cussler.blueandgold-第3章

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　The　struggling　men　flew　across　the　aisle　into　the　opposite　seat。　Now　the　American　was　on　top。　Phillipo　tried　to　club　Riordan　with　the　gun's　muzzle；　but　the　pilot　grabbed　his　wrist　with　two　hands　and　twisted　it　away　and　down。　Phillipo　was　strong；　but　he　was　no　match　for　the　double…teamed　assault。　The　barrel　swung　closer　to　his　midsection。
　The　pilot　had　his　hands　on　the　gun　and　was　wrestling　it　away。　Phillipo　tried　to　hold　on　to　the　pistol；　almost　had　control　of　it　again；　but　the　grip　was　slippery　from　the　jets　of　blood　flowing　from　Riordan's　nose。　In　a　wrenching　twist　the　pilot　took　control　of　the　gun；　got　his　fingertip　onto　the　trigger；　and　squeezed。
　There　was　a　muffled　crack！　Phillipo's　body　jerked　and　then　went　limp　as　the　bullet　plowed　into　his　chest。
　The　plane　righted　itself　as　the　copilot　put　it　back　into　its　nor　mal　position。　Riordan　stood　and　staggered　toward　the　cockpit。　He　stopped　and　turned；　apparently　sensing　something　wasn't　right。
　The　gun　he　had　left　behind　was　propped　up　on　the　body　guard's　chest。　Phillipo　was　trying　to　steady　it　for　a　shot。　Riordan　charged　like　a　wounded　rhino。　The　pistol　cracked。　The　first　bullet　hit　the　pilot　in　the　shoulder；　and　he　kept　ing。　Phillipo's　brain　died；　but　his　finger　twitched　twice　more。　The　second　shot　caught　the　pilot　in　the　heart　and　killed　him　instantly。　The　third　went　wild　and　missed　him　pletely。　Even　as　the　pilot　crashed　to　the　floor；　the　pistol　had　dropped　from　Phillipo's　hand。
　The　struggle　from　one　side　of　the　cabin　to　the　other　had　taken　only　a　few　seconds。　Francesca　had　been　thrown　between　the　seats　and　played　possum　as　the　bloodied　pilot　was　making　his　way　back　to　the　cockpit。　The　shots　sent　her　down　again。
　She　cautiously　stuck　her　head　into　the　aisle　and　saw　the　pilot's　still　body。　She　crawled　over　to　Phillipo's　side；　pried　the　pistol　from　his　bloody　hands；　and　approached　the　cockpit　door；　too　enraged　to　feel　fear。　Her　anger　quickly　turned　to　shock。
　The　copilot　was　slumped　forward；　his　body　held　in　place　by　his　seatbelt。　There　was　a　bullet　hole　in　the　partition　separating　the　cockpit　from　the　cabin　and　through　the　back　of　the　copilot's　chair。　Phillipo's　third　shot。
　Francesca　pulled　the　copilot　upright。　His　groan　told　her　he　was　still　alive。
　〃Can　you　talk？〃　she　said。
　Carlos　rolled　his　eyes　and　whispered　a　hoarse　〃Yes。〃
　〃Good。　You've　been　shot；　but　I　don't　think　it　hit　any　vital　organs；〃　she　lied。　〃I'm　going　to　stop　the　bleeding。〃
　She　retrieved　the　first　aid　kit；　thinking　that　what　she　really　needed　was　an　emergency…room　trauma　unit。　She　almost　fainted　at　the　sight　of　the　blood　flowing　from　the　wound　down　his　back　to　puddle　on　the　floor。　The　press　she　applied　immediately　turned　scarlet；　but　it　may　have　helped　stanch　the　loss　of　blood。　It　was　impossible　to　tell。　The　only　thing　she　knew　for　certain　was　that　the　man　was　going　to　die。
　With　fearful　apprehension　she　looked　at　the　glowing　instrument　panel；　numbed　by　the　realization　that　this　dying　man　was　the　key　to　her　survival。　She　had　to　keep　him　alive。
　Francesca　retrieved　the　bottle　of　rum　and　tilted　it　to　the　copilot's　lips。　The　rum　dribbled　down　his　chin；　and　the　little　amount　he　swallowed　made　him　cough。　He　asked　for　more。　The　strong　liquor　brought　color　to　his　pale　cheeks　and　the　gleam　of　life　back　into　the　glazed　eyes。
　She　put　her　lips　close　to　his　ear。　〃You　must　fly；〃　she　said　levelly。　〃It's　our　only　chance。〃
　
　The　proximity　of　a　beautiful　woman　seemed　to　give　him　energy。　His　eyes　were　glassy　but　alert。　He　nodded　and　reached　out　with　shaking　hand　to　flick　on　the　radio　that　connected　him　directly　with　traffic　control　in　Rio。　Francesca　eased　into　the　pilot's　seat　and　slipped　on　the　headset。　The　voice　of　the　traffic　controller　came　on。　Carlos　asked　for　help　with　his　eyes。　Francesca　began　to　talk；　explaining　their　predicament　to　traffic　control。
