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Newton Waverly drifted in that pleasant state between sleep and consciousness. It'd been induced by a hand on his shoulder---soft, persistent, perfume heightening the sensation---and a lightly accented voice calling his name. Smiling inwardly, he was convinced that in the recesses of his mind, it was the lovely girl across the aisle, the one who had only nodded at his conversational efforts, offering an occasional yes or no until he had drifted off to a restless sleepover the hum of the jet engines.
"Mr. Waverly....Mr. Waverly...." The hand was shaking him more persistently now. The voice, no longer as soft, became insistent. "Mr. Waverly, we're thirty minutes out of Panama."
Waverly gazed up at the stewardess leaning over him and smiled automatically. She was cute, but she wasn't smiling---just doing her job. "Thank you. I hope I didn't cause you too much trouble." he sat up, stretching his arms in front of him.
"No trouble, sir." She smiled pertly, then turned to the woman across the aisle, speaking to her in rapid-fire Spanish. Waverly had been slightly jealous that the stewardess was friendlier with the other passenger. Then he'd overheard them talking about her taking the flight often.
Waverly smiled across the aisle, nodding at the woman as he ran a hand through his hair. Her features were classic---high cheekbones, deep brown eyes, glossy long black hair. Regal Spanish, he though to himself, noting her long neck and graceful hands. Quite a bit younger than me, he decided----probably not more than thirty. But it was tough to tell with women like her. Back in his 20s, more years ago than he cared to remember, they used to call the aura that terminated from women like her "class." It was the only way to define that certain something, a combination of clothes, jewelry, hairstyle, the way she held herself-----the way she'd sipped her drink earlier in the flight.
Waverly was still an attractive man. Only his thinning hair gave any indication that he was in his mid-forties. When he was a kid, it turned white every summer, bleached by the sun. One year, he'd forgotten which year, it never turned back to its original sandy hue, so he kept it short. He was average in height, but his rugged body and ruddy complexion made up for his hair color, and his expressionless blue eyes belied any definite age.
He slid over to the window seat to gaze down on the Caribbean. Just beneath the wing, he thought he could see land interrupting the smooth blue of the water below. The thought of what awaited him wasn't appealing. He'd much rather the flight continued on, past Panama, over the equator---maybe on down to Rio. Glancing across the aisle again, he thought maybe that would give him enough time to crack that shell she'd made. She'd talk with him, he'd reasoned, if the flight continued, if cocktails and dinner were next.....just to pass the time before they reached Rio
But they weren't going to Rio. They were landing in Panama and he would go to work the minute his feet hit the ground. On the horizon the mountain clouds were puffy, becoming thicker inland. Waverly had asked to be awakened specifically to see the isthmus from the air as the plane swept in. He wondered, as they approached, whether he might see out of the numerous little skirmishes that occurred every day in those mountains. But he knew that they would never give a passenger flight clearance near anything that might hazard it. It was wise to avoid those green uniformed revolutionaries----the VCs (Víboras Carmesí).
The flight from Miami was, in fact, just a straight shot south, except for the diversion around Cuba. Panama was just a bit east of Miami and only twelve hundred miles away, a short distance to be sent for such a bitter war....and just about on our doorstep, Waverly thought.
The northern coast of Panama came up fast, almost too fast to pick out the landmarks his boss, Admiral Binghamton, had shown him in Binghamton's office. But once he picked out Lake Gatun, he could identify everything else. He couldn't see the north coastal city of Colon or the Gatun Locks. They were on the other side of the plane. But he saw where the lake narrowed down to the canal proper, then the raw, brown sides of the Galliard Cut sloping down to the narrow waterway. As the plane banked first to the west, then back east, he could pick out the Pedro Miguel Locks, then follow the canal down, past the Miraflores Locks to the capital city itself, gracefully overlooking the Bahia de Panama.
The city came up at them white and shiny, sparkling wet in the sun, following an afternoon storm. He could see puddles on the runway, then the fine mists as the wheels raced through the water.
Waverly looked across the aisle and smiled. "Welcome to Panama," he said, this time using his Spanish.
"Thank you most kindly," she returned, finally smiling back pleasantly. She stretched her arms casually, inspecting her fingernails absentmindedly as she touched the seat in front of her. Then she arched her chest forward, pulling her shoulders back like a cat, and smiling again, white teeth flashing. "You should have used Spanish before," she grinned. "I was tired of English after a week in Washington." She was slim, Waverly noted, but well-shaped, too.
"I apologize, senorita," he said, noticing again that she wore no wedding ring. "Spanish is a difficult language for me when it's been so many years." He sighed to himself, realizing it was now too late to establish anything in the short taxi to the gate.
But he never had the chance to continue the conversation, for something caught his eye as the craft pivoted to bring a view of the terminal to his side of the plane.
