Chapter 19: First Class
I went over my plan, such as it was, with Ignacio and Sag. It would be fair to call it half-baked, but it was all we had. There wasn't much discussion, really--it's not like we had other options. The primary bone of contention was how I figured out the bad guys came from near Cuzco.
"Like I said, they brought in dirt from that area. It was on the note and on the ground."
"But how did you discover this?" That's what Mr. Quispe wanted to know.
"Look, I don't pester you about your talents. I know things. It would be pretty stupid of me to deceive you, since you're coming with us. It's not like I'm trying to bilk you out of a plane ride. If you want to waste time getting the soil analyzed by a real laboratory, be my guest--but we don't know how long your son and Paul have."
He couldn't argue that point. From his end, this was a shot in the dark, but better than no shot at all. He finally acquiesced and quit asking me questions.
So, he informed us he'd make the arrangements, charter us a jet to Cuzco. He also let us know what happened to the rest of his workers, which he'd found out after making some calls late last night.
"They were paid off," he said glumly. "The Comunista gave them all money to simply not go to work. The company that holds mining rights is not going to be happy. They will probably leave. This is too much trouble for them."
"Yeah, we'll have to worry about that later, I guess," I said. "Right now, we want to get your son and our friend back, right?"
He sighed and nodded. "We have little other choice. I will make arrangements." He got up and left, probably headed to his office to make some calls. A chartered flight was the only way to go--we wouldn't be able to get our guns aboard a commercial jet. A charter company, if properly "persuaded," would look the other way, and would have little reason to care since the flight would be for us and us only. Granted, I'm sure it cost Mr. Quispe a fortune, but how could you put a price on your firstborn son? He sure couldn't. I suspected he'd burn through his fortune if that meant he got Huayna back. In that sense, at least, I found him true to his word. His family truly was the most important thing to him. Whatever other flaws he had, you could never say he didn't love his family. Speaking of which, we hadn't discussed what would happen to his wife and the remaining kids, since the three of us were presumably heading down to Cuzco, leaving them unprotected. I thought I'd ask about that later, if he felt like spilling the beans.
Sag, I found fairly gung ho about our plan. "We'll finally get to see some action, mate! Can't wait. We'll cream the ratbags."
"I care more about finding Paul and Huayna safely," I reminded him.
"Oh, right. Yeah, that'll be ace, too!"
"Man, you talk funny."
"Ever think you're the one who yabbers funny?"
"Nope."
Mr. Quispe emerged from his office a little while later, tossing us duffel bags so we could pack. "Everything has been arranged. My wife and children will stay with her cousins in Chiclayo. Our plane departs this afternoon. I have notified my driver to be ready."
The three of us exchanged glances, knowing what we needed to do, and set to it.
I returned to my room, throwing some clothes into the duffel bag, nestling my M16 and a few magazines of ammo into the middle, where it wouldn't be so obvious. I made sure the safety was on, threw some more clothes in around it, and zipped up the bag. Slinging it over my shoulder, I strolled down to the breakfast room and had a banana. Didn't want to go flying on a full stomach--not when there was the possibility of violence soon after. Just something to settle my stomach. Weird. My stomach never used to both me when there was impending violence. Was I just out of practice? Or was it old age? I brushed it off and just decided to make the best use of my time. For me, that meant helping the rest of the family pack. I mean, what else did I have to do?
I tried to help Daniela, but I should have known better than to think I could be of any assistance to a fourteen-year-old girl in the packing department. Our exchanges consisted essentially of me holding up an article of clothing, her saying "No jorobes!" and me trying again. After, I don't know, twenty minutes of this, I gave up and tried to assist Xavier. That actually went smoothly. He didn't say much, just handed me clothes to pack into a suitcase, and I am nothing if not an expert packer. Traveling with the military, where every gram and cubic centimeter counts, you get really good at using the interior space of your luggage. I think we had him packed in about eight minutes. Excellent timing.
Mateo, on the other hand, filled his suitcase with toys and didn't really see the purpose in packing a lot of clothes. So, I had to go behind his back, grab shirts, shorts, and such and knock his toys out of the bag. His floor looked like a war zone by the time we finished, littered with action figures bent and contorted into all sorts of unnatural positions. No, he didn't appreciate my help, just called me names, then declared "hacer pichi!" and ran off. Finally. I made a few final touches and zipped up the big, black case. When Isabel showed up to help, having finished her morning cleaning, she frowned, realizing I'd gotten the kids packed already. We had all this done by 1100. Good use of time, I thought.
