Meanwhile, Austin was fighting a losing battle to keep the damaged plane level. He sat half out of the cockpit, like someone hiking out on an angled sailboat, gritted his teeth – and braced himself for the hard landing that he knew was coming.
5
KAELA DORN HELD her breath as the strange little aircraft plunged from the sky in a spiraling tailspin. At the last second, the plane swung up in a wild G-force swoop. It soared and dipped like a kite on a string, then leveled off, although the wings quivered and the aircraft pitched and yawed as if it were on an invisible roller coaster.
The pilot finally brought the plane under a semblance of control and put it in a landing glide. He held it steady, but before he could touch down, the left wing dipped sharply and dug into the soft sand. The wing snapped off where it joined the fuselage and the plane slammed into the beach at an angle, skidding several yards before it came to a jarring halt, tail section high in the air. The engine shut down, and the beach was suddenly quiet except for the lap of waves and the crackle of burning grass.
The reporter and her colleagues stared like zombies at the plane wreck. They were too exhausted to move, drained by their swim to shore, still panting from the run for their lives. Kaela was in the best shape of the three, and her legs felt like putty. When the stubby plane had first appeared, they hadn't known whether it was friend or foe, but there had been no question as to the intentions of the horsemen with their wild yells and drawn swords: They had been out for blood. The plane looked like a bird that had flown into a fan, and it seemed impossible that its pilot could have escaped without harm, but someone moved in the cockpit. The pilot got one leg, then another over the cockpit combing and climbed out.
He seemed to be all right as he walked around the aircraft, hands on hips, inspecting the damage. He kicked a buckled wheel as if he were checking out a used car and shook his head. Then he turned to the television crew, gave them a friendly wave, and started in their direction, walking with a slight limp.
Lombardo and Dundee moved in and stood protectively at Kaela's sides. She was more interested in appraising the stranger. He was tall, slightly over six feet, and the broad powerful shoulders of a nightclub bouncer filled out the navy sweatshirt. He wore tan shorts, and his muscular legs looked as if they could propel the husky body through a brick wall. As he came closer, he removed his baseball cap to reveal his steel gray, almost platinum hair. His bronzed face was unlined, except for laugh crinkles around the eyes and mouth. She guessed his age at around forty. Dried blood dripped down one cheek and soaked the bandanna around his forehead. The aircraft landing must have been hair-raising, yet he seemed as if he were coming off a game of tennis.
'Good afternoon,' he said, with a wide grin. 'Are you folks okay?'
'Yes, we're fine, thank you,' Kaela replied warily. 'What about you? You're bleeding.'
He touched the wound absentmindedly. 'It's only a little cut. I'm still in one piece, more or less.' He jerked his thumb at the battered ultralight. 'Wish I could say the same for my transportation. They just don't make them like they used to. You don't happen to have a roll of duct tape?'
Kaela ventured a smile. 'Your plane has gone beyond the duct tape stage,' she said. 'I believe the term insurance people use is totaled.'
The stranger grimaced. 'I'm afraid you're right, Ms.- '
'Dorn. Kaela Dorn. This is my producer, Mickey Lombardo, and his assistant, Hank Simpson. We're with the Unbelievable Mysteries television series.'
'I thought so. My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with NUMA.'
'NUMA.' Lombardo stepped forward and pumped Austin's hand. 'Boy, are we glad to see you. Lucky you came by.'
'It was more than luck,' Austin said. 'I've been looking for you folks. You were supposed to rendezvous with the Argo this morning.'
'Sorry about that,' Lombardo said. 'We took a detour to check out an old Russian submarine base that's supposed to be around here.'
'The captain of the Argo isn't too happy. You've delayed his departure schedule. It might have saved us some grief if you had let us know that your plans had changed.' Austin was smiling, but the gentle scolding tone of his voice was unmistakable.
'It's my fault,' Kaela said. 'We thought we'd only be a few hours. We intended to call you at sea, but the fishing boat we hired didn't have a workable radio. The captain had to return to port for engine repairs, and he planned to get the radio fixed and give you a call.'
'That must be the fishing boat I saw steaming away from here.'
She nodded. 'He was going to pick us up in the morning. Thank you for saving our lives. I apologize for putting you through so much trouble.'
'No trouble,' he said, reluctant to chastise the bedraggled group any further. He gazed at the wrecked aircraft. 'Maybe a little trouble. What made your boat capsize?'
'Someone on shore shot at us and killed the Turkish man who was bringing us in,' Kaela said. 'A wave caught us broadside and the boat went over. We hid under the Zodiac and tried to move it away from the beach, but the surf was too strong and we came almost straight in.” She glanced to- ward the dune where she had first seen the attackers. 'Do you know who those men on horseback were?'
Austin didn't reply. Although he seemed to be studying her face, Kaela became aware that her wet T-shirt and shorts clung to her lithe figure. She self-consciously plucked at the sand-caked front of the shirt, but the fabric insisted on plastering itself to her skin. Austin sensed her discomfiture and stared off at the smoke rising from the dune.
'My guess is that they weren't the local equestrian group out for a jaunt,' he said. 'Let's take a look.'
He climbed up the sloping beach, with the others trailing tentatively behind. The fire had almost burned itself out. They walked through the charred stalks of grass at the top of the dune. Austin saw sunlight glinting off something on the ground and went over to investigate. It was a saber. He picked the weapon up and tested the heft and balance. The sword's long, curved blade was perfectly weighted to give the arm greater striking power. Austin's jaw muscles clenched as he contemplated the terrible damage the scalpel-sharp edge could inflict on human flesh. He was examining the Cyrillic writing etched into the blade when the Australian called out. Dundee was standing in a knee-high patch of unburned grass staring at something at his feet.
'What is it?' Austin said.
'Dead guy.'
Austin stuck the saber point into the sand and waded through the thatch. Dundee pointed to the body of a man who lay on his back, glassy eyes locked in a death stare. A black beard and mustache matted with sand hid most of his features. He could have been in his forties. His head was twisted at a wrong angle. Blood soaked one side of his face, which had a caved-in look to it.
Austin said, 'I'd guess he fell off his horse during the fight and was kicked in the head.' He was not a callous man, but he felt no pity for the dead horseman.
Lombardo had retrieved his camera from the beached Zodiac and was filming the battle site. He and Kaela came over to see what the others were looking at. Lombardo let out a low whistle. 'What kind of a getup is that?'
Austin knelt by the body. 'Looks like something out of The Wizard of Oz.'
The dead man wore a long muddy-gray coat that but- toned up the front and baggy pants tucked into black boots. His black fur pillbox hat lay a few feet away. Red epaulets decorated each shoulder. A pistol holster and scabbard hung from the wide leather belt that encircled his waist. Slung across his chest was a cartridge belt. A sheathed dagger hung from a cord around his neck.
'G'dayr' Dundee said with wonderment. “The man's a walking arsenal.'
Austin searched the grass around the dead man. A few yards away, he found a rifle and he put the stock against his shoulder and worked the well-oiled bolt. Like the saber blade, the barrel was etched with Cyrillic writing. Austin was a collector of dueling pistols, and he had accumulated a general knowledge of antique guns. The rifle was a Moisin-Nagant, more than a hundred years old, and in mint condition. He uttered a silent prayer of thanks that the horsemen weren't carrying modern automatic weapons. A single Kalashnikov would have ripped him and
