Nelson Demille - The Quest

“Where go you?”

“Gondar.” Purcell pointed to the destination line of the form.

“Why?”

Purcell showed him his press credentials and his passport. “Gazetanna.”

The man pointed outside. “Who go you?”

“Gazetanna.” He held up two fingers.

The lieutenant shook his head. “No.” He waved his hand in dismissal.

Purcell took the carbon copy of the flight plan out of his pocket and put it on the desk. The Ethiopian birr had collapsed, but there was a fifty-thousand-lire note-about forty dollars-paper-clipped to the form.

The lieutenant eyed the money-about a month’s pay-then picked up his rubber stamp and slammed it on Purcell’s copy of the flight plan, then wrote the time on it. “Go!”

Purcell took his copy and exited the hangar.

Henry hadn’t taken the taxi back to the hotel, and he was talking to Vivian near the Navion. Purcell paid the cabbie, then walked to the aircraft.

Mercado asked, “Any problems?”

“Are we reimbursed for bribes?”

“There are no bribes in the People’s Republic. Only user fees.”

Vivian had her camera bag and said, “I was telling Henry that I dug up a wide-angle lens at the Reuters office, and they have a good lab for blow-ups.” She added, “And they don’t ask questions.”

“Good. Are we ready? Pit stop? Henry? How’s your bladder?”

“Everything down there works well.”

Purcell tapped his canvas bag and said, “I have an empty water carafe from the hotel if anyone needs to use it.” He asked Mercado, “Did you remember to buy binoculars?”

“I borrowed a pair from the press office.”

As Purcell walked to the wing, Mercado asked him, “What is this?” He pointed to the rocket pod.

“What does it look like, Henry?”

“A rocket pod. Are we attacking?”

As Purcell was explaining about the rocket pod, Mercado noticed bullet holes in the fuselage and pointed them out to everyone.

Purcell assured Vivian and Mercado, “Lucky hits.” He climbed onto the left wing from the trailing edge, unlatched the canopy, and slid it back. The odor of musty leather and hydraulic fluid drifted out of the cockpit. He reached down for Mercado, who took his hand and vaulted up onto the wing. Purcell said, “Pick any seat in the rear.”

“There are no seats.”

“Sit on the bean bags.”

Mercado climbed unhappily into the rear as Purcell reached down for Vivian and pulled her up. She squeezed into the cockpit and crossed over to the right-hand seat.

Purcell got in and slid the canopy closed. “All right, Henry, there is a seat belt back there.”

“I’m working on it.”

Purcell fastened his belt and Vivian did the same. He said, “The time written on our flight plan is six thirty-eight. We are supposed to be in Gondar in under three hours. Anything longer will raise questions from the guy who takes our flight plan at the other end. But we need to make some unauthorized detours, so it might be after ten when we land. I will blame headwinds.”

Mercado asked, “What if they know there are no headwinds?”

“They only know what is reported to them by other pilots who have landed. And I don’t think there is much traffic from Addis to Gondar.”

Purcell opened Signore Bocaccio’s chart and glanced at it. He said, “What I will do is run her up to twelve thousand feet, and try to get a hundred and fifty out of her. When we see Lake Tana, I will go as low and slow as I can around the areas where we think the black monastery could be located.” He added, “We’ll also take a look at the spa and the thing marked incognita. Vivian will take wide-angle photos, then at some point we need to climb to six thousand feet, which is Gondar’s elevation. With luck we will land in Gondar no later than ten A.M.”

Vivian said, “If anyone asks, what are we supposed to be doing in Gondar?”

“We’re doing an article on the ancient fortress city.”

Mercado said, “That’s a stretch, Frank.”

“Okay. We’re looking for an interview with General Getachu.”

Vivian said, “I like your first idea better.”

Purcell reminded them, “We’re reporters. We have no idea what we’re doing.” He looked at his watch: 6:52. “Ready?”

Vivian said, “If you are, I am.”

He turned on the master switch, then pulled the wheel, and Vivian was startled when the wheel in front of her moved in concert with his. He pushed on the rudder pedals, and hers moved under her feet. He said to her, “This is dual control, but that does not mean that two of us are going to fly this. Keep your hands off the wheel and your feet off the pedals.”

“Yes, sir.”

He pumped the throttle a few times, then hit the starter. The engine coughed, and a black puff of smoke billowed out from under the cowl. The propeller went by once, twice, and the engine caught.

Vivian noticed a Saint Christopher medal that Signore Bocaccio had pinned to the headliner above the windshield. She touched it, and said, “Patron saint of travelers. He will watch over us.”

“Good.”

Purcell looked at the disarrayed and mostly inoperative gauges. Under the control panel was a new switch, marked in English, “Safety,” and “Fire.” A separate red button was the actual trigger for the smoke rockets. A round, clear plastic sighting device was mounted in front of him on a swivel near the windshield. He had noticed that there were still four smoke rockets left in the pod. According to Signore Bocaccio, this was not unusual; the Ethiopian ground crews minimized their workload. Signore Bocaccio had advised Purcell not to demand that the rockets be taken out. He also advised him not to fire them for sport.

Purcell glanced at the distant windsock, then released the handbrake and rolled toward the runways. He saw that a C-47 was sitting on the edge of the long runway that he had used with Signore Bocaccio the previous day. He had no time to wait for the C-47 to move, so he taxied to the shorter runway, which Signore Bocaccio had said was all right to use, depending on winds, fuel load, and cargo load. The fuel gauge said full, but Vivian was light and Mercado had skipped breakfast.

Purcell taxied to the end of the shorter runway. The noise level in the cockpit was tolerable and speech was possible if they raised their voices. He asked, “Everyone okay?”

Vivian nodded. Mercado did not reply.

Purcell checked the flight controls and the elevator trim position. He did a quick engine run-up and noticed that the magneto drop was neither good nor bad. He’d go with it.

He cycled the propeller through its range, then wheeled onto the runway, where the ground fog had mostly blown off. He lined up the nose on what was once a white line. The expanse of broken concrete was a little disturbing. He hesitated, then pushed the throttle in and the Navion began its run.

The aircraft bounced badly over the broken concrete. The control panel vibrated, the Plexiglas canopy rattled, and the controls shook in his hands. The thumping sound of the nose gear strut filled the cabin as it bottomed out. He glanced at Vivian and saw that she was playing with her camera.

The Navion ate up the runway at the rate of fifty miles per hour, then sixty. The end of the runway was shrouded in fog, but he knew it was also the end of the flat-topped hill that he’d noticed when he’d flown over it with Bocaccio. Purcell saw that the land dropped away to his sides into fog banks. He was on a ridge and there was no aborting this takeoff anymore.

“Frank!”

It was Mercado, but there was nothing to discuss.

Vivian looked up from her camera, but said nothing.

Purcell glanced at his airspeed indicator and noticed that the balky instrument read zero. The throttle was fully open, but Mia showed no signs of lifting.