The plane jolted forward, rumbling and groaning. Murdock felt himself slammed against the door frame as the rig hit something that slowed it even more. Then it skidded again and slowed more and more.
Twenty long seconds later, it came to a stop.
“Open the hatch, everyone out,” Murdock bellowed in the sudden silence. Both engines had shut down. Murdock ran into the cabin. The men were jostled about, but none looked broken up.
Ed DeWitt rammed open the side hatch and dropped to the ground.
“Out, out, out,” Murdock roared. “This thing could explode at any minute.”
The SEALs stormed out, most leaving their equipment behind. Murdock pushed the pilot out and was the last man to clear the aircraft.
DeWitt came up to him, grinning.
“Lucky bastards. He set us down in a field of just-mown hay. Not raked or baled. The cut hay made a perfect slide for us. A plowed field could have killed us all.”
Murdock saw the cut weeds and hay. The plane would never be able to take off.
“Anybody hurt? Casualty report, Alpha.” His men all reported in. DeWitt made a check. His men were all in good shape.
“Let’s get any gear out of the aircraft we left there. We just might need it before we get to the coast.” He frowned. “What the hell ever happened to that barracks bag full of hundred dollar bills? Jefferson, that was your eight million dollar baby. Where is it?”
“Cap, it was too fucking heavy. We split up the cash. Every man ’cept you and JG got some bundles.”
“I’m a rich son of a bitch,” Franklin crooned.
They pulled weapons and two drag bags from the plane and then hunkered down, waiting for the decision where to go. Murdock checked his wrist compass. “Due west leads over that little hill. Anybody have any MREs left?”
“Hell, they been gone for a day or more,” Ronson said. “Damn flight attendant on this bucket didn’t even give us breakfast.”
Murdock and Ching talked with the pilot.
“Where do the farmers live who work the land?” Ching asked.
“Small village, far end of valley. Two miles.”
“We need some food,” Murdock said. The pilot nodded.
“Village, we find food,” the pilot said.
“Mount up, troops, short walk to our new mess hall.” Murdock checked his webbing. He had one more WP grenade. He ran to the plane and tossed it into the cockpit. It exploded with streamers of white phosphorus arcing through the craft.
By the time they were half a mile away, they heard the fuel tanks explode with what was left of the fuel.
Ten minutes later, Lam was out front of their column of ducks when he went to ground. Murdock hurried up beside him. Ahead in the moonlight, Murdock saw four good-sized one-story houses. All had small barns and sheds in back of them. No light showed. He checked his watch. It was almost 0400. He passed the word to send the pilot up with Ching.
“Go down there and pick the best-looking house and get them up. They have sixteen guests to feed. Ching, watch what the pilot says. Tell him he’s dead meat if he tries to hurt us. Nobody leaves the house once you’re inside.”
Ching talked to the pilot a moment, then they both stood and walked quickly toward the houses. They all still had on their Motorolas.
“Lam, take a tour. See what kind of transport you can find. Two old cars or a farm truck would be handy. We came across a road back there, so there must be roads that lead all the way to he coast.”
Lam nodded and took off at a trot toward the last house in the group.
Jaybird settled in beside Murdock. “Wonder why that jet didn’t come back and blow us out of the sky. He must have air-to-air missiles and radar and guidance systems.”
“Maybe he couldn’t find us.”
“Sure he could, with his radar.”
“Maybe he wasn’t sure if we were one of the smugglers’ planes. The pilot said he’d flown through that pass before, coming this way.”
“At least we’re still alive.”
Murdock watched through his NVGs as the pilot knocked on one of the houses’ doors. It took several minutes of repeated knocking before anyone came. A light glowed inside, then the door opened.
Murdock could hear faintly some of the Spanish over his radio as the pilot spoke.
Then Ching’s voice came on. “Yes, tell him there are sixteen of us, and we will pay him well. We need food and water.”
A minute later, Ching spoke.
“All set here, Skipper. Bring in the troops. We’re getting food. We’ll give him a hundred dollar bill, and he’ll be delighted. Of course, if he tries to cash it in, he may be shot as a spy.”
“Roger that,” Murdock said. They lifted up and walked down the slight incline to the house.
The small front room in the house was sparsely furnished. Murdock liked the kitchen better. By the time they got there, women in their forties were starting a fire in a wood range and cooking. Two men came into the room and stared at the uniforms. Both talked with the pilot, and Ching monitored it.
“He’s explaining how his plane crashed,” Ching reported. “They seem satisfied.”
The food came quickly. First a mush with milk and honey and coffee, lots of good, black Colombian coffee. Then chicken, which had been pan-fried along with sliced potatoes and half a dozen kinds of steamed vegetables. There were thick slices of homemade bread and more honey and lots more coffee.
Lam had slipped into the long table and reported to Murdock.
“There’s an old farm truck out there with a stake body, ton and a half, I’d say. We can all ride on it. Has a full tank of gas and looks like it gets used daily.”
“Lam, you have some of that drug money?”
“Sure, five hundred thousand dollars. Some guys have six hundred thousand. Jefferson figured it out.”
“Let’s buy the truck,” Murdock said, grinning.
They later asked the pilot what the farm truck would be worth to the family. He looked at it in the dark and said maybe six hundred dollars, U.S.
Ching and the pilot talked to the local Colombian men and soon made the bargain. They paid them a thousand dollars, and the SEALs loaded up. Their canteens were full and their stomachs belching. It had been a weird breakfast.
The pilot climbed on board the truck. Murdock frowned. Ching saw him and asked him where he was going.
“Go with you. Guide you to coast for two hundred U.S. dollars.”
DeWitt belched. “Yeah, bring him. He might get us through something we don’t know is coming up. How far to the damned coast?”
The pilot asked the farmer, who said it was twenty miles. By then it was nearly daylight.
“Let’s move,” Murdock said. Ostercamp had checked out the rig. They paid the farmer for his truck and the meals and drove away. The road turned north and then west and held that line for five miles. By that time, it was fully daylight.
The dirt and gravel roads were not made for speed. Ostercamp was glad when they could average fifteen miles an hour. Just after daylight, they heard a jet fighter. It screamed overhead and followed the valley they had just left.
When it came to the burned-out transport, it circled several times, then went high and circled again before it turned and flew directly where the truck had been moments before.
Ostercamp had pulled the rig under three large trees that totally concealed it from the air. The jet made two more passes, then lifted up and raced away.
“We’ve been made,” Murdock said. “Five will get you fifty that we have some ground troops heading our way right now. Let’s get as far away from that burned-out plane as we can.”
Ostercamp hit the gas but had to slow almost at once on a washboard section that jarred their teeth.
Murdock figured they were halfway to the coast when he saw the roadblock ahead.
“We can take it out,” Ostercamp said. “Done it enough times before.”