Chapter 21

The two soldiers lay Avilla on the ground inside the hanger where he continued to stare up at Helen, watching her with a demonic expression in his one open eye.

Armed men stood on each side of this, so far undeclared, dispute. They glared at one another, yet no one of them seemed inclined to begin any shooting. The co-pilot held his weapon to the head of the soldier Helen had kicked to the ground, while one of the returning guards placed his gun right against Helen’s back for emphasis. Hostages were inadvertently positioned on each side of the argument.

“John, tell them I can fly Avilla to Guatemala city, to the hospital, and that I want to take Delman, too.”

Garcia did as instructed, but the response didn’t seem to be a favorable one.

“They aren’t overly worried about Avilla,” Garcia confirmed. “They have their orders and until their leader returns, that’s all they know. They want us to put down our guns.” Garcia grinned at the foolishness of the request.

Helen thought about the situation. “Better if I fly them in the Cessna, anyway,” she said as if she hadn’t heard the answer. “We’ll call an ambulance from the airport.” She picked up Avilla’s metal container. “Tell them I have a dangerous toxic substance here that will kill them if I open the box or if it falls and breaks. Tell them to put down their guns.” She dangled the object in front of her.

“I didn’t have any plutonium in the box, you stupid bitch,” Avilla grunted out. These were the first words she had heard from him since she had blinded him and left him on the trail—so many hours ago, it seemed like a lifetime.

“So what?” she spat back at him. “Don’t you want to go to the hospital and at least get some morphine for the pain?” She didn’t know if he wanted to live or die, but surely even a Godforsaken creature such as he would want relief from his bodily torture.

A twisted, agonized laugh broke out of Avilla’s mouth. “I don’t feel much worse than usual,” he told her. Yet he didn’t contradict the speech that Garcia gave the soldiers in Spanish, with a nod toward the box. The guards backed away from the object in Helen’s hand as if it had a life of its own.

Did the lead-colored box hold plutonium? Helen couldn’t be sure. Yes, it might. Avilla could simply have said the plutonium wasn’t in there, so she’d open it and expose them all to one of the deadliest substances known to man.

Avilla was a terrible person, a vile killer and kidnapper who had urbanely tried to snuff out Helen’s life more than once. Yet as he lay there, mutilated in body, she felt sorry for that frightfully tormented human shell.

“Order them to let me take you to Guatemala city,” she urged Avilla. “You have friends in Guatemala. After you’re healed, they can help you make your escape. Or you’ll have other possibilities. Make the soldiers listen. You know how to manipulate them.”

Although Delman’s complexion was still white with a tinge of green and he was covered with sweat, he seemed to breathe more easily now and was in a calm state. He would live, Helen decided, because this wasn’t his time to go, but only if he didn’t have to be involved in too much more of this revolutionary brouhaha.

Why couldn’t people be more important than politics? How could anyone ignore the suffering of individuals in order to stand by some benighted sense of “ideals”?

Avilla’s voice rasped out a few words in Spanish to the soldiers. The tone was one of sarcasm and threat. The Zapatistas looked at one another for support, trying to decide what to do next. Avilla snapped out an instruction and they lay down their guns. Helen was more than surprised. Not only that the young men would take orders from Avilla, but that he would make any attempt to save his own life—no matter what pain he was undergoing. But maybe he agreed with Helen. The future was an unknown world. Only by stepping ahead could he see what grandeurs it might encompass. Perhaps he pictured himself in one year’s time as the new leftist, one-man Guatemalan government.

The soldiers picked up Avilla and carried him out to the airfield, toward the spot where the CitationJet was parked. “Take Captain Delman,” Helen advised Delman’s crew. As the flight engineer set down the M16, she hefted it. The American entourage followed Avilla and the soldiers to the runway.

“What about us?” one of the mothers wailed. “You can’t leave us. We have little children here.”

“You’re not in any danger now,” Helen promised. “You’re going to fly out in a few minutes on the 747.” All’s well that ends well, she thought.

She began to wonder how much she could bill the Private Plane Pilots Association. If she tried an hourly rate, all considered, she’d be looking at a wage disagreement that would only wind up in court.

They loaded Avilla and Delman into the Cessna cabin. Since this was a luxury executive jet complete with carpeting, they wouldn’t rattle around too painfully back there should the plane be caught in turbulence. She checked the fuel gauge. The tank must have been filled before it was flown down here because the flight range of the jet was only 1,500 miles and plenty of fuel remained. Anyway, Guatemala city wasn’t very far.

