Arthur Hailey - Evening News

”I'll take us in,” Underhill said, and the copilot surrendered the controls.

Staying a thousand feet above the ground, the pilot made a pass over the area, sizing up what little could be seen of the airstrip and gauging his approach. He knew they would need every foot of ground available, knew too there were trees and heavy foliage on both sides of the landing strip, so for all reasons, touchdown would have to be perfectly placed. Satisfied, he began an approach pattern, swinging onto a downwind leg, flying parallel with the strip and losing height.

Beside him, Faulkner was performing a pre-landing check. At "gear down,” the rumble of descending wheels began. As they turned left onto a base leg, the landing gear's three green lights winked on.

On final approach their two bright landing lights sliced the darkness ahead and Underhill let the speed fall back to 120 knots. He found himself wishing this landing could have been in daylight, but they had too little fuel to stooge around until sunrise at six o'clock. As the strip became nearer, Underhill realized they were too high. He reduced power. Now the threshold was barely fifty feet distant. Throttles right back, power off, trimmed at nearly full nose-up. This was it! They touched the rough, uneven ground with a bump. Hard rudder to stay straight, those trees a blur of shadows in the landing lights. Reverse thrust . . . brakes! Now they had passed the middle flare and were slowing. Was it slow enough? The end of the strip was disconcertingly close, but speed was almost off. They were going to make it and they did—with nothing to spare.

”Nice,” Faulkner said. He didn't like Underhill much; his superior was selfish, inconsiderate and usually aloof. Just the same he was a superb pilot.

As Underhill swung the Lear around and taxied back toward the approach end of the airstrip, they caught glimpses of a truck and several moving figures. Beyond the truck and off to one side was a small, roughly constructed hut, beside it a dozen or to metal drums.

”There's our fuel,” Underhill said, pointing.”Those guys will help you pump it in, and do it fast because I want us the hell out of here at first light.” Bogota, Colombia, was their next destination and the culmination of this charter. Once airborne, it would be a short and easy flight.

Something else Underhill knew was that this area of jungle was a no-man's-land, regularly fought over by Sendero Luminoso, the Peruvian Army, and sometimes the government's anti-terrorism police. With all three groups noted for extreme brutality, it was not a place to linger. But the Learjet's passengers would be disembarking here, so Underhill motioned to Faulkner who reached behind him and opened the door between the flight deck and the main cabin.

* * *

Miguel, Socorro, Rafael and Baudelio were relieved to be on the ground after the descent through darkness. But with relief came an awareness that a new part of their enterprise was be 310ginning. In particular, Baudelio, who had been monitoring the caskets with external instruments, began to diminish the sedation, knowing that very soon the caskets would be opened and his patients—as he continued to think of them—removed.

Moments later the Learjet stopped, the engines fell silent and Faulkner left his seat to open the clamshell door. In sudden contrast to the controlled temperature inside, the outside air was suffocatingly hot and humid.

As the airplane's occupants filed out it was evident that the attention and respect of those waiting on the ground were focused on Miguel and Socorro. Obviously, Miguel's reception was due to his role as leader and Socorro's because of her affiliation with Sendero Luminoso.

The waiting force comprised eight men. Even in the darkness, reflected light made it possible to see their light brown, weathered faces and that all were sturdy peasant types, stockily built. The youngest-looking of the eight stepped forward and quickly identified himself as Gustavo. To Miguel he said, "Tenemos ordenes de ayudarle cuando lo necesite, senior.”

Having acknowledged his willingness to accept orders, Gustavo turned to Socorro with a bow, "Seniora, la destinacion de sus prisioneros sera Nueva Esperanza. El viaje sera noventa kilometros, la mayor parte por el rio. El barco estalisto.”

Underhill emerged in time to hear the last exchange. He asked sharply, "What prisoners are to be taken ninety kilometers by boat?”

Miguel had not wanted Underhill to hear the name of their final destination, Nueva Esperanza. But in any case he had had more than enough of this imperious pilot, remembering the greeting at Teterboro, "Goddamn, you're late!” and other times during the journey when the pilot's hostility had been thinly veiled. Now that Miguel was on ground where the other man had no authority, he said contemptuously, "This is not your business.”

Underhill snapped back, "Everything that happens in this airplane is my business.” He glanced toward the caskets. Originally he had insisted that the less he knew about them, the better. Now, more from instinct than reason, he decided for his own protection later he had better know.”What is in those?”

Ignoring the pilot, Miguel told Gustavo, "Digale a los hombres que descarguen los ataudes cuidadosamente sin moverlos dernasiado, y que los lleven adentro de la choza.”

“No!” It was Underhill. He blocked the clamshell doorway.”You will not unload those caskets until you have answered me!” Already, responding to the heat, sweat was streaming down his face and balding head.

Miguel caught Gustavo's eye and nodded. Instantly there was a flurry of movement, a series of sharp metallic clicks and Underhill found himself looking into the barrels of six Kalashnikov rifles, all held steady by the ground-force men, safeties off, their fingers curled around the triggers.

With sudden nervousness the pilot called out, "For chrissakes, all right!” His eyes swung from the weapons to Miguel.”You've made your point. Just let us take on fuel and get out of here.”

Ignoring the request, Miguel snarled, "Move your ass away from that door!” When Underhill had done so, Miguel nodded again, the rifles were lowered and four of the ground men entered the airplane, going to the caskets. The copilot accompanied them, releasing the cargo straps, then one by one the caskets were unloaded and carried into the small hut. Baudelio and Socorro followed.

* * *

An hour and a half had passed since the Learjet's landing and now, a few minutes before sunrise, the landing strip and its surroundings were becoming clearer. During the intervening time the Learjet had been refueled for the flight to Bogota, the fuel taken from the drums and transferred through a portable pump. Underhill was now looking for Miguel to inform him of their imminent departure.

Miguel and the others were in the makeshift hut, Gustavo indicated. Underhill walked toward it.

The hut door was partially closed and, hearing voices inside, the pilot pushed it open. The next instant he stopped, shocked and horrified at what he saw.

Seated on the dirt floor of the hut were three figures, their backs to the wall, heads lolling, mouths open, comatose but certainly alive. Two of the caskets taken from the Learjet—now open and empty—had been placed on either side of the trio to help prop them up. A single oil lantern illuminated the scene.

Underhill knew immediately who the three were. It was impossible not to know. He listened daily to U.S. radio news and read American newspapers, available at foreign airports and hotels. Colombian news media, too, had carried reports about the kidnapped family of a famous U.S. anchorman.

Fear, icy fear, crept over Denis Underhill. He had skirted the borderlines of crime before—anyone flying Latin American charters inevitably did. But he had never, ever before, been involved in anything as utterly felonious as this. He knew, without having to think about it, that if his role in conveying these people became known in the U.S., he could go to jail for life.