The monstrously loud noise of helicopter rotors filled the open field as Yuri Uvarov, a former Russian Army pilot, expertly brought the lumbering MI-8 to life. Rotor wash from the powerful engines sent sand, grass, and debris flying into the air. With everyone safely on board, Uvarov took off into the air, skillfully missing the edge of the jungle by mere inches. Banking the helicopter hard over, Yuri flew low to avoid radar from a nearby military installation. He was soon heading south to their next destination, a private airstrip twenty kilometers outside of Bogota.
Less than thirty minutes later, they landed at a secluded airstrip. As soon as the helicopter’s wheels touched down, Mitchell’s team moved straight onto a waiting Russian-made AN-32 Turboprop cargo plane painted bright blue with civilian markings on its tail. The plane, like the helicopter, was courtesy of Uvarov’s former military compatriots and was undoubtedly a black market rental. Stepping inside, Mitchell was pleased to see that the interior of the AN-32 was set up with the latest in modern medical and survival gear. For once, no expense had been spared.
Sam, although the smallest member of the team, had no problem pushing everyone out of her way. She was in her element and wasted no time ensuring that Susan Thomas was as comfortable as she could make her.
Although lacking comfort when compared with a civilian airliner, the AN-32 was still far more comfortable than Yuri’s decrepit MI-8 could ever hope to be. Mitchell opened a small fridge at the back of the plane and then cracked open a cold can of Coke, the first one he had in weeks. Taking a long drink before strapping himself into his seat for the flight, Mitchell welcomed the sugar and caffeine into his system. Money can buy many things, and today the local airport officials were paid to look the other way and not to ask any questions.
A few minutes later, the pilot, a Ukrainian accomplice of Uvarov’s, took off, quickly climbed to six thousand meters, and then headed for Honduras, where a privately chartered Boeing 777 and Susan Thomas’ parents anxiously awaited their arrival. Mitchell thought about calling ahead to tell Susan’s parents that she was hurt, but decided that it wouldn’t help. In fact, it would probably only make her parents worry more.
Jackson grabbed a can of pop as well. Looking around, he ran a hand over his smooth-shaven head. He had the build of a linebacker and even though retired from the military, he kept himself in fairly good condition. If his wife didn’t cook so well, he reasoned, he could lose the few extra pounds that he always seemed to be dragging around with him. Seeing Mitchell take a seat, he walked over and looked down at the fresh bandages on Mitchell’s wounds. “Did Sam take a look at your shoulder?”
“She gave me another shot and then cleaned out my wounds just before we took off,” Mitchell replied. “I’ll be okay until we land.”
“You know the boss is gonna be pissed when he finds out that you got pinched and that a client got shot, don’t you?” said Jackson, his voice more serious than normal.
“I could point out that he was the one who picked us to work in South America again, when Bill Lancaster’s team hasn’t been here in nearly two years, but that would undoubtedly only aggravate the situation more,” Mitchell said, feeling tired. His respect for General O’Reilly, their employer and head of Polaris Operations, was boundless, but right now Mitchell wasn’t in a charitable mood. Fatigue gripped his body. Closing his eyes, Mitchell was soon fast asleep and snoring loud enough to wake the dead.
Jackson shook his head. He knew Mitchell wasn’t to blame for what had happened. Mitchell had been deep undercover for months and would require time for extensive debriefing back at Polaris. He would also need to unwind, heal, and recuperate. It would probably mean a move away from active duty for several months. Although he would never say it, Jackson welcomed the chance to take it easy for a while. The team had been running full-out missions for months.
With events around them about to break wide open, however, their time off was to prove far shorter than anyone could have ever anticipated.
3
“Face it, we’re lost,” said Jane Day as she anxiously peering through the windshield of their jeep into the swirling sandstorm that had swept in from the west. Swearing under her breath, she couldn’t believe that in less than thirty seconds, their visibility had dropped to perhaps a half-dozen meters. The world outside looked as if it had all turned brown. Even the sun had disappeared behind the impenetrable wall of sand and dust. Running a hand through her long blonde hair, Day nervously bit her lip, hoping that they hadn’t made a big mistake.
“You said you could read a map,” snapped Hank Moore. Sitting behind the wheel, he struggled to see where the sand-covered road ended and the desert began. Shaking his head in frustration, Moore knew it wasn’t Day’s fault that the storm had come out of nowhere; he just felt the need to vent. With his thick brown beard and long hair protruding out from under his dirty baseball cap, Moore was the epitome of what the public had come to expect from a young paleontologist.
“We must have taken the wrong turnoff for Ulaanbaatar somewhere a few kilometers back,” said Day, eyeing the gas gauge on their battered Jeep. Seeing it creep down below an eighth of a tank, she began to regret not stopping earlier when the storm was just beginning. Now they were lost and low on gas, not a good combination in a desert.
“What does the GPS say?” asked Moore, trying to control the growing feeling of nervous tension building inside his chest.
“The batteries died nearly an hour ago,” replied Day, looking down at the now useless GPS in her hands.
“Damn it, Jane, why didn’t you say something earlier? Now we’re well and truly screwed.”
“I didn’t say anything because I knew that you’d get mad at me. Perhaps we should pull over and wait until the storm breaks,” offered Day, hoping that it wouldn’t last for more than a few more hours. If they kept going any longer, she knew Moore would become angrier by the minute, and she was in no mood for another one of their fights.
“Yeah, you could be right,” replied Moore, taking a quick look at his wristwatch. “It’s going to be pitch-dark around here in about an hour.”
Day quietly stared off into the near-impenetrable wall of blowing sand, hoping to see a safe place where they could park out of the howling wind.
Jane Day and Hank Moore were paleontology grad students heading to a new dig site in Mongolia, where a rare find of nearly perfectly preserved dinosaur eggs had been recently uncovered. It was the kind of expedition that came but once in a lifetime. Dropping what they were doing back home, they both volunteered, desperate to be part of the dig. Over the past three years, Day and Moore had been having an on-again, off-again relationship. They first met at a friend’s party, and the way things were going, Day knew they were heading toward one of their usual overheated arguments followed by a couple of months apart before they began once more to be drawn inexorably back to one another. She could never explain her love, if it even was love, for Moore. All she knew was that she needed to be around him.
The jeep bounced up and down, startling both passengers, as the tires ran over something lying on the road. Slamming on the brakes, Moore placed the vehicle in park and then reached over to open his door.
“Hold on a minute, Hank. Mind telling me what you are doing?” said Day as she reached over to grab Moore’s arm.