Sahara Crosswind by T. Davis Bunn Page B

sound Jake had ever heard.
    â€œBeautiful,” Pierre murmured, clearly agreeing with him.
    The pilot clattered down the back loading ramp, pushing an overloaded trolley and carrying a folded sheaf of papers in his mouth. Behind him came a single Arab guard, pushing a second trolley piled so high with boxes that he had to crane around the side to find his footing. Together they maneuvered their cargo into the rusting warehouse.
    â€œNow’s as good as it’s going to get,” Jake whispered.
    Omar hissed, causing them to swivel about on their bellies. A cadre of Tuareg appeared in the embankment’s narrow opening, searching the empty desert reaches and arguing fiercely among themselves.
    Keeping himself below the lip of the defile, Jake slid the knife from his belt and offered it back to Omar. “I wish you could know what it has meant to travel with you,” he whispered.
    Omar looked down at the knife for a very long moment, then pushed it back toward Jake.
    â€œI can’t,” Jake murmured, reaching out once more.
    Again Omar pressed the hand back, harder this time, and pointed with his chin toward the waiting plane. Go.
    Jake grasped the chieftain’s shoulder and held it firmly. Omar returned the gaze and nodded once. He understood.
    Pierre reached over and gripped the chieftain’s hand. “I owe you much,” he whispered. “I will repay. A way will be found.”
    Omar murmured a reply, the meaning clear.
    Jake slithered forward and rolled over the edge, followed by Pierre. Together they scrambled down the dune, raced at a crouch across the open terrain, and pounded up the plane’s loading ramp.
    Inside, the noise was deafening. The plane’s age was visible everywhere, from the rusting struts to the string of bullet holes that provided the interior’s only light and ventilation. The hold was mammoth and filthy and rocked continually in time to the droning engines. Boxes and bales were strapped along both sides, and loose padding littered the central gangway.
    Jake was still standing there, trying to get his bearings, when voices approached and shouted words indistinguishable over the engines’ roar. Panicked into action, he and Pierre ripped up padding, pressed themselves into two empty pockets between the bundled cargo, crouched down, and flung the filthy burlap over their heads.
    A pair of boots climbed the metal ramp, shouted something more, then operated a winch that ground and groaned and finally pulled the ramp up tight with a resounding bang. The boots walked forward, passed Jake’s hiding place, and headed up into the cockpit.
    The engines’ roar rose to a new pitch. The plane rattled and groaned and trundled slowly about. The thunder rose even higher, the ground bumped beneath them, then with a gut-wrenching swoop they felt themselves leap from the earth.
    Jake eased himself as much as he could in his cramped position and took a couple of easier breaths. Safe.
    Then he almost jumped out of his skin when a voice shouted just inches from his ear, “Well if this ain’t a sight for sore eyes, I don’t know what is.”
    A boot kicked at his shin, and the Texas twang went on, “You two come on outta there. My copilot’s down with the galloping whatsis, and this baby don’t fly too well without a firm hand on the tiller.”

Chapter Thirteen
    â€œLucky for you boys I was blocking the guardhouse window,” the pilot told them once they had joined him in the cockpit. “That Arab back there woulda probably shot you for renegades. Me, now, I got a naturally curious nature. I see what appears to be an American Army officer skedaddling for my plane with an Arab in them fancy desert robes hot on his tail, why, I figure this is probably one for the books.”
    He pointed through his window and went on, “That river coming out of the Raggah oasis used to be almost two miles wide. Now it’s not much more than