strained to move the door against the vegetation that had taken over on the outside, but finally it ripped free and rumbled to a clanking stop in fully open position.
It was near midnight, and the sun had partially set, casting the tundra in a leaden light. The two men walked outside and turned around. As they gazed at the strange craft resting in what Buzz Martin’s father had called its hidey-hole, they heard an intrusive clatter from behind them. They turned to see a large helicopter dropping out of the sky like a raptor.
The helicopter made a pass over the float plane, then stopped and hovered a short distance away. It did a three-hundred-sixty spin in place. There was a flash of light from the front of the chopper, and the float plane disappeared in a blinding explosion of yellow and red flames. A cloud of black smoke billowed from the funeral pyre that had been an air craft seconds before, and the tundra was lit up for hundreds of yards.
“I think we just lost the deposit on our leased plane,” Zavala said.
Finished with its first line of business, the chopper swiveled so that its nose pointed toward the hangar. Austin and Zavala had been dumbfounded in the seconds since the helicopter arrived and began its deadly work. Now Austin realized how vulnerable they were. They dashed for the open door as the chopper leaped forward. White bursts of flame flowered from the guns on either side of the speeding aircraft, and the bullets threw up geysers of water and mud as they stitched their way to ward the two running figures.
They ducked inside, and Austin hit the door switch. There was another grinding of motors and machinery, and slowly the door began to close. The chopper landed a few hundred yards away. Armed men in dark green uniforms spilled out and advanced on the hangar with automatic weapons.
Unfortunately Zavala had left his machine pistol in the plane. Austin’s Bowen revolver filled his hand, and he let off a couple of shots to give the attackers something to think about. Then the door clanked shut, and the gunfire became barely audible.
“We’d better bolt the back door,” Austin said, sprinting for the rear of the hangar where they had come in.
They ran along the corridor to the cellar hole. The bolt was rusted away, and they couldn’t secure the door. Hoping their attackers were as stupid as they were bold, they dragged one of the mattresses out of a bunkroom and covered the ventilation hole in the floor in a makeshift pitfall. Then they dashed back and secured the door leading directly into the hangar. All was silent, but they had no illusions about their security. It was obvious that the attackers didn’t want to damage the flying wing, but a few well-placed rockets or ex plosives could peel back the hangar’s metal walls like a sardine can.
“Who are those guys?” Zavala said, trying to catch his breath.
There was a sharp hammering on the metal skin of the hangar as if someone were testing it for weakness. Austin’s coral green eyes swept the hangar from one end to the other.
“If I’m not mistaken, we’re about to find out.”
Chapter 31
The siege was announced with an ear-splitting explosion that echoed off every square inch of steel, as if the metal-enclosed space were a huge bell. Shards of hot metal and pieces of burning vegetation rained down from a hole high in the front face of the hangar. A patch of daylight opened, but the thick cushion of vegetation and earth that had grown up around the hangar over the decades had dampened the explosion.
Austin looked up at the ragged hole and said, “They’re aiming high so they won’t hit the plane. Probably hoping to spook us.”
“They’re doing a good job,” Zavala said. “I’m spooked.”
In fact, Zavala looked anything but spooked. He would have retired from the Special Assignments Team long before if he succumbed easily to panic. His eyes calmly scanned the interior of the hangar looking for something that would give them even the slightest edge.
The reverberations from the blast had barely faded when there was a loud hammering on the steel door at the rear of the hangar.
“So much for our pitfall,” Austin said.
They raced behind the plane and grabbed tool chests, benches, and storage lockers, anything they could move, stacking them against the door. The makeshift barricade would stall deter mined attackers only a few minutes. They were more concerned with the front of the hangar, where the main firepower appeared to be concentrated. As they darted under the plane’s fuselage Zavala glanced up at the jet engines. The yawning black exhausts protruding from the rear of the wing resembled cannon barrels lined up on a fort. He grabbed Austin by the arm.
“Look, Kurt, those jets are pointed right at the rear wall. If we got the engines started, we could give those guys coming in the back door a warm welcome.”
Austin calmly walked under the plane’s fuselage, seemingly oblivious to the steady thumping from the rear of the hangar. He stood in front of the plane, where the wing’s thin edge came to a point, his hands on his hips, and gazed up at the cockpit.
“Even if we somehow made it out of the hangar, we’d have no place to go. Maybe I’ve a got better idea,” he said thoughtfully.
Working with Austin had given Zavala insight into the un orthodox way his partner’s mind functioned. He caught Austin’s drift instantly. “You’re kidding,” he said.
Austin’s eyes were deadly serious.
“You said the systems are working. If we can crank up the engines, why waste fuel toasting a few bad guys when we can simply leave them in the dust? Admit it,” he said, catching the gleam in Zavala’s eye. “You’ve been itching to fly this thing.”
“There are a lot of ifs here. The engines may not start, or the fuel could have gone sour,” Zavala said. He listed a few more un desirable possibilities, but from the way the corners of his mouth were turned up in a smile it was clear he was discounting disaster. Austin had tapped into Joe’s desire to fly every type of air craft that had ever been built.
“I know it won’t be easy. Those trucks over there were probably used to tow the plane outside where it could take off. We won’t have that luxury. We’re going to have to make a running start.”
“I’d be happy if we could make any kind of start. Those engines haven’t been cranked over in fifty years,” Zavala said.
“Just keep thinking about the scene in that Woody Allen movie, where the Volkswagen starts right up after centuries in a cave. Should be a piece of cake.”
Zavala grinned. “This isn’t exactly a Volkswagen,” he protested, although it was clear from his excitement that the idea had gone beyond a matter of life and death. It was now a challenge. “First I’ll have to see if I can get this old buggy cranked up. We’re not going anywhere with those flat tires. We’ll have to get air into them.”
“I saw some air hoses, but we don’t have much time.”
“We’ll start with the two outside tires under the fuselage and the nose wheel. We’ll get to the inside tires if we can.”
They quickly uncoiled the air hose and fed the air into the tires. The rattle of the compressor was slightly slower than their heartbeats. Austin stopped pumping air and listened. The pounding had stopped although the back door was still firmly secured. Austin didn’t like it. The halt could mean the attackers were preparing to blow the door. He didn’t have time to worry. Another horrendous explosion came from the front of the hangar. The blast sent them both sprawling face-first onto the oil-soaked concrete floor. A second rocket had been fired to open up the gap below the first hole. Smoke from burning vegetation hovered near the ceiling.
“We’re out of time!” Austin yelled. “We’ll have to stop for air at a gas station. Leave the belly hatch open. As soon as I hear the engines cranking I’ll hit the wall switch. While the door’s on its way up I’ll run for the plane.”
“Don’t forget to detach the plane from its power umbilical,” Zavala said as he ran for the belly hatch.
Austin took up his post next to the wall with his hand on the switch. He knew the odds were against them but hoped American wartime engineering would prove its worth.
Zavala scrambled into the pilot’s high seat and peered through the plastic cowling. The dials blurred as he stared at the strange instrument panel. This was going to be a fast learning curve. He blinked his eyes and relaxed, trying to remember the procedure he used to fly the Catalina, trying not to look at every dial, only for needles that indicated trouble. All systems checked out fine. The center-line console between the two pilot stations contained