“With Avilla in there, I’d better go with you,” Garcia told her as she was about to jump in.

“Jeez, he’s barely breathing,” she objected. “He can’t cause too much trouble.” She looked at Garcia. Both of them knew that as long as Avilla had one last gasp, he was capable of anything. She boarded the plane and Garcia followed. The Zapatistas, she saw, had begun to remove the tarp from the field.

“What about us?” objected the flight engineer.

“You can follow us to Guatemala city in the 747,” suggested Helen. “That’s the closet major airport. But hurry. You may not have long before the other soldiers and their leader return.” A sudden fear gripped her, and she had a vision of the infuriated leader ordering his troops to execute all the hostages—men, women, and even the small children. “Hurry,” she urged once again.

Stepping into the CitationJet cockpit, she felt a sense of elation not only at regaining her own little bird, but simply at being about to fly into the sky once more under her own command. She pulled the checklist from beneath the seat where she had stashed it and ran down the items as quickly as possible. She looked out the window. The tarp was off. The runway was clear.

In a moment, she rolled forward, gaining speed; then the craft lifted off. She felt like singing, but truthfully, she had no musical talent.

Guatemala city or bust. They were about one hundred fifty miles as the crow flies, not even far enough away to get up to full flying altitude. They were sufficiently close on liftoff to begin their descent. She summoned up the airport and gave them her coordinates, explained that she needed two ambulances when she landed, and some federal officers.

Garcia came into the cockpit and tried to say something. “I’m busy,” she snapped.

“You’d better come out here,” he interrupted.

“Hold on.” She barely had time to take off and land. What the hell did he want?

“Now,” he insisted.

She put it on autopilot and stepped out behind him into the cabin.

“Shit,” she exclaimed softly, taking in the scene. Un-fucking-believable. Avilla had his gun to Delman’s head.

“I want to fly to Cuba,” Avilla wheezed out at her. She almost laughed. This was like a scene from a very bad movie.

“Cuba’s good,” Helen answered agreeably. “Havana, here we come.” She stepped back into the cockpit and took the controls, thinking fast. Cuba was not good. It was too far away. She was worried about Delman. He couldn’t be feeling real great right about now and she hoped having a gun at his head didn’t set off another heart attack. She wanted to ferry him to a hospital at once. And she wanted to make it back to the airstrip to be sure that the others had flown off in the 747.

She sighed deeply. This whole episode was becoming too much. Even three-quarters dead, Avilla was a troublemaker in the extreme. She spoke into her radio and explained to Guatemala city that they had a wee problem, and she would have to circle a bit, but that she wanted to land.

She didn’t know what step to take now. Just circle a while and think, she guessed. Pretend she was flying to Cuba. Hope that Avilla would pass out from pain or exhaustion. Couldn’t she somehow manage to help him do just that?

She searched through her purse, then got up again and went into the little bathroom where she put some water in a cup. She brought it to over to the two patients lying on the floor and stooped beside Delman. “We’re on our way to Cuba, but it’s a long trip. He needs water,” she told Avilla. Garcia’s eyes were fixed on her, wondering what she was up to, but hopeful, trusting. His expression just about made her smile. She liked his confidence in her, although she didn’t know any more than he did what she was trying to accomplish. Well, maybe she had the germ of an idea.

She lifted Delman’s head and gave him the water as Avilla stared. She soothed Delman’s hair gently against his head and reassured him that he would be all right; she was taking care of him. All her attention was on Delman. She completely ignored the fact that Avilla was there.

“Bring me some water, too,” ordered Avilla in a snarl. She gave him a reluctant, annoyed glance, as if he, a man of no value whatsoever, had interrupted her real mission in life, taking care of Delman, the person she really cared about. Avilla waved the gun in her face, and she rose, as if under extreme duress.

She returned to the bathroom and fetched the cup she had prepared for him a minute prior, brought it back, and, with disgust at having to touch him, helped him to drink it. Avilla held the gun against Helen’s head as she gave him the water, and her heart involuntarily began to thump a mile a minute. The bastard. He didn’t mind who he hurt.

“It tastes funny,” Avilla complained.

“Airplane water,” she replied offhandedly, then stood and went back to flying the plane in circles. Either the contents of Eric’s pain medication from when he was shot would knock Avilla out or it wouldn’t, but the man hadn’t slept in quite a while, and he was a mess. The powder probably would put him out like a light.