The broad glass windows in the building were bulging out toward him, as was one supporting wall. That first impression lasted only a millisecond as the explosion hurled the side of the terminal toward the plane. The motorized gateway that had been inching out toward the approaching craft had been blown for the building, and it began to pitch sideways and topple. Waverly saw a man leap outward. At the same time, even before gravity took over, the man appeared to rise higher. But the jerking of the body also meant another force was affecting it----bullets. Dropping his eyes, Waverly saw someone below in that familiar green uniform he'd noted in Binghamton's photos, an automatic rifle shuddering in his grasp as he finished off the running man.
With the horror outside firmly recorded in his mind, Waverly could now recognize the ear-splitting chatter of the Chinese CS-23s overwhelming that of the jet engines. Other sights registered as split images. Ricocheting bullets were tracing a pattern up the whitewashed wall toward the control tower. The baggage tractor that had been snaking its way toward the plane was now riderless, or so Waverly thought. But as he watched, the vehicle turned rapidly to one side, tipping over as it did. It was then he saw the arm linked through the steering wheel. The driver slid into view just before the machine rolled on top of him.
Another sound came to him now, high-pitched, frantic, urgent. It rose from the other passengers, and the sound was fear, the fear of violent death. Waverly remembered Admiral Binghamton's words just a few days before. "They've limited their attacks to military and purely industrial targets so far. But there's been an increase in terrorism there lately. Don't be surprised by anything." So it was only the instant of recognition that surprised him. Bullets tore into the forward section of the fuselage, and he accepted that fact. It was only logical they should get the cockpit, the crew.
As Waverly reached for his seat belt, an explosion blew back the door from the cockpit. The cries of pain from passengers wounded by the blast were added to the terrified screaming up front. Had to be launchers, decided Waverly. A second blast rocked the forward section, and he saw one of the crew, blood pulsing from his chest, stagger from the cockpit and collapse across two of the passengers.
A third explosion ripped open a section of the passenger compartment over the wing. This was followed by a pattern of machine gun bullets ripping through the thin fuselage. By now he was free of the seat belt and onto his knees in the aisle.
More explosions rocked the plane. Then, as he searched out the sign over the emergency door, something else attracted his attention, sending a chill down his spine. First, a flickering light, then a bubbling sound, then the flames themselves licking into the cabin through the first one, then another, then another hole was blown through the fuselage. Fire! Jet fuel!
Rising onto his toes, still squatting, grasping the seats on either side, his fingers brushed against flesh. Then a hand was grasping his. He looked up into the terrified eyes of the woman he had been conversing with not more than thirty seconds before. Her mouth was open as if voicing a question, but no sound emerged, at least it couldn't be heard above the screams within the craft and the steady roar of flames and the weapons outside.
Her grip was vise-like. With his other hand, he pulled hers away, at the same time grasping and opening her seat belt. Before she could stand fully erect one of his arms went around her waist and yanked her backward off her feet. In 3 steps he was by the emergency exit, releasing her momentarily to kick open the hatch.
It flew back, opening into space above the runaway, the escape slide shooting down. In the same moment that he glanced over his shoulder at the flames engulfing the cabin, he pushed her roughly out of the hatch. As she tumbled head-first down the slide, Waverly launched himself away from the flames, landing partially on top of her. Together they careened toward the cement below.
A cry of pain was the first sound to escape her lips since the attack had begun. She hit the runway with her shoulder, the impact intensified by the dead weight of the man on top of her.
Waverly, unmoving, peered cautiously over his shoulder. Even a novice could identify distinct teams involved in the attack. Those concentrating on the plane with automatic weapons and launchers were racing away from the craft as fire engulfed the whole fuselage. It would explode any moment.
"We have to get up," Waverly shouted above the din, still lying partially on top of her. Her skirt had been pulled up to her waist. "We have only seconds,' he added. "Rolling away, he was at once lifting and half-dragging her as he began to move away from the plane. A tractor and baggage trailer were about thirty or forty yards from them. It was the only protection he could see, and all that would save them from the blast. "Run," he roared, and they sprinted together toward the tractor. Waverly frantically pulling, dragging, coaxing as they went.
The five or six seconds that elapsed before reaching safety seemed like an eternity. Then, with Waverly pulling her head down as they ducked behind the vehicle, the aircraft burst into a huge fireball. The flash and the intense heat preceded the blast by only an instant, followed by shards of metal, seats, and glass---flying bodies. In less than a minute the plane that had been their home for almost three hours ceased to exist, bursting around them in a fury.
Waverly huddled with the girl facedown on th e runway, the abandoned tractor their only defense. Oily, black, suffocating smoke settled over them briefly, forcing them to burrow their faces into their clothing. A thought drifted briefly through Waverly's mind---that maybe this smoke would discourage anyone who might have seen them bolt from the plane.