　
　〃What　do　you　advise　us　to　do？〃　she　said。
　
　After　an　agonizing　pause　the　voice　said；　〃Proceed　to　Caracas　immediately。〃
　
　〃Caracas　too　far；〃　Carlos　croaked；　mustering　the　strength　to　talk。　〃Someplace　closer。〃
　
　Several　more　moments　dragged　by。
　
　The　dispatcher's　voice　came　back。　〃There's　a　small　provincial　airstrip　two　hundred　miles　from　your　position　at　San　Pedro；　out　side　Caracas。　No　instrument　approach；　but　the　weather　is　perfect。　Can　you　make　it？〃
　
　〃Yes；〃　Francesca　said。
　
　The　copilot　fumbled　with　the　keypad　of　the　flight　puter。　With　all　the　strength　at　his　mand　he　called　up　the　international　identifier　for　San　Pedro　and　entered　it　in　the　puter。
　
　Guided　by　the　puter；　the　plane　began　to　make　a　turn。
　
　Carlos　smiled　slightly。　〃Didn't　I　tell　you　this　plane　flies　by　itself；　senhora？〃　His　wheezy　words　had　a　drowsy　quality　to　them。　He　was　obviously　being　weaker　from　loss　of　blood。　It　was　only　a　matter　of　time　before　he　passed　out。
　
　〃I　don't　care　who　flies　it；〃　she　said　sharply。　〃Just　get　us　on　the　ground。〃
　
　Carlos　nodded　and　set　up　the　automatic　descent　profile　on　the　flight　puter　to　take　the　plane　down　to　two　thousand　feet。　The　plane　began　to　descend　through　the　clouds；　and　before　long　patches　of　green　were　visible。　The　sight　of　land　reassured　and　terrified　Francesca　at　the　same　time。　Her　terror　rose　a　few　degrees　when　Carlos　shuddered　as　if　an　electric　current　had　gone　through　him。　He　grabbed　Francesca's　hand　and　held　it　in　a　death　grip。
　
　〃Can't　make　San　Pedro；〃　he　said；　his　voice　a　wet　rattle。
　
　〃You've　got　to；〃　Francesca　said。
　
　〃No　use。〃
　
　〃Damn　it；　Carlos；　you　and　your　partner　got　us　into　this　mess；　and　you're　going　to　get　us　out　of　it！〃
　
　He　smiled　vacantly。　〃What　are　you　going　to　do；　senhora；　shoot　me？〃
　
　Her　eyes　blazed。　〃You'll　wish　I　had　if　you　don't　get　this　thing　down。〃
　
　He　shook　his　head。　〃Emergency　landing。　Our　only　chance。　Find　a　place。〃
　
　The　big　cockpit　window　offered　a　view　of　the　thick…grown　rain　forest。　Francesca　had　the　feeling　she　was　flying　over　a　vast　unbroken　field　of　broccoli。　She　scanned　the　endless　greenery　again。　It　was　hopeless。　Wait。　Sunlight　glinted　off　something　shiny。
　
　〃What's　that？〃　she　said；　pointing。
　
　Carlos　disconnected　the　auto　pilot　and　auto　throttles；　took　the　wheel　in　his　hands；　and　steered　toward　the　reflection；　which　came　from　the　sun　glinting　off　a　giant　waterfall。　A　narrow；　meandering　river　came　into　view。　Alongside　the　river　was　an　irregularly　shaped　clearing　of　yellow　and　brown　vegetation。
　
　Flying　almost　on　automatic　himself；　Carlos　passed　the　open　area　and　set　up　a　thirty…degree　banking　turn　to　the　right。　He　ex　tended　the　wing　flaps　and　put　the　plane　in　a　boxlike　flight　pat　tern。　With　a　hard　right　he　prepared　the　plane　for　its　final　approach。　They　were　at　eighteen　hundred　feet；　descending　on　a　long；　shallow　glide。　Carlos　extended　the　wing　flaps　to　slow　them　down　further。
　
　〃Too　low！〃　he　growled。　The　treetops　were　rushing　at　them。　With　superhuman　strength　born　of　desperation　he　reached　out　and　gave　the　throttles　more　power。　The　plane　began　to　rise。
　
　Through　blurred　vision　he　scoped　the　final　approach。　His　heart　fell。　It　was　a　terrible　landing　field；　small　and　lumpy；　the　size　of　a　postage　stamp。　They　were　doing　a　hundred　and　sixty　miles　per　hour。　Too　fast。
　
　A　soggy　gasp　escaped　from　his　throat。　His　head　lolled　onto　his　shoulder。　Blood　gushed　from　his　mouth。　The　fingers　that　had　clutched　the　wheel　so　tightly　were　curled　in　a　useless　death　grip。　It　was　a　tribute　to　his　skill　that　in　his　last　moments　he　had　trimmed　the　plane　perfectly。　The　jet　maintained　trim；　and　when　it　hit　the　ground；　it　bounced　into　the　air　a　few　times　like　a　stone　skipped　across　water。
