Steve Martini - Trader of secrets

“Son of a bitch!” Just as Herman said it, a stitch of bullets penetrated the side of the plane in the gap between the two steel containers. Instantly four neat holes appeared in the stainless-steel fuel tank. Three of them started hemorrhaging high-octane aviation fuel into the cargo bay. “Time to go,” said Herman. “Stay with me and stay low.” Crouching down, he moved toward the open cargo door on the other side of the plane. When he looked back, Sarah was still lying on her stomach staring out the back of the plane at the dead man on the tarmac. Herman skidded across the aisle on one knee and grabbed her arm as if in a steel vise.

The pain broke her trance. Sarah shot him a glance.

“It’s too late to help him,” said Herman. He jerked her up onto her knees.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, but you gotta stay alive.” Herman gave her a look to kill.

Suddenly she smelled the aviation fuel. Sarah nodded. “Go. I’m right behind you.”

Herman got to the open door. A second later, Sarah and the dog were huddled up close behind him. Herman pulled one of the pistols from inside his belt under his shirt and cycled the slide to chamber a round. He looked out the door. He could see no incoming fire on this side of the plane. All of the rounds seemed to be coming from the buildings on the other side.

Every few seconds a tracer flashed by overhead and disappeared into the jungle in the distance. Rounds ricocheted off the concrete in the narrow gap under the belly toward the rear of the plane.

The reversed propellers created a virtual wind machine, all of it blowing in their direction, ahead of the wings. Herman was getting ready to jump when he looked down to his right and saw the body crumpled on the concrete a few feet away. The commando’s squad automatic weapon, the SAW machine gun, lay beside the man. One of the commandos made it, at least far enough to get away from the plane. The other one didn’t. He had gone to the rear where the belly of the plane had lifted up because of its nose-down position. At that location, there was no defilade behind the plane. It made him an easy target.

“As soon as you get out, move toward the front of the plane but stay flat on the ground,” Herman yelled over the roar of the engines. “Keep the plane between you and those buildings. And keep your head down.” As soon as he said it, Herman dropped out from the door. He landed on his feet, turned back, and grabbed Sarah by the waist as she crouched in the door. She jumped and he eased her out onto the ground.

Bugsy jumped from the plane. The noise of the engine and the sudden wind from the whirling prop scared him. He jerked on the leash and ripped it from her hand. Instantly he was gone.

Sarah looked over Herman’s shoulder and yelled: “Bugsy!” But her voice was swallowed in the din of the engine. She watched as the dog raced across the runway ahead of the ricocheting bullets. She couldn’t believe that they were actually shooting at him. For the first time she wanted a gun, something with which to strike back.

Herman tried to push her to the ground. Sarah would have none of it until she saw the dog disappear into the trees at the edge of the jungle. For a moment Sarah thought she might cry. Then she remembered the dead man on the tarmac.

She got down flat on the ground. Herman got down next to her.

“You OK?”

She nodded. “I’m not leaving without him.”

“Worry about staying alive,” said Herman. He looked around, trying to figure out their next move.

“What do we do now?”

“Sit tight,” said Herman. “Stay here.”

“Where are you going?” Before she could turn to look, Herman was gone toward the tail of the plane. He hugged the side of the fuselage as he approached the spinning props. The wind nearly peeled him off the metal. One of the engines on this side was already smoking.

The incoming fire seemed to diminish. Now there were only occasional bursts and single shots that could barely be heard over the roaring engines. Herman wondered where Adin and the Jeep had gone.

He got down on his hands and knees and scurried with the pistol in hand toward the dead commando and the SAW machine gun. Under the belly of the plane Herman could see several men in uniforms with assault rifles moving on the other side coming toward them. Between the approaching hostiles and the plane was a chain-link fence with a gate. The three armed men were maybe seventy meters beyond the fence.

Just as Herman reached the automatic weapon, a hand grasped his shirt. He looked down. The commando wasn’t dead. Herman came face-to-face with his open eyes. The soldier gestured toward his legs. He was wounded in both thighs and couldn’t walk.

Herman nodded, handed the machine gun to him, and grabbed the web harness at the back of his neck. “Ready?”

The guy nodded.

Herman dragged him twenty feet behind the belly of the plane where Sarah lay prone on the concrete.

The wounded soldier rolled onto his back. “Where is the colonel?”

Herman had to read his lips over the massive noise from the engines. He shook his head. “Don’t know.” He hadn’t seen Ben Rabin or any of the other commandos since the Jeep took off. He assumed they were still inside the plane. Herman fished in the guy’s backpack. He got up close in his ear and asked him if he had a medical kit. Herman wanted to stanch the bleeding from the wounds in the man’s legs.

The smell of fuel was becoming pungent as it dripped from the belly of the plane and ran into the concrete swale underneath. Herman took one look at the overheating engines. The plane provided cover for the moment, but he knew they couldn’t stay there for long.

Leffort hugged the walls on the inside of the corridor as he listened to the massive gunfire outside. The place was a goddamn war zone. All he wanted now was to find a car and get as far away as he could.

The buzzer was still ringing in his ears, though someone had finally turned it off. The gunfire outside seemed to ebb.

With it Leffort began to move more quickly down the hallway. He crossed an intersecting corridor and saw an open doorway on the other side. There was a janitor’s large rolling trash bin in the hallway outside, one of those rectangular canvas trash bags on wheels. He moved cautiously. The last thing he needed was to run into one of the guards and find himself ushered to the underground bunker. They might as well put him against a wall and shoot him now.

Leffort peeked around the open doorway. Inside the room was a long high counter, an empty desk against one wall and an open safe against the other. He arched an eyebrow and glanced at the sign over the door. It was written in a language he didn’t understand, some kind of script that looked as if it was written upside down and backward.

The room appeared to be empty. “Hello!” He waited to see if a head might pop up from behind the counter. It didn’t. Leffort stepped inside. There was a closed gate in the middle of the counter. He walked toward it.

Leffort didn’t see the blood or the body sprawled on the floor on the other side until he was a few feet from the gate.

He stopped dead in his tracks and looked around. His gaze wandered back to the blood on the floor, then caught the windows on the far side of the room. Two of the narrow slits looking out over the runway had been shot out. The venetian blinds in front of them were ripped to pieces. Leffort’s wheels began to turn, dead man, stray bullets, open safe. The conclusion was pretty obvious. To Leffort it spelled opportunity.

He glanced over the edge of the gate and looked both ways. Except for the dead man, the room was empty. He reached over and felt for the latch. It had to be there somewhere. It was.