“That’s good,” Medina said.
“It is unless you want to stop a man with one round,” Aleman put in, always happy to show his technical expertise. “These are little short cartridges. Less energy.”
Rodrigues shoved the magazine home and resnapped the weapon, grinning as he caught Medina’s eye, and raised his voice. “Ever shoot anybody with one, Aleman?”
“I am happy to say I have not found it necessary,” Aleman said, looking straight ahead.
“Relax,” Medina cautioned. “It won’t be necessary today either,” he added, proving himself tragically lacking in the gift of prophecy.
“We should not linger here long,” Rodrigues said. “It will take us hours to get to Llano Mojado. I do not think you want to arrive there before we do, Seńor Medina.”
“I won’t. If I’m delayed here, just wait there. I’ll be along when I can.” I can’t hang around here waiting for Corbett more than two nights. I don’t dare collect those gas canisters until he shows, either. If he doesn’t show by tomorrow, I’ll have to go without him. Ullmer and that cold-warrior Weston think I have to sell the Sovs a fake in a hurry, and I’ll bet my ass they think the real Black Stealth One is on the way to the same rendezvous, Medina told himself. What bothered him was that, the last time he’d talked with Ben Ullmer in San Diego, Ullmer was in a Learjet over Georgiaor said he was. And Ben wouldn’t be there unless he had a good idea which direction to go. Was Corbett really bent on hiding the hellbug in Mexico? He seemed to be headed for the Gulf. It was a long watery way across, unless a man fueled up in southern Florida. Still a lot of mileswhat, five hundred, six?to the Yucatan. Kyle, you solitary self-willed bastard, why didn’t you tell me you intended to steal the hellbug?
And where would Corbett get his fuel? Medina could almost hear the gravelly voice say, as it had so many times during design forums, “A secondary concern. The primary question is, can it be done?” Well, can it? With luck, maybe. I could do it if tailwinds were with me. And if I could do it, that hardnosed old fucker could do it too…
Which raised a spectre that Raoul Medina loathed and feared. What if Kyle Corbett really did intend to sell Black Stealth One to the Other Side? Maybe you couldn’t much blame him, but you couldn’t let him, either. It had not occurred to Medina, when he got himself into this fucking mess, that Corbett was actually capable of such a thing; or, worse, that Corbett might already have the KGB as a steady source of income. It was occurring to him now. Take the hellbug to Mexico and fiddle with it; crash it, burn it, fly it into the Langley parking lot, but don’t let me down, Corbett.
Medina realized that Aleman was repeating a question. “Oh, uh, if I get there first I can loiter overhead. Just tie a sleeve of your windbreaker on your radio antenna, and park where I can see the car from above,” Medina advised the driver. “I’ll be swimming in, maybe an hour after I ditch. And I’ll walk north. Don’t go within two miles of that landing strip.”
Aleman nodded. Medina looked back and saw Rodrigues nod as he lit another Delicado. He’s starting to chain-smoke now, Medina thought. Not as cool as he acts. I’ll have to watch him with that goddamn Ingram of his, until they leave.
Presently Medina placed a hand out, patting the air. “Slow down, now, and watch for ruts toward the left.” Aleman found them soon, shifting into low, growling along for nearly a mile before they rounded a hill and saw the airfield.
“Why are we stopping?” Medina asked.
“The guns, seńor,” said Aleman.
Medina sighed. “You really think we need them for a friendly old caretaker?”
“I only think it is the thing we are paid to do,” was Aleman’s reply. “If I am your backup,” he added, using the English word, “then I must do it properly.”
“I suppose so,” Medina said. He watched Aleman stop and pull his gloves on, precise and careful as he maneuvered the cloth-wrapped bundle from the engine compartment, and Medina accepted his own weapon without comment. Then they were lurching forward again toward the disused blacktop strip with tufts of grass that sprouted from surface cracks, and the wooden hangar that had not been painted in fifteen years. With a souped-up airchine and a nice girl in the next town, a man could live in a place like this, he thought idly. It was warm, peaceful; Corbett probably lived in some place like this. But if you sell my country out, Kyle, I’ll find you, he said silently, if it takes me the rest of my life.
Medina stepped from the Chevette and glanced at the small personnel door at one end of the hangar, wondering why it and the hangar doors were partly open, shaking the kinks from his legs, hauling his helmet from the bag and waiting for the others. He slung the stubby Ingram so that it hung at his back and realized that, of his two backups, Rodrigues seemed much the more threatening. “Aleman, you come with me,” he said. “Rodrigues can keep watch, he’s very experienced at surveillance in the wild.” Rodrigues made an “if you say so” face, satisfied with the reason, and leaned against a fender, scanning the open spaces as he lit up another cigarette.
Medina went through first, getting a nice little buzz of elation as he saw Blue Sky Three crouched in its three-wheeled stance, the same way he and Julio had left it, noticing the coat of dust with mild dismay. No wonder the door was ajarit was stiflingly hot and a faint acrid tang stung his nostrils. Well, the old man had a trickle-charge going on the battery, at least, and it wouldn’t take long to wipe the bird down. Aleman was looking around him, his Mac Eleven slung but near to hand, and his eyes kept straying to the aircraft with its slender wings and sinister charcoal-black paint job.
“Julio,” Medina called, making echoes. “Hola, mi viejo, old friend,” he said, smiling, striding toward the set of small office rooms that lined the rear of the building. He remembered it was cooler there.
“Hola, amigo,” responded from the second office, the one Medina recalled with its windows intact. But the voice was not Julio’s, nor the face, alertly smiling as the man stepped from the office. Medium height, late thirties, in good gabardines and a sportshirt with a bright print pattern in reds and yellows. Recent haircut, plastered neatly with goo; something of a dandy, Medina decided, one who carried himself as though he was worth carrying. “You must be hunting elephants,” the man said, still smiling, with a nod toward Aleman’s weapon.
“My apologies,” Medina said. “I expected my friend Julio, who understands these necessities.”
“He is indisposed,” said the man, and stuck his hand out in the yanqui fashion. “I am Comal, cousin of Julio. He wished me to stay here, I cannot say why. We have waited a long time.”
A cousin, thirty years younger? Fairly common around here, I guess. But who is ‘we’? Medina shook the hand briefly. “A thousand thanks, Comal, you do not have to say why. I am the pilot who flew this aircraft. I must take it away now, if you will help us open the hangar.”
But Comal was turning away, beckoning. That damned smile was beginning to look like a permanent fixture. “Come and share my tequila, then. If you are the pilot, I must tell you why the aircraft cannot be flown.”
“Ahh, shit,” Medina said, wondering what it could be, whether it meant going for fuel or another battery. If it was a stuck hangar door they would rip the fucking thing off. He stepped forward into the doorway and then the man turned, still smiling, and Medina never quite figured out where that revolver came from but suddenly it was sticking into his belly as he stood in the doorway, blocking Aleman’s view.