'I'm… so sorry.., ignition.., system.., please, stop… them.'
And then slowly Marty's eyes glazed over, settling into a frozen vacant stare. His bloodied body went limp in Race's arms.
It was then that Race heard the soft gurgling sound from somewhere behind him.
He turned and saw Frank Nash lying on his back a few yards away. Nash's mid-section was also torn to pieces. He was coughing up blood, gagging on it.
And then suddenly, beyond Nash, Race saw movement.
Saw the first curious native emerge slowly from the trees.
'Professor,' Doogie called softly from the ATV, 'I, ah, think it might be a good idea to step away from there.'
The other natives emerged from the forest. They still carried their primitive weapons—their clubs and sticks and axes—and they looked angry as hell.
Slowly, Race lowered Marty's body gently to the ground.
Then he stood and slowly—very slowly—walked back to the ATV.
The natives hardly even noticed him.
They only had eyes for one person—Nash—lying in the middle of the street, gurgling blood.
And then with a savage, high-pitched shriek, the Indi ans rushed forward as one and converged on Nash like a swarming school of piranha. In a moment Race lost sight of the murderous Army colonel and soon all he could see was a roiling mass of olive-skinned natives crowding around Nash, hacking violently with their clubs and their sticks and their axes, and then suddenly, horrifically, above it all he heard a single ear-piercing scream—a scream of such pure terror that it could only have come from one man.
Frank Nash.
Race slammed the rear hatch of the ATV behind him and looked at the three faces before him.
'All right,' he said. 'Looks like we're gonna have to do this all over again. We have to stop these assholes before they get that idol to a Supernova.'
'But how?' Doogie asked.
'The first thing we have to do,' Race said, 'is find out where they're taking it.'
Race and the others flew through the narrow tunnels of the quenko, running as fast as their injured bodies would carry them.
They had practically no firepower—just a couple of SIG-Sauers and the single MP-5 that Doogie had found in the upper village. As far as armour was concerned, Doogie still wore his combat fatigues and Race still wore his unusual kevlar breastplate. That was it. But they knew where they were going and that was all that mattered. They were heading for the waterfall.
And the Goose that lay hidden on the riverbank there.
After about ten minutes of running, they came to the waterfall at the end of the quenko. Another four and they arrived at the Goose—parked exactly where Race, Doogie and Van Lewen had left it—underneath the overhanging branches of the riverside trees. Uli, Race was pleased to see, was still sleeping safely inside it.
Four more minutes and the little seaplane was back in the water, skipping across the waves, shooting across the wide brown surface of the riven It accelerated to take-off speed quickly before suddenly, gloriously, it lifted off the surface and soared into the sky.
Once it was airborne, Doogie banked the plane sharply around so that it was pointing directly south, in the direction that the Texan Black Hawks had gone.
After about ten minutes of flying, Doogie caught sight of them eight black specks on the horizon. They were veering right, heading south-west over the mountains.
'They're going for Cuzco,' Doogie said.
'Stay on them,' Race said.
An hour later, the eight Black Hawk helicopters landed at a private airfield just outside Cuzco.
Sitting majestically on the dusty dirt runway waiting for them was a massive Antonov An-22 heavy-lift cargo plane.
With its powerful quadruple propeller system and a wide rear loading ramp, the An-22 had long been one of the Soviet Union's most dependable tank-lifters. It was also a valuable export commodity, having been sold regularly to countries who couldn't afford—or who weren't allowed to buy - American cargo-lifters.
With the end of the Cold War and the crumbling of the Russian economy, however, many An-22s had found their way onto the black market. While movie stars and professional golfers bought Lear Jets for $30 million, paramilitary organisations could buy a second-hand An-22 for little more than $12 million.
Earl Bittiker and Troy Copeland leapt out of their chopper and strode over to the rear loading ramp of the massive cargo plane.
When he arrived at the back of the plane, Bittiker looked up into its cavernous cargo bay and beheld his pride and joy.
An M-1A1 Abrams main battle tank.
It looked awesome. The picture of brutal, untameable strength. Its black-painted composite armour didn't shine, its monstrously wide tracks stood planted on the cargo deck, splayed wide.
Bittiker gazed at its imposing trapezoidal gun turret. It faced resolutely forward, toward the front of the