　
　There　was　an　ear…splitting　shriek　of　tortured　metal　as　the　bottom　of　the　fuselage　made　contact　with　the　earth。　The　friction　between　the　plane　and　the　solid　earth　slowed　it　down；　but　it　was　still　going　more　than　a　hundred　miles　an　hour；　the　fuselage　cut　ting　through　the　ground　like　the　blade　of　a　plow。　The　wings　snapped　off；　and　the　fuel　tanks　exploded；　leaving　twin　black　and　orange　swaths　of　fire　in　the　plane's　wake　for　another　thousand　feet　as　it　hurtled　toward　a　bend　in　the　river。
　
　The　plane　would　have　disintegrated　if　the　grass…covered　ground　had　not　given　way　to　the　soft；　marshy　mud　along　the　riverbank。　Stripped　of　its　wings；　its　blue　and　white　skin　splattered　with　mud；　the　plane　looked　like　a　giant　wormlike　creature　trying　to　burrow　into　the　mire。　The　plane　skidded　over　the　surface　of　the　muck　and　finally　came　to　a　lurching　stop。　The　impact　hurled　Francesca　forward　into　the　instrument　panel；　and　she　blacked　out。
　
　
　　Except　for　the　crackle　of　burning　grass；　the　ripple　of　river　water；　and　the　hiss　of　steam　where　the　hot　metal　touched　the　water；　all　was　silent。
　
　　Before　long；　ghostly　shadows　emerged　from　the　forest。　As　quiet　as　smoke；　they　moved　in　closer　to　the　shattered　wreckage　of　the　plane。
　
　San　Diego；　California；　2001
　
　1　WEST　OF　ENCINITAS　ON　THE　Pacific　coast；　the　graceful　motor　yacht　Nepenthe　swung　at　anchor；　the　grandest　craft　in　a　flotilla　that　seemed　to　include　every　sailboat　and　powerboat　in　San　Diego。　With　her　fluid　drawn…out　lines；　the　spearlike　sprit　jutting　from　the　thrusting　clipper　bow；　and　her　flaring　transom；　the　two…hundred…foot…long　Nepenthe　looked　as　if　she　were　made　of　fine　white　china　floating　on　a　Delft　sea。　Her　paint　glistened　with　a　mirror　finish；　and　her　bright　work　sparkled　under　the　California　sun。　Flags　and　pennants　snapped　and　fluttered　from　stem　to　stern。　Bobbing　balloons　occasionally　broke　loose　to　soar　into　the　cloudless　sky。
　
　In　the　yacht's　spacious　British　Empire…style　salon　a　string　quartet　played　a　Vivaldi　piece　for　the　eclectic　gathering　of　black　clad　Hollywood　types；　corpulent　politicians；　and　sleek　TV　anchors　who　milled　around　a　thick…legged　mahogany　table　devouring　pate；　beluga　caviar；　and　shrimp　with　the　gusto　of　famine　victims。
　
　Outside；　crowding　the　sun…drenched　decks；　children　sat　in　wheelchairs　or　leaned　on　crutches；　munching　hot　dogs　and　burgers　and　enjoying　the　fresh　sea　air。　Hovering　over　them　like　a　mother　hen　was　a　lovely　woman　in　her　fifties。　Gloria　Ekhart's　generous　mouth　and　cornflower…blue　eyes　were　familiar　to　mil　lions　who　had　seen　her　movies　and　watched　her　popular　sit　on　TV。　Every　fan　knew　about　Ekhart's　daughter　Elsie；　the　pretty；　freckle…faced　young　girl　who　scooted　around　the　deck　in　a　wheel　chair。　Ekhart　had　given　up　acting　at　the　peak　of　her　career　to　de　vote　her　fortune　and　time　to　helping　children　like　her　own。　The　influential　and　well…heeled　guests　chugging　down　Dom　Perignon　in　the　salon　would　be　asked　later　to　open　their　checkbooks　for　the　Ekhart　Foundation。
　
　Ekhart　had　a　flair　for　promotion；　which　was　why　she　leased　the　Nepenthe　for　her　party。　In　1930；　when　the　vessel　slid　off　the　ways　at　the　G。　L。　Watson　boatyard　in　Glasgow；　she　was　among　the　most　graceful　motor　yachts　ever　to　sail　the　seas。　The　yacht's　first　owner；　an　English　earl；　lost　her　in　an　all…night　poker　game　to　a　Hollywood　mogul　with　a　penchant　for　cards；　marathon　parties；　and　underage　starlets。　She　went　through　a　succession　of　equally　indifferent　owners；　winding　up　in　a　failed　attempt　as　a　fishing　boat。　Smelling　of　dead　fish　and　bait；　the　rotting　yacht　languished　in　the　back　corner　of　a　boatyard。　She　was　rescued　by　a　Silicon　Valley