Impatient after five minutes, she walked into the cabin to check. Avilla still held a tight grip on his gun, but she saw his eyes blink repeatedly. His strength of will was awesome. Her eyes and Garcia’s met. His held a question and she smiled a response. She returned to the cockpit and put on an easy-listening tape. This would be Muzak to Avilla’s ears.

They landed in Guatemala city only slightly behind their original schedule. As the sound of ambulances approached, Helen watched Avilla awaken with a start. He squeezed his hand, trying to find the gun he had held before, but the weapon was now in Garcia’s pocket.

“That’s it, Robert,” Helen said. “Right now, you’re at the end of the line.” She stared out the window. What a welcoming committee. All kinds of vehicles representing not only medical help, but a range of Guatemalan officialdom. Helen had no time for all the questions that would come, however. She and Garcia had to get back to Chiapas. She felt a pang in her heart. She had abandoned the hostages. She had abandoned the children.

She watched medical workers load the two patients into the ambulances. Garcia spoke to the Guatemalan police, showed them his identification, and obviously explained that Avilla was a dangerous and wanted man. She wondered if that would do any good in the long run. Garcia jumped back on the plane. Helen called the tower and tried to get clearance.

They wouldn’t give it to her, because, they said, the authorities insisted on interviewing her and her companion. “It’s an emergency. The lives of hostages are in question. I have to get back,” she begged. She peeked at her watch. Too much time had passed. Morning had arrived, and the other soldiers might have returned before the 747 got away. “I’m taking off whether you give me clearance or not,” she insisted, finally. “Please, give me clearance.” Taking off without clearance would be the maddest thing she had ever done in her entire life. She was impulsive and foolhardy, but she always obeyed the rules of the sky.

“I can’t give you clearance,” the tower repeated.

“I have to take off.” She revved the engines. Would she have access to a clear runway? Would they shoot at her from outside the plane? Would the border patrol be ordered to shoot them down?

She began to move down the runway, gathering speed, anticipating gunfire. None came. They must be reluctant to shoot at Americans, particularly at an American who had identified himself as a federal agent. Helen soared into the sky with a sense of relief, eyes peeled for other planes trying to occupy the same air space. Flying was always so much nicer with air traffic control on your side, protecting you from collisions, but she had been trained for some amount of flying over enemy skies, even if she hadn’t been given the rigors of the full fighter-pilot course. Hell, what was she worried about? She had flown off her flight path more than once and had managed to avoid any crackups.

Garcia came into the cockpit. “They let us go,” he said, pleased at the outcome.

She glanced up for a second, then turned her attention back to her instruments. “Are you crazy?” she asked. “Of course they didn’t give us clearance. We’re desperados flying illegally over their airspace. They may scramble their air force. Be prepared for evasive action, Agent Garcia.”

The CitationJet wasn’t an old crate, by any means; no, the plane was an efficient, totally up-to-date luxury aircraft with a Williams/Rolls engine and a flight range of 1,500 nautical miles. She was a beauty of an executive jet, but not at all in the league of any type of commercial jet, much less an air force fighter plane. The only thing Helen could count on now was making it across the border into Mexico before the Guatemalans could lift off into the air. The Guatemalans might, in fact, chase her into Mexican airspace, but not too far in, she guessed.

She was wrong. Well across the Mexican border, Helen observed two F11s off her left wing, even as she picked up their call on the radio, ordering her back into Guatemala, and instructing her to land at their military base.

Helen explained her situation in a lengthy, voluble discourse in the only language that she spoke. She had soon lost them linguistically, she knew. She called Garcia over and had him tell them again in Spanish that their plane was not going to land in Guatemala. In fact, they had already passed into Mexico and would only deal with the Mexican authorities.

Garcia was sweating, she noticed, but no one was shooting at them yet. She took back the headphones. A new party logged on to the conversation. The Mexican military was squeamish about its neighbors to the south invading. Although two of the sides involved in this haggling spoke Spanish predominantly, the universal language of aviation was English and the thickly accented conversation over the radio was held in Helen’s mother tongue. She tried to explain clearly and logically, without creating an international incident, that she had just delivered two people to the hospital in Guatemala city and was simply returning the jet to its airfield in southern Mexico.

