There was a moment of silence, the controller not sure how to answer the question, finally coming back with a “Roger that.”
He was at fifteen hundred feet when the port engine began to sputter like a lawnmower with a busted carburetor and the Provider started to pull to the right. Hayes shut the engine down, aware of the fresh sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“Uh, Tower, I just lost an engine,” he advised, knuckles white on the yoke.
Hayes double-checked the gear, knowing it was down, but needed to give his mind something to do when he saw the cloud of ocher dust skitter laterally across the runway.
Atop the tower, the blazing orange windsock hung limp, and Hayes was beginning to think his eyes were playing tricks on him when he saw it flutter.
If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.
By the time he reached five hundred feet, there was a full-value wind blowing in from the south, and Hayes felt the gust of air pushing the aircraft out of position.
He gave the rudder pedals a hard kick, managing to get the plane back online a second before the tires hit the runway. As soon as the wheels made solid contact, he stomped hard on the brakes and pulled the throttle into reverse thrust.
The engine groaned, the acrid stench of burnt rubber and overheated brake pads inundating the cockpit, but Hayes didn’t care. He was alive and that was all that mattered.
The Provider shuddered to a halt a hundred yards from the end of the runway—the silence that followed the rush of air through the shattered glass was deafening.
He shut down the plane and unhooked the harness, the back of his shirt peeling from the seat like Saran Wrap when he got to his feet and stepped out of the cockpit. Hayes headed aft, hands shaking when he unlatched the troop door. The only thought on his mind was getting the hell out of the plane.
The door swung open and he stepped out onto the tarmac, the Ivorian sun hot as a blast furnace on his face.
I made it, he thought.
The relief that came with cheating death was more powerful than any narcotic. Hayes could have stood there forever, savoring the warmth of the sun on his face and the sway of the green grass in the wind.
But the moment was cut short by the unmistakable bacon fat smell of charred flesh and the squeal of tires on asphalt. He followed the sound toward the tower in time to see a pair of Toyota Hiluxes race into view—their beds overloaded with gunmen.
This isn’t good, he thought, watching the pickups race toward him.
His first thought was to run, but with the plane shot to shit and nothing but open ground on all sides, Hayes knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
Well, this sucks.
But this wasn’t the first time he’d found himself stuck in a third-world shithole on the wrong end of an AK-47, and in his experience the best course of action was to play the dumb American redneck.
Hayes stood there, arms raised over his head, a lopsided grin stretching across his face, when the trucks screeched to a halt in front of him. The passenger-side door of the truck swung open and a tall man in starched BDUs jumped out, sunlight flashing off the stars on his collar as he came stomping across the tarmac.
He stopped next to Hayes, tore the sunglasses from his face, and stared open-mouthed at the damaged plane.
“Wh-what have you done?” the man demanded in French.
“Sorry, pal,” Hayes answered with a shrug, “no parlez vous French.”
He watched the anger spread across the man’s face, saw the jerk of his shoulder that told him a blow was coming, but, sticking to his plan, made no move to get out of the way.
“You idiot,” the general snapped, backhanding him across the face.
It was a hard blow, the force rocking Hayes back on his heels and starring his vision. He stepped back, making space, but the general wasn’t through. He waded in and hit him with a sweeping right to the gut, the impact folding him like a cheap card table, blasting the air from his lungs. He bent double, gasping like a fish on the bank, but before he could go down, Dábo fired a knee at his face.
Hayes was fully committed to his role but had no interest in a broken nose. He twisted to the left, dropped his head, and took most of the blow on his shoulder before collapsing to the ground.
The force bowled him over. Hayes felt the rage rising up from the pit of his stomach, but forced it down.
He’d seen the general’s type before. The man was a bully who’d made his rank by killing women and children, and as much as he wanted to beat the man’s ass, show him what happened when you tangled with a real man, Hayes wasn’t stupid and knew the camouflaged coward wouldn’t hesitate to order his men to kill him if he felt disrespected.
Forcing yourself to take an ass kicking wasn’t easy for a man of his ilk, but it was the only option that guaranteed that he’d stay alive.
He bent down and grabbed Hayes by the front of the shirt and lifted his upper body off the ground.
“Where is the Russian?” he demanded, slamming his fist into Hayes’s face.
This is going to get ugly, the voice commented as the general hit him again.
But Hayes knew how to handle men like this. While his attacker was drawing him close for another punch, he was busy collecting a mouthful of blood.
“I don’t speak fucking French,” he spat, spraying blood across the front of the general’s spotless uniform.
The man dropped Hayes like a hot coal and leapt backward, eyes dropping to his ruined tunic, his face turning white with rage, lips twisting into a feral snarl. “I-I’ll fucking kill you!” he screamed, reaching for the pistol strapped to his hip.
Hayes had been hoping for a better outcome—hell, he’d even been willing to take an ass kicking, but a bullet was a different story.
Yeah, I don’t think so.
By now the soldiers had been drawn closer by the violence, each one wanting to see the general kill the American. From the ground all Hayes could see were boots and the barrels of the soldiers’ AK-47s, but it was all he needed.
His plan was simple: Roll to the right, grab the closest barrel with his left hand, and pull whoever was holding it into the general’s line of fire. If it worked, Hayes estimated that he would have enough time to draw his own pistol, get to his feet, and kill a few of them before they shot him down.
If it didn’t, well, at least Hayes got to die on his feet.
22
KORHOGO, IVORY COAST
The closest barrel was three feet to his right and Hayes was ready to make his move when he heard a screech of tires skidding to a halt, followed by a burst of automatic rifle fire crackling through the air. He winced, expecting to feel the burn of hot lead across his chest, but instead he heard a woman yelling orders in French.