Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Supremacy

'The thought never occurred to me. ' Then you're not my man. ' Thanks a lot. '

'No, I meant it. The thought would have occurred to me... How much longer?'

'Between two and three minutes, as I judge. ' 'How good is your judgement?'

Twenty-odd missions in Oman, Yemen and points south. Aircraft similar in structure and mechanism. I know it all, sport. It's old hat. Two to three minutes, no more than that. ' 'Good. Get back here. ' Jason pricked the hose with his knife and made a small incision, enough to permit a steady stream of fuel to flow out, but little enough so that the pump barely operated. He rose to his feet, covering the assassin with his gun as he handed him the roll of gauze. 'Pull out about six feet and drench it with the fuel that's leaking down there. ' The killer knelt down and followed Bourne's instructions. 'Now,' continued Jason, 'stuff the end into the slit where I've cut the hose. Farther -farther. Use your thumb!' 'My arm's not what it used to be!' 'Your left hand is! Press harder? Bourne looked quickly over at the refuelling -refuelled – aircraft. The commando's judgement had been accurate. Men were climbing off the wings and winding the hoses back into the fuel truck. Suddenly, the pilot and the flight officer were making their final check. They would head for the hatch door in less than a minute! Jason reached into his pocket for matches and threw them down in front of the assassin, his weapon levelled at the killer's head. 'Light it. Now?

'It'll go up like a goddamned stick of nitro! It'll blow us both into the sky, especially me!'

'Not if you do it right! Lay the gauze on the grass, it's wet-'

'Retarding the fire-?'

'Hurry up! Do it!'

'Done!' The flame leaped up from the end of the cloth strip, then instantly fell back and began its gradual march up the gauge. 'Bloody technician,' said the commando under his breath as he rose to his feet.

'Get in front of me,' ordered Bourne as he strung the knapsack to his belt . 'Start walking straight forward. Lower your height and shrink your shoulders like you did in Lo Wu. '

'Jesus Christ! You were-?'

'Move!'

The fuel truck began backing away from the plane, then circled forward, swinging around the rolling ladders, heading to its left beyond where the first red truck was parked... and circling again, now to the right behind both stationary trucks to take up its position next to the one with the lighted gauze heading into its fuel tank. Jason whipped his head around, his eyes riveted on the fired tape. It had burst into its final flame! One spark entering the leaking valve and the exploding tank would send hot metal into its sister trucks' vulnerable shells. Any second!

The pilot gestured to his flight officer. They marched together towards the hatch door.

'Faster!' yelled Bourne. 'Be ready to run!'

When?'

'You'll know. Keep your shoulders low! Bend your spine, goddamn it!' They turned right towards the plane, passing through an oncoming crowd of maintenance personnel heading back to the hangar. 'Gongju ne?' cried Jason, admonishing a colleague for having left behind a valuable set of tools by the aircraft.

'Gongju?' shouted a man at the end of the crowd, grabbing Bourne's arm and holding up a toolbox. Their eyes met and the crewman was stunned, his face contorted in shock. 'Tian a!' he screamed.

It happened. It was too late for even consequential revelations. The fuel truck exploded, sending erratic pillows of fire pulsating into the sky as deadly shards of twisted metal pierced the space above and to the sides of the flaming vehicle. The crews screamed en masse; men raced in all directions, most to the protection of the hangar.

'Run!' shouted Jason. The assassin did not have to be told; both men raced to the plane and the hatch door, where the pilot, who had climbed inside, was peering out in astonishment, while the flight officer remained frozen on the ladder. 'Kuair yelled Bourne, keeping his face in the shadows and forcing the commando's head down on the metal steps. 'Wei fengi' he added, screaming, telling the pilot to get out of the fire zone for the safety of the plane – that he was maintenance and would secure the hatchway.

A second truck blew up, the opposing walls of explosives forming a volcanic eruption of fire and spewing metal.

'You're right!' shouted the pilot in Chinese, grabbing his officer co-pilot by the shirt and pulling him inside; both raced up the short aisle to the flight deck.

It was the moment, thought Jason. He wondered. 'Get in!' he ordered the commando as the third fuel truck blasted over the field and into the early light.

'Right!' yelled the assassin, raising his head and straightening his body for the leap up the steps. Then suddenly, as another deafening explosion took place and the plane's engines roared, the killer spun round on the ladder, his right foot plunging towards Bourne's groin, his hand lashing out to deflect the weapon.

Jason was ready. He crashed the barrel of his gun into the commando's ankle, then swung it up, smashing it across his temple; blood flowed as the killer fell back into the fuselage. Bourne leaped up the steps, kicking the unconscious body of the impostor back, across the metal floor. He yanked the hatchway into place, slamming the latches down, and securing the door. The plane began to taxi, instantly swerving to the left away from the flaming centre of danger. Jason ripped the knapsack from his belt, pulled out a second length of nylon rope and tied the assassin's wrists to two widely separated seat clamps. There was no way the commando could free himself– none that Bourne could think of– but just in case he was mistaken, Jason cut the rope attached to the assassin's ankles, separated his legs and tied each foot to the opposite clamps across the aisle.

He got up and started towards the flight deck. The aircraft was now on the runway, racing down the blacktop; suddenly the engines were cut. The plane was stopping in front of the terminal, where the group of government officials was gathered, watching the ever-growing conflagrations taking place less than a quarter of a mile away to the north.

'Kai bar said Bourne, placing the barrel of his automatic against the back of the pilot's head. The co-pilot whirled around in his seat. Jason spoke in clear Mandarin as he shifted his arm. 'Watch your dials, and prepare for takeoff, then give me your maps. '

'They will not clear us!' yelled the pilot . 'We are to pick up five outgoing commissioners!'

To where?

'Baoding. '

'That's north,' said Bourne.

'Northwest,' insisted the co-pilot.

'Good. Head south. '

'It will not be permitted!' shouted the pilot.

'Your first duty is to save the aircraft. You don't know what's going on out there. It could be sabotage, a revolt, an uprising. Do as I tell you, or you're both dead. I really don't care. '

The pilot snapped his head around and looked up at Jason. 'You are a Westerner! You speak Chinese but you are a Westerner. What are you doing?'

'Commandeering this aircraft. You've got plenty of runway left. Take off South! And give me the maps. '

The memories came back. Distant sounds, distant sights, distant thunder.

'Snake lady, snake lady! Respond! What are your sector co-ordinates?'

They were heading towards Tarn Quan and Delta would not break silence. He knew where they were and that was all that mattered. Command Saigon could go to hell, he wasn't about to give the North Viet monitoring posts an inkling as to where they were going.

'If you won't or can't respond, Snake Lady, stay below six hundred feet! This is a friend talking, you assholes! You don't have many down here! Their radar will pick you up over six-fifty. '

I know that, Saigon, and my pilot knows it, even if he doesn't like it, and I still won't break silence.