Mr. Quispe had a flight ready for his wife and children, too, so he instructed his driver to drop them off at the airport. We had little to do in the meantime but wait. Knowing things would be very unpredictable once we got to Cuzco, it made me anxious just sitting around doing nothing. I wanted to act. Our flight would take a little over three hours, which seemed like a lifetime. Three more hours of sitting, doing nothing. The very idea drove me a little nuts. Yeah, I'm impatient. Just a bit. What can I say? Nobody's perfect.
But, at last, 1400 rolled around and we made for the airport. When we arrived, there was but one wrinkle: the charter company accidentally booked a football team for the same flight, so the airline staff asked Mr. Quispe if that would be a problem. He didn't care. We didn't, either. We just needed to get to Cuzco, pronto. Sharing the plane wasn't ideal, but if that's what it took to make this happen, fine.
We climbed aboard the plane--a small commuter jet, held about forty people. The plane was full of young guys who looked pretty athletic, although some of them appeared a little on the skinny side to be football players. A couple of older men--forties, maybe fifties--sat near the back. I pegged them for coaches, possibly trainers. I didn't really care enough to ask, I just wanted to get off the ground. I stowed my duffel bag in the overhead compartment. Sag squeezed past me so he could get a window seat. "You know, the port side of the plane is all window seats," I pointed out to him.
"Yeah, but I don't wanna sit by meself."
"Right." I sighed and took my seat next to him. I reached up to aim a small, circular blower at my face--someone's cheap idea of a fan, I guess. I closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep, only wanting to wake up once we arrived.
Sleep never came, though, even after takeoff. Mr. Quispe sat a couple rows behind us, and I turned around to see him wide awake. Alert. Anxious. I couldn't blame him. I felt much the same way, and Paul wasn't even family. I couldn't imagine how stressed out he was about Huayna--someone who, by all accounts, was a good kid, and certainly deserved better than being kidnapped by a bunch of damn Commies, or whatever nasty thing Paul would say about them.
Considering that, I wondered if Paul was presently getting his ass handed to him. I doubt his captors would appreciate his "undiplomatic" opinions of their political beliefs. I hoped we got to him before the Shining Path banged him up too badly.
All told, though, the flight seemed to be going well. Nothing unusual happened. No turbulence. No unruly passengers. Even Sag remained noticeably subdued.
And then, one of the football players walked past me, and something brushed my shoulder. Instinctively, I turned around, and saw the telltale outline of a handgun sticking out of the back of his pants, under a white t-shirt. At first, I thought very little of it. This was Peru--a country which, I had learned, suffered somewhat regular violence. As to what threats faced a mere football team, I had no clue. But hey, maybe it really was for self-defense.
But I wanted to confirm that assumption, so I scanned the cabin, penetrating the clothing of each passenger with my cybernetic vision. What I learned was something else entirely: these people were armed to the teeth. Just about every one had a handgun or a knife, and some had both. Stuck in the back of their pants, holstered to an ankle, folded shut in a pantpocket, it didn't matter. The weapons were everywhere.
I leaned over to Sag and whispered, "I think something's going on here."
"What?" he whispered back indignantly. The "What are you, bonkers?" was implied.
"Look, everyone on this plane is fucking armed. Maybe I'm just out of my element here, but is it really typical for a football team to be armed for bear on a commuter jet?"
He pursed his lips, looking up momentarily, thinking. "Hmm, no. That doesn't sound apples at all."
"Apples? What the fuck are you talking about? I think these guys are SP. What the fuck are we going to do?"
"We have guns, too, don't we?"
"Yeah, because opening fire in a pressurized cabin is a great idea."
"It'll be just as bad for them as it is for us."
"Yeah, no. I think we should go with 'Plan B.'"
"And what's that?"
"Well, my first thought is to crash the fucking plane."
I swear, he looked at me like I'd threatened to grudge fuck his mother. But I had a plan. I always has a plan. Even if I made it up right on the spot.
Chapter 19
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