, hatchets, scythes, long-handled wire cutters, machetes and telescoped rubber-handled tree clippers—all the tools required to hold back the tropical foliage from its incredibly swift takeover.
The decisions were minor, instinctive and simple. The meat cleaver went in favor of a hatchet and a machete—for both himself and Emilio. Added to these were the wire cutters, one full can of gasoline and one ten-foot-extension tree clipper. Everything else from the cabin remained in their pockets.
“The helicopter!” said Kendrick.
“There is a path joining the north and south roads below the
generador
. Hurry! The guards have reached the beaches by now and will soon start back.” They ran out of the gardeners’ warehouse and over to the first dirt road, their tools precariously held by belts, in their hands and under their clenched arms. With Emilio leading, they darted across into the border of high grass and worked their way down to the narrow path heading across the sloping hill. “
Cigarrillo!
” whispered the Mexican, shoving Evan back into the still reeds of grass. A bobbing lighted cigarette glowed as the guard trudged up the hill and passed them less than eight feet away. “Come!” cried Emilio softly as the guard reached the knoll above. Crouching, they raced to the north road; there was no sign of the second patrol, so they walked out and began their descent to the concrete helicopter pad.
The huge repainted military aircraft stood like a silent behemoth about to strike out at an enemy only it could see in the
night. Taut heavy chains were looped around the landing mounts and anchored in cement; no sudden storms from the sea would move the chopper unless they were strong enough to tear it apart. Kendrick approached the enormous machine as Emilio stayed in the grass by the road watching for the return of the guard, prepared to warn his American companion. Evan studied the aircraft with only one thought in mind: Immobilize it and do so without making a sound loud enough to be carried up the quiet island slope. Neither could he use his flashlight; in the darkness the beam would be spotted.…
Cables
. On top under the rotor blades and in the tail assembly. Gripping first a door handle, then the frame of a window, he pulled himself up in front of the flight deck, the long-handled wire cutters protruding from his trousers. In seconds he had crawled over the pilot’s curving windshield to the top of the fuselage; unsteadily, cautiously, he made his way on his hands and knees to the base of the rotor machinery. He pulled out the wire cutters, stood up, and three minutes later had severed those cables he could see in the dark night light.
The whistle was sharp and brief! It was Emilio’s signal. The guard had come over the crest of the hill and would reach the helicopter pad above the beach in barely minutes. The engineer in Kendrick was not satisfied. Had he immobilized the aircraft or merely wounded it? He had to reach the tail assembly; it was his backup in this mechanical age where every machine that went airborne had backups after backups in case of in-flight malfunctions. He crawled down the fuselage as rapidly as possible without risking his balance and sliding off, plummeting twenty feet to the white concrete. He reached the sloping tail and could see nothing; everything was encased in metal … no,
not
everything! Straddling the sleek body while holding on to the rising tail, he leaned over and spotted two thick ropelike cables that branched off into the right aileron. Working furiously, his sweat dripping and rolling down the shiny metal, he could feel the wire cutters doing their work as succeeding strands of the top cable sprang loose. Suddenly there was a loud snap—
too
loud, a massive
crack
in the still night—as a whole louvered section of the aileron thumped down into a vertical position. He had done it; his backup was secure.
Running feet! Shouts from below. “¿
Qúe cosa? ¡Quédese!
” Beneath the tail assembly the guard stood on the concrete, his rifle angled up in his right arm aimed at Evan while his left hand reached for the radio alarm clipped to his belt.
It could not happen!
As if he had suddenly lost all balance, all control, Kendrick raised his arms as he slid off the fuselage, crashing the wire cutters down into the stock of the rifle. The guard started to cry out in pain as the weapon was whipped out of his arm to the ground, but before the scream could reach a crescendo Emilio was on him, crashing the blunt end of his hatchet into the man’s skull.
“Can you
move
?” the Mexican asked Evan, whispering. “We must leave here!
Quickly!
The other guard will run over to this side.”
Writhing on the concrete, Evan nodded his head and struggled to his feet, picking up the wire cutters and the rifle as he rose. “Get him out of here,” he said, instantly realizing that he did not have to give the order; Emilio was dragging the unconscious man across the helipad into the tall grass. Limping, his left ankle and his right knee burning with pain, Kendrick followed.
“I have made a mistake,” said the Mexican, shaking his head and still whispering. “We have only one chance.… I watched you as you walked. We can never reach the dock and the boats without being seen before the other guard will understand he has no
compañero
.” Emilio pointed to his oblivious countryman. “In the darkness I must
be
him, and get close enough before the other one realizes I am not.”
“He’ll shout first, ask you what happened. What’ll you say?”
“I stepped into the grass to relieve myself and struck a large sharp rock in my haste. I will limp as you are limping and offer to show him where I bleed.”
“Can you get away with it?”
“Pray to the Virgin that I can. Otherwise we both die.” The Mexican rose and slung the rifle over his shoulder. “One request, please,” he added. “This
guarda
is not a bad man, and he has family in El Suazal, where there is no work at all. Bind his legs and his arms and stuff his mouth with his own clothes. I cannot kill him.”
“Do you know who the other guard is?” asked Evan harshly.
“No.”
“Suppose you can’t kill
him
, either?”
“Why is it a problem? I am a strong fisherman from El Descanso when there are boats that will hire me. I can bind him myself—or bring back another
compañero
for us.”
The second option was not to be. No sooner had the limping Emilio reached the dirt road at the side of the helipad than the south guard came running down. As they drew closer there was a brief exchange in Spanish, then suddenly a vocal eruption from one of the two men and it was not the fisherman from El Descanso. Silence instantly followed and moments later Emilio returned.
“No
compañero
,” said Kendrick, not asking a question.
“That snarling
rata
would claim his mother is a whore if the
policía
paid him enough!”
“ ‘Would,’ as in the past tense?”
“No comprende.”
“He’s dead?”
“Dead, señor, and in the grass. Also, we have less than thirty minutes before the light comes up in the east.”
“Then let’s go … your friend is bound.”
“To the dock? To the boats?”
“Not yet,
amigo
. We have something else to do before we get there.”
“I tell you it will be
light
soon!”
“If I do things right, there’ll be a lot more light sooner than that. Get the gasoline and pick up the tree clippers. I can’t manage much more than what I’ve got.”
Step by agonizing step, Evan climbed the narrow dirt road behind the Mexican until they reached the island’s immense fence-enclosed generator, the bass-toned hum assaulting their ears to the point of painful vibrations. Signs of
Peligro!
…
Danger!
were everywhere, and the single gate to the interior was secured by two huge plate locks that apparently took simultaneous insertions of keys to open. Limping around into the darkest shadows of the floodlights, Kendrick gave the order while handing Emilio the wire cutters. “Start here, and I hope you’re as strong as you say you are. This is heavy-gauge fence. Slice an opening, three feet’s enough.”
“And
you
, señor?”
“I have to look around.”
He
found
them! Three iron disks screwed into concrete thirty feet apart, three enormous tanks, cisterns for fuel, supplemented
by banks of photovoltaic cells somewhere, which no longer concerned him. Opening a disk required a T-squared sexagonal wrench, its upper bars long enough for two strong men on each bar. But there was another way, and he knew it well from the desert tanks in Saudi Arabia—an emergency procedure in the event the caravans of fuel trucks forgot the implement, not uncommon in the Jabal deserts. Each supposedly impenetrable disk had fourteen ridges across the top, not much different from the manhole covers in most American cities, although much smaller. Hammered slowly counterclockwise, the circular vaults would loosen until hands and fingers could reach the sides and unscrew them.
Kendrick walked back to Emilio and the near-deafening island generator. The Mexican had cut through two parallel vertical lines and was starting at the ground-level base. “Come with me!” said Evan, shouting into Emilio’s ear. “Have you got your hatchet?”
“
Pues sí
.”
“So do I.”
Kendrick led the Mexican back to the first iron disk and instructed him how to use the dish towels from the electronic cabin to muffle the blows from the blunt ends of their hatchets. “
Slowly
,” he yelled. “A spark can set off the fumes,
comprende
?”
“No, señor.”
“It’s better that you don’t.
Easy
, now! One tap at a time. Not so hard!… It’s
moving
!”
“Now harder?”
“Christ, no! Easy,
amigo
. Like you were cracking a diamond.”
“It has not been my pleasure—”
“It will be if we get out of here.…
There!
It’s
free
! Unscrew it to the top and leave it there. Give me your towels.”
“For
what
, señor?”
“I’ll explain as soon as you get me through that door you’re cutting in the fence.”
“That will take time—”
“You’ve got about two minutes,
amigo
!”
“
Madre de Dios!
”
“Where did you put the gasoline?” Kendrick moved closer to be heard.
“
There!
” replied the Mexican, pointing to the left of the “door” he was cutting.
Crouching painfully in the shadows, Evan tied the towels together, tugging at each knot to make sure it was secure until he had a single ten-foot length of cloth. His body aching with each twisting movement, he unscrewed the top of the gasoline can and drenched the string of towels, squeezing each as if it were a dish cloth. In minutes he had a ten-foot fuse. His knee now boiling, his ankle swelling rapidly, he crawled back to the fuel tank dragging the towels at his side. Straining, he pried up the iron cover, inserted three feet of fuse and moved the heavy disk off center so that a flow of air would circulate throughout the black tank below. Backtracking, he pressed each towel, each leg of his fuse, firmly in the ground, sprinkling dirt over each, but only “dusting” them so as to retard the speed of the flame from base to gaseous contact.
The last towel in place, he stood—wondering briefly how long he could stand—and limped back to Emilio. The Mexican was pulling the heavy-gauged cut-out section of the fence toward him, bending it up to permit access into massive, glistening machinery that through the dynamoelectrical process converted mechanical energy into electricity.
“That’s enough,” said Kendrick, bending over to speak close to Emilio’s ear. “Now listen to me carefully, and if you don’t understand, stop me. From here on everything is timing—something happens and we do something else.
Comprende?
”
“
Sí
. We move to other places.”
“That’s about it.” Evan reached into the pocket of his mudencrusted suit coat and withdrew the flashlight. “Take this,” he continued, nodding his head at the hole in the fence. “I’m going in there and I hope to hell I know what I’m doing—these things have changed since I installed them—but if nothing else, I can shut it down. There may be a lot of noise and big sparks—”
“
Cómo?
”
“Like short bolts of lightning and … and sounds like very loud static on the radio, do you understand?”
“It is enough—”
“
Not
enough. Don’t get near the fence—don’t
touch
it and at the first crack, turn away and shut your eyes.… With any luck, all the lights will go out and when they do, shine the flashlight on the opening in the fence, okay?”
“Okay.”
“As soon as I get through to this side, swing the light over there.” Kendrick pointed at the last of his knotted towels protruding out of the ground. “Have your rifle over your shoulder
and hold out one for me—have you got the cap you took from the first guard? If you do, give it to me.”