in the ignition.
Prit gave the bird a thorough going-over. “The battery’s charged up. And it has about a quarter of a tank of fuel. That pilot was a really careful guy. Cross your fingers, amigo. If the engine starts, we’ll be out of here in a couple of minutes.”
The engine let out a yowl and the helicopter’s blades slowly came to life. Compared to the Sokol or the SuperPuma, it looked very fragile, but Prit seemed satisfied with it. As he pushed the throttle, the blades picked up speed and we rose into the air.
“You did it, Prit! You did it! We’re flying again! Where’s your damn fatalism now?”
“Gone for good, I hope,” was all the Ukrainian said, but a big smile showed under his mustache. “Gone for good. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a helicopter to fly.”
With a gentle flick of my friend’s wrist, the helicopter lifted into the air. We were finally on our way to Cuatro Vientos Airport.
The ruined city grew smaller and smaller behind us, until it finally disappeared. And then, there was silence again.
48
The Airbus was resting at one end of the runway, its burnished metal glowing in the setting. We flew the helicopter over the plane a couple of times, but no one stuck his head out. If it weren’t for the shiny fuselage, you’d have thought it’d been abandoned like all the other vehicles scattered across that runway.
“Look over there.” Prit banked so I could see where he was pointing.
At the end of the runway was a pile of twisted metal that was still smoldering.
“It’s one of the Buchones! Think the Froilists shot it down?” I shouted.
“Don’t think so. The pilot probably crashed as he tried to land. Those birds weren’t easy to handle, even in their heyday. Imagine all the things that could’ve failed after they’d sat in a museum for fifty years.”
“I don’t think the pilot survived,” I muttered, grimly, staring at the burning pyre.
“Me, neither. But the important thing is not who’s
With a final turn the helicopter started to descend. When we landed, Prit powered the engine down, but he didn’t turn it off. If we had to make a break for it, it’d be better if the engine were running.
I got out and walked cautiously up to the Airbus. The interior lights were on and the giant airliner engines were running, as if they might take off any moment.
The door flew open and a nervous soldier pointed a rifle at us. “Halt! Who goes there?”
“Friends!” I shouted.
“Friends!” thundered the soldier. “Whose friends?”
From the sound of the guy’s voice, I guessed he was really on edge, not a good thing when someone’s pointing a gun at you. Throughout history, thousands of people have been killed by someone with a jumpy trigger finger, so I gave my answer some careful thought. There were two options—only one was correct.
“The republic!” I shouted, betting it all. “Friends of the republic!”
I held my breath, waiting to see if my bet paid off. If the Froilists had infiltrated the team in the plane, I expected a hail of bullets and death in the middle of the Cuatro Vientos runway. If Republicans were on board, we had a chance.
I saw the soldier relax and lower his gun. I nearly collapsed in the middle of the runway from the adrenaline rush. Heads or tails—and it came up heads. Again.
“Where’s the rest of the team? Where’s the commander!” the soldier shouted.
I could see the guy better now. He was very young, little more than a teenager. “We’ve got a group of Froilist infiltrators in here!”
“We know,” I said wearily, as I picked up one of the bags Prit had dragged out of the helicopter. “We’re the only ones left. Everybody else is dead, including Tank.”
“They’re all dead?” The boy nearly choked in fear. “Tank, too?”
“That’s right,” Pritchenko added. “Three heavily armed Froilists are headed this way in a tank with a really big gun. It’s not a good idea to hang around.”
“That’s up to the pilot, I guess,” the soldier replied with a shrug.
We quickly climbed onboard. Three bodies lay on the floor, covered with bloodstained blankets. A clenched fist stuck out from under one of the blankets.
“There were three of them?” Prit asked.
“Just two.” The soldier shook his head. “The third guy’s Ensign Barrios. He got one of them before they killed him.”
A middle-aged lieutenant came out of the cockpit. Judging from his uniform, I guessed he was one of the pilots. We shook hands warmly.
“Be glad you got here when you did! An hour later and we would’ve left without you! We’ve been trying to get Tank on the radio for hours, but nobody answered. When those bastards tried to hijack the plane, I guessed the same thing had happened to the team on the ground.”
“More or less,” I said, remembering that the radio operator had plunged down the stairs. “Only in our case, the Froilists took over. They’ll be here any minute. They’re in a tank with a cannon that could blow this plane to pieces, Lieutenant.”
“What’re we waiting for?” The pilot hurried to the cockpit. “You can fill us in later. Now, let’s get outta here!”
Exhausted, I fell into a seat, while the two surviving soldiers and the pilot closed the Airbus’ door. Prit, buzzed on methamphetamines, slipped into the copilot’s seat. His predecessor was smoldering in the wreckage of the Buchon. He declared loudly enough for everyone to hear that he wasn’t going to ride back in the cabin.
A couple of minutes later, the Airbus rolled slowly down the runway. Its wing cast a brief shadow over hundreds of thousands of enraged Undead pressed against the other side of the fence. As the pilot made the final checks, I glanced out the windows, trying to make out the silhouette of the other Centaur coming down the road, but all I saw was an endless tide of Undead.
Discovering that the plane had left without them would probably be a death sentence for Marcelo, Pauli, and Broto. In the middle of nowhere, almost out of ammunition and provisions, their chances were slim. I felt bad for Broto, but he’d made his choice. Heads or tails. And he chose tails.
The Airbus’ engines roared when the pilot gave it some gas. Amid a symphony of groans and creaks, the plane accelerated down the runway, shaking like crazy, then miraculously rose into the air, clearing the fence only by about two feet.
After ten minutes, the plane leveled off at five thousand feet and began the two-hour trip back to Tenerife. Too hopped up on speed, I couldn’t sleep. I was elated to be alive and heading home. My mind wandered, thinking about the heroes’ welcome we’d get. Prit had cleared his name, we had two backpacks with enough drugs to supply a pharmacy, and I had a beautiful girl waiting for me. Life was good.
I patted the Velazquez painting I’d rescued from the Prado Museum, picturing Lucia’s astonished face when I gave her that painting to hang on our living room wall. Satisfied, I smiled and curled up in my seat. She’d be thrilled.
49