No sooner had he made his decision to stay there, th an the wind came up, a gust pushing the smoke away from them. Cautiously, he peered over the hood of the vehicle. The terminal building was now ablaze. The runway was strewn with bodies. Twice he identified sporadic efforts to return fire on the attackers. Each time, automatic weapons fire stifled it. He could hear the wail of sirens growing louder in the background.
Noticing out of the corner of his eye that the girl had raised herself onto an elbow. Waverly dropped to his knees beside her. He saw that his blouse had been ripped from one shoulder, the exposed flesh raw and bleeding. Her eyes watched him questioningly, following his every moment, seemingly oblivious to the chaos around them. Bringing his head down to hers, he pointed to the wound and shouted, trying to make himself heard above the din.
She looked down at the blood, then back up at him, her face still devoid of expression.
Waverly took out a handkerchief, folded it, then pressed it to her shoulder. Her eyes looked down at the hand covering her shoulder, but there was no reaction until he gently placed her other hand on the handkerchief so that he was once more free to move around.
There was a strange aura about this lady that Waverly couldn't put a finger on. He had expected hysteria, tears, anything but the quiet that greeted him. There was no doubt that her control was largely based in shock, the horror of what was taking place around them, the jolt from being pushed from the plane, followed by his landing on top of her. But there was still an element of toughness in her that fascinated him. Somewhere she must have learned a form of self-control that seemed well beyond the average person.
The sirens were closer now. Waverly watched scattered, green-clothed groups join together to become fire teams of one launcher and half a dozen automatic rifles. A truck came around a corner of the terminal building on two wheels. It screeched to a stop on the runway as the driver recognized a launcher aimed directly at his vehicle. The driver dove from the door an instant before a direct hit blew the cab into shreds. From the back of the truck, soldiers appeared, firing wildly as they scurried for cover.
Fascinated, Waverly watched a second truck appear. More soldiers joined the action. The rebels in their black outfits were superbly trained. They could draw fire without injury until another team would position themselves. When the second team drew fire, the first would be repositioned. They moved too fast for the arriving soldiers, who had no idea what to expect. They were unprepared to fight the well-trained teams they faced.
It seemed a standoff until two armored vehicles arrived, their large-caliber cannon pumping shells at the launcher teams. The balance was beginning to shift to the soldiers whom Waverly assumed were Guardia troops, the National Guard of Panama.
He became aware of a hand on his arm, gentle at first, then more insistent. Turning, he saw her gesturing behind them. Three large, black helicopters, accompanied by two smaller ones, were swooping in low over the airfield, traveling at high speed. The roar of their engines and the wash from their rotors altered the scene of battle. Dust and smoke swirled together to form a cloud that cut vision perceptibly.
The two smaller helos were gunships. They moved ahead of the bigger ones to neutralize the armored vehicles. The three big helicopters touched down not fifty yards from where Waverly and the girl huddled. One by one each team raced for one of the helos, the gunships covering their withdrawal. In less time than Waverly could imagine, all five of the helos were airborne and racing toward the island mountains.
Gently, Newton Waverly slipped his hands under the girl's arms and lifted her to her feet. Her head nestled just under his chin, and there were tears in her eyes before she was silent again. Together they surveyed the wreckage of the Torrijos International Airport. Another jet plane had also been blown apart. The front of the terminal was open to the field, and numerous fires raged inside. One of the troop trucks was burning in the same spot where the driver had stopped in terror as he came face-to-face with that launcher. Both armored vehicles had been ripped by the gunships. Bodies, civilian and military, were strewn across the field. But, Waverly noted, there were very few bodies of the green-uniformed rebels. The attack had been well planned and carried out with exceptional military efficiency, and the withdrawal had been effected with a minimum of fuss. The weapons and helos were, without a doubt, Chinese.
As Admiral Binghamton had told him just a few days before, during the briefing in Washington, these were not awkward peasants from the hills. They were highly trained and well-armed. Their methods were much too sophisticated. This kind of thing could only come from Fortaleza del Pueblo or Beijing----most likely both.
Waverly was brought back to reality by a soldier advancing across the runway, gun slung at his hip, finger on the trigger. He was scared and Waverly had no intention of making him any more nervous. Waverly stayed in the same position, his arm around the girl, and waited until the soldier was close enough to talk to him.
Waverly attempted to answer in Spanish, but his accent seemed only to make the man nervous. Gesturing with his gun, he motioned for them to move away from the tractor. At this point, the girl turned, her confidence renewed, and spoke rapidly. Waverly watched in amazement as the soldier's frightened features softened. His finger slowly relaxed on the trigger and he allowed the weapon to swing easily from his shoulder. Whatever she had said seemed to satisfy any doubt Waverly may have posed. The soldier gestured for her to follow. She took Waverly's hand, looking up at him. "It's okay. Follow me." There was even a slight trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth. Whoever she was, Waverly thought, she continued to fascinate him.157Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEGatHddBFT
