5

Somewhere deep in the mountains of the Colombian jungle, 1966

The bugs were the worst part. They would crawl onto the body, biting and burying into the skin, and even though every instinct in his body told him to squirm, he kept still. To move would bring attention. Attention would mean detection, and detection meant death.

The temperature was cooling off as the sun began to set behind one of the many lush green Amazonian mountain peaks. Soon it would get cold, and with the cold, the flies, ants, mosquitoes, and whatever else had crawled through and around his groin would hopefully quiet down. Thomas looked down at his hand and saw a fat mosquito nestled among the countless bumps of swollen flesh, taking his fill for the night.

Drink up while you can. His thought was drowned out by thousands of insect and animal noises emanating from the jungle around him.

Thomas DuMonde knew this week would be a hard one, if not the hardest since his return from Vietnam. He had a few days left in his leave and he wanted to make each day count. His time in the Green Berets had prepared him well for situations like this, but for the most part, his job in the military had just benefited the generals and politicians. Now was his time. It was his little adventure and it was going to pay off. This time, risking his life was his choice and this choice would make him rich—or dead, if he screwed up.

 

Pedro’s short and stocky body lumbered around the path surrounding the old, overgrown coffee farm. He hated this post time. Usually he would walk the same track over and over again until his relief came five hours later, but tonight Pedro was stuck pulling two shifts guarding the coffee farm that would soon be turned into an emerald mine. He adjusted the old and rusty M1 Garand on his right shoulder and soldiered on.

Ten hours...Ten hours of walking around in circles guarding this plot of land, and for what?

That was the bet that he had lost earlier in the day...Javier’s midnight guard shift at the mine. Pedro kicked a baseball-sized rock into the jungle brush as he thought of Javier laughing it up with the local whores at the cantina, spending his money and wasting his time.

“Javier...ese hijo de puta,” Pedro murmured. He pulled aside from the worn path, and continued cursing his cousin as he unzipped his fly to relieve himself in the bushes.

 

Thomas’s eyes were still, and focused on that infinite point in the dark distance, when the stream of warm urine struck the rotted log a few inches from his face. The strong, musty smell of the urine told Thomas this man was dehydrated and in need of a drink of water. It was all he could do to ignore the mist of urine collecting on his face and lips. A long minute passed before Thomas exhaled as the sound of receding footsteps dissipated into the night.

That was too close.

He sighed again, and waited for the sentry to get far enough away to move. Thomas pulled on the damp green towel around his neck, removed the leaf-covered Skullguard MSA hardhat, and vigorously wiped the towel across his face. The guard was now a safe distance away as Thomas looked up and waited a few more minutes until the daylight was almost gone.

It was time to make his next move. He crawled out of his hiding place and out into the open.

The crawl was very slow and deliberate. Thomas’s arms were underneath his body, elbows bent, and hands in front of his face. This position, which all Green Berets were taught, allowed him to slowly and methodically inch forward with minimal detectable movement. A mound of foliage above his back hid him from view. Thomas’s pace took him close to five minutes to reach the barbed wire fence 40 feet ahead of him.

He passed through the depression under the fence, covered the opening with loose growth, and took cover inside a small trench cut into the field by the rainy season water runoff. The trench was dry and followed the natural contour of the land. Thomas crawled inside it for 10 more minutes until he came upon the makeshift dig site.

The site was invisible to the naked eye even from a short distance. He had camouflaged it using a canvas tarp covered by mud and shrubbery, which melded itself into the surrounding landscape. Thomas pushed aside the fake mud wall and slid into what would be his work environment for the next 10 hours.

The space was small and cramped, even after two days of digging. Thomas had picked the spot because he found it favorable to do his work, and as an incentive, the fist-sized emerald jutting out from the side of the trench wall had given him the final say as to where he would set up camp. He contorted himself into the space, trying to find a comfortable position, and began to dig at the wall in front of him.

Nine hours passed. Thomas sat with his sweaty back against the trench wall, and lifted the clear Bourke face shield that hung from the front of his full-brim hardhat. The two small shields split from their vertical, angular position in front of Thomas’s eyes to a horizontal position, giving him an unobstructed view of his small workspace. The Bourke face shield had been invented a year earlier by a fireman; to Thomas, it was the perfect addition to the hardhat. It protected his eyes from flying debris as he pickaxed the mountain rock and did not fog up in the hot, damp space he was working in. After removing his leather gloves, he opened a brown paper bag at his side. Inside lay the only meal of the night, a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, which he consumed while watching a scorpion make its way across the opposite wall.

“Not one fucking rock,” he snapped at the scorpion. “Another nine hours, and nothing to show but the emerald I found two days ago. I’m going to kill Esteban when I get back. ‘Es full ofse Emeraldas. Sey are efrywhere ew dig.’” Thomas imitated Esteban’s bad English pronunciation. “That bastard,” he grumbled as his heel flew forward and crushed the scorpion against the dirt wall.

Thomas moved his boot and a chunk of rock came loose, falling down between his legs. The light from the flashlight, which was strapped to the side of the hardhat, reflected green as it bounced off the rock. Thomas picked it up and wiped the crushed scorpion off. Turning the rock over, he admired the dirty, golf-ball-sized emerald embedded within the rock.

“I take that back, Esteban,” he said as he looked up at the area the emerald had come from. Thomas tilted his head and aimed the light beam into the dark hole. His eyes grew wide as the small opening glowed a greenish hue.

Thomas put the gloves on, grabbed the trowel, and stuck it into the hole. The small opening grew as he pulled the stone surrounding the perimeter off its perch. Within the ever-expanding hole lay a nest of scorpions, surrounded by an enclave of emeralds. One of the angered homeowners jumped at Thomas’s face, but he managed to slap it off before the deadly stinger found its mark. He put the Bourke shield back down for protection from another jumper, and spent the next few minutes killing off the scorpion family. Once done with the massacre, he began to pry the emeralds loose from the rocks.

The minute hand on Thomas’s watch counted down to the zero hour...sunrise. Forty minutes had passed since the discovery. In that time he had managed to fill his small backpack and all the available pockets in his clothing with the precious stones.

He leaned against the far trench wall and took a long breath. The air was dusty and humid as he looked at the watch once more.

It was time to go. Thomas contemplated staying, but he knew better.

Greed will kill you. Now, go!

He reached up to the hard hat and turned off the flashlight. Thomas crawled toward the exit with the backpack securely closed, and pulled back the canvas covering the opening. He heard the starter of an engine a few hundred yards from the dig site on the far side of the field turn over a few times. The engine shook and let out a loud bang as the fuel ignited, sending out across the field the unmistakable rattling sound that only a diesel engine can make. But what took Thomas by surprise, and worried him the most, were the countless spotlights that began to illuminate the field, looking as bright as a noon-day sun.

Shit.

Thomas crawled outside and peeked above the trench rim. Another engine started in the distance. This time it was the old rusty farm tractor that leaped forward and struggled as it dragged a plow. At first the field had seemed bright as day, but as Thomas’s eyes adjusted, relief came over him. The lights were not as bright as he had initially thought, and because they were so close to the ground and so few and far between, they caused a strange casting of shadows in all directions.

Thomas didn’t waste any time, and headed away from the emerald cave. By the time he reached the fence, the first rays of sun had begun to pierce through the mountain fog. He pulled the fence up and crawled under it just as the tractor fell into the hidden trench at the center of the field. Hearing this, Thomas worked the rest of his body through, and had just begun to crawl toward the safety of the jungle when a sharp crack of a bullet breaking the sound barrier sounded above his head.

He scrambled to his feet, not waiting for the next shot, and dove the last two yards into the protection of the jungle, rolled once, and reached out for his secondary backpack.

A few more pops sounded above his head as the bullets tore through the foliage. He pushed off the ground and started the rehearsed sprint away from the flat plateau and down the mountain toward the river. Thomas dodged around some massive trees and hopped over the thin metallic trip wires he had set up for such an occasion as he strapped on the secondary backpack.

“Esta llendo para el rio!” came a loud voice from behind, notifying Thomas that they were on his path down to the river.

He kept a steady pace and laughed out loud as he heard a couple of soldiers swearing; they had run right into the trip wire.

Thomas arrived at the foot of a massive ficus tree, jumped out into midair, grabbed one of its dangling roots, and shimmied down over 20 feet to the riverbed below. He ran across the sand and rock surface, and began to hop from boulder to boulder, crossing the gentle river where, on a long, shallow sand bank a dