Read Online Operation Breakthrough by Dan J. Marlowe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dan J. Marlowe
Ads: Link
out the side windows of the second plane. I began to run again as a door above the wing of the second plane opened and two women and a man clambered out, followed by a second man who stood on the wing and looked long and hard at the squatty jet at the farthest end of the main runway. A Bahamian businessman home from an all-night party at one of the Out Islands, I decided, and wondering what the strange plane was doing at this private field.
My breath was coming harder as I tried to increase my speed. The runway seemed endless. The man jumped down from the wing of the plane and began to walk quickly toward the jet. His course roughly paralleled my own. He began to run, too, trying to cut me off.
The pickup plane loomed close at hand now, though. I could see movement through its oval windows in the side of the smooth, cylindrical fuselage. Then the door which fit so snugly it was barely discernible was drawn inward. There were no markings on the plane at all.
A light-haired man in a brilliant orange flying suit appeared in the opening. A glance to the side revealed that the pilot of the private plane had unaccountably stopped running. He was staring at a corner of the field where a car I hadn’t noticed before was parked against the wire fence. Three dark figures were scrambling over its chain link barrier.
I raced around the rescuing plane’s jutting wingtip and hurled myself through the open door, almost knocking the man in the orange flying suit off his feet. “One pigeon in the roost, Artie,” he yelled up to the pilot, whom I could see with earphones cocked on his head so that one ear was exposed.
“Just — me,” I gasped. “Move — out — here!”
“Pappy said there’d be two of you,” the copilot said in a doubtful tone.
“No!” I got out with as much volume as I could muster. “Get — rolling!”
“Bumblebees outside, Sam,” the pilot drawled from up forward. “Batten hatches.”
I lurched to my feet as the sandyhaired copilot pulled the opened door shut and threw over the locking lever. Through one of the oval windows I could see the three men who had climbed the fence were halfway across the field. Their right arms were extended and dots of winking yellow light appeared at the ends of them.
“Pour it on, skipper!” the copilot shouted. “The uglies have arrived!”
The plane surged forward, and the copilot grabbed at the back of a cushioned seat as the cabin swerved with the unlocking of brakes. “Grab yourself a pad and buckle in,” he called to me over his shoulder as he strained against the increasing acceleration to make his way to the cockpit.
We were really rolling by the time I clamped a seat belt across my middle. I had a quick glimpse of the private pilot flat on the ground, dodging bullets. Just beyond him on the perimeter road a jeep was making the scene.
I was pretty sure police were in the jeep.
Police wouldn’t charge across an airstrip shooting at an unidentified plane.
So Candy had been right in his insistence that syndicate toes had been tramped on.
Our plane banked until its silvered wing glistened in the sunlight. Far below I could see tiny figures in positions which indicated the three assailants had reversed direction and were running toward the fence and their car.
Then we were out over the water, and I couldn’t see Oakes Field at all.
The force of the acceleration as the plane continued to angle upward forced me back into the deep cushioned seat. In the aftermath I felt dead beat but too keyed up to relax. Candy’s sudden change of attitude had been baffling, and I hadn’t really believed his seeming near terror was justified until I saw the assault wave coming at me over the airport fence. I’d always felt that Candy had steel cables for nerves, and his loudly expressed angry fear had seemed a rank overstatement of the seriousness of the situation until the close call a few moments before had proven him right.
Thinking back, I had to wonder if I
My breath was coming harder as I tried to increase my speed. The runway seemed endless. The man jumped down from the wing of the plane and began to walk quickly toward the jet. His course roughly paralleled my own. He began to run, too, trying to cut me off.
The pickup plane loomed close at hand now, though. I could see movement through its oval windows in the side of the smooth, cylindrical fuselage. Then the door which fit so snugly it was barely discernible was drawn inward. There were no markings on the plane at all.
A light-haired man in a brilliant orange flying suit appeared in the opening. A glance to the side revealed that the pilot of the private plane had unaccountably stopped running. He was staring at a corner of the field where a car I hadn’t noticed before was parked against the wire fence. Three dark figures were scrambling over its chain link barrier.
I raced around the rescuing plane’s jutting wingtip and hurled myself through the open door, almost knocking the man in the orange flying suit off his feet. “One pigeon in the roost, Artie,” he yelled up to the pilot, whom I could see with earphones cocked on his head so that one ear was exposed.
“Just — me,” I gasped. “Move — out — here!”
“Pappy said there’d be two of you,” the copilot said in a doubtful tone.
“No!” I got out with as much volume as I could muster. “Get — rolling!”
“Bumblebees outside, Sam,” the pilot drawled from up forward. “Batten hatches.”
I lurched to my feet as the sandyhaired copilot pulled the opened door shut and threw over the locking lever. Through one of the oval windows I could see the three men who had climbed the fence were halfway across the field. Their right arms were extended and dots of winking yellow light appeared at the ends of them.
“Pour it on, skipper!” the copilot shouted. “The uglies have arrived!”
The plane surged forward, and the copilot grabbed at the back of a cushioned seat as the cabin swerved with the unlocking of brakes. “Grab yourself a pad and buckle in,” he called to me over his shoulder as he strained against the increasing acceleration to make his way to the cockpit.
We were really rolling by the time I clamped a seat belt across my middle. I had a quick glimpse of the private pilot flat on the ground, dodging bullets. Just beyond him on the perimeter road a jeep was making the scene.
I was pretty sure police were in the jeep.
Police wouldn’t charge across an airstrip shooting at an unidentified plane.
So Candy had been right in his insistence that syndicate toes had been tramped on.
Our plane banked until its silvered wing glistened in the sunlight. Far below I could see tiny figures in positions which indicated the three assailants had reversed direction and were running toward the fence and their car.
Then we were out over the water, and I couldn’t see Oakes Field at all.
The force of the acceleration as the plane continued to angle upward forced me back into the deep cushioned seat. In the aftermath I felt dead beat but too keyed up to relax. Candy’s sudden change of attitude had been baffling, and I hadn’t really believed his seeming near terror was justified until I saw the assault wave coming at me over the airport fence. I’d always felt that Candy had steel cables for nerves, and his loudly expressed angry fear had seemed a rank overstatement of the seriousness of the situation until the close call a few moments before had proven him right.
Thinking back, I had to wonder if I
Similar Books