“We are prepared to fire on any unauthorized aircraft remaining in our territorial airspace,” she deciphered the Mexican spokesman as saying. She hoped that didn’t mean her. She kept flying back toward the rebel airstrip, far enough across the border that she doubted that any Mexican military site existed in the area. If Mexican firepower was located here, they would have wiped out the Zapatistas long ago.

Another two minutes, she thought. Then bursts of gunfire exploded in the sky and her heart thudded like a 155mm howitzer firing in response. They couldn’t be aiming at the Cessna, could they? Maybe they thought she was a drug dealer from the U.S., returning home with a cargo of cocaine.

Garcia who had settled back in the cabin came up front to the cockpit, displaying a look of satisfaction. “The Guatemalan planes have turned around,” he told her. “I guess the Mexicans fired at them from the ground.”

“Oh cucarachas,” she swore, guessing that it meant something like ‘oh cockroaches.’ “If war breaks out between Mexico and Guatemala, we’re the reason why.”

Garcia sat in the co-pilot’s seat, shoving Avilla’s box and her purse, both of which she had brought in from the cabin, into a cranny behind him. “It’s been a hell of a few days,” he agreed. “But whatever happens, I want you to know that I think you’re a really special person. Eric is lucky to be marrying you. I’m half in love with you myself.”

“Half.” She snorted. “Half is too polite by far.” She frowned. “Half is awfully meager.”

She was over the rebel airstrip, and she could see the soldiers dashing out onto the runway trying to figure out if they were under attack. The tarp had never been pulled back over the tarmac and her eyes scanned eagerly to see if the 747 was gone. Damn. The big plane was still parked near to the hanger. This was not the situation she had been hoping for.

“We’re landing on the Zapatista runway,” she informed Garcia.

“I can see that.”

“This may be it for us. Tricksters can only think up so many bullshit moves before the other side becomes somewhat wary of being stung.”

She knew the runway now and pulled the plane down to it as if it were the bird’s most natural nest. At the end of the tarmac, toward the hanger, she came to a halt and turned off the engines. “We have some fuel left though, in case we have the chance of one more getaway.” She began to stand.

Garcia pulled her toward him, onto his lap. She sat solidly on his strong body, appreciating the feel of him, his musky smell, before moving her mouth on to his and losing herself in his forceful, passionate embrace.

A pounding on the door tore them apart at last. They both stood, his hands still on her hips. She was shaken by his touch, but she stalked into the cabin, to the door, and sprang the lock to face the soldiers—many more than she and Garcia had left behind an hour or so ago. They dragged her out of the airplane and several boarded, pulling Garcia with them as they turned to follow her and her captors. The numbered too many to fight off, and they held her too tightly.

“Why be angry?” she asked in English. “We came back.” She was prevented from saying more by their closeness and by her inability to breathe while being pushed, tripped, and clubbed with a rifle. At one point, she fell and had to pick herself up off the asphalt. She ran her hand over her face and her fingers came away with blood on them. She was bleeding!

These people were Catholics. She tried to think of a hymn from her childhood to sing that would calm them down. What a Protestant hymn coincide with the Catholic practices?

Then she remembered. They might be Catholics, but they were also ardent socialists. Which would have more appeal? She didn’t know the words, or the tune, to the Internationale. Oh cucarachas, they were shoving her again. She twisted her neck to look back at John. They pushed at him as well, prodding him in the back with their rifles. She winced and turned forward.

They had arrived at the hanger. In the last three minutes she had gotten dirtier and more bruised than she had in the last several days. Things were turning rough. They shoved her into the hanger.

Here was their leader, she had no doubt. Helen looked him straight in the face. He was someone she had run into before but had hoped never to encounter again—because she had known then and knew now that he was a dangerous man, someone of the old school, absolutely committed to the ideal of the people’s liberation. A man who would fight until nothing worth fighting for remained standing.

He looked at her, too, but this time without a smile. Likely he remembered their last and first meeting, when she had kicked him between his legs, grabbed his gun, and had run away with his guest, Avilla, as her prisoner. Macho Spanish guys didn’t like anything of that sort, Helen imagined. But here she had proof that the UNRG was allied absolutely with the Zapatistas. And so what? Would she and the other Americans emerge alive? That was the only worthwhile consideration.

“Women have changed, indeed.” The Guatemalan revolutionary reminded her of her words. “Now we are all equal.” With that comment, he stepped forward and landed one focused, savage blow in her gut.