From this vantage point, a great deal of the back part of the island could be seen in the sporadic moonlight. Directly on the right, no more than three hundred yards away and washed in floodlights, was the enormous generator. Beyond the fenced enclosure were the blurred outlines of a long, low building, Emilio’s ‘barracks’, Evan assumed. Then far below, just above the beach on the right, its white concrete standing out like a huge flat beacon, was the helipad with a large military helicopter resting in place—painted in civilian colours and with Mexican identification but unmistakably United States military.
‘Come!’ whispered Emilio. ‘And say nothing, for voices are heard on this side of the island.’ The Mexican started down a dark, unlit 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 manoeuvre into its threshold with minimum difficulty.
The metal ‘garage’ Emilio referred to was an apt description but 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 aluminium with several tractors, assorted power 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 petrol 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 favour of a hatchet and a machete—for both himself and Emilio. Added to these were the wire cutters, one full can of petrol 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 figure of 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. Nor could he use his torch; 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 backup after backup 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 louvred section of the aileron thumped down into a vertical position. He had done it; his backup was secure.
Running feet! Shouts from below. ‘ฟQue cosa? ฟQue dese?’ 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.
* * *
Chapter 42
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 compaero.’ 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 compa๑ero 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 compa๑ero,’ said Kendrick, not asking a question.
‘That snarling rata would claim his mother is a whore if the policia paid him enough!’
‘”Would,” as in the past tense?’
‘No comprende.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Dead, se๑or, and in the grass. Also, we have less than thirty minutes before the light comes up in the east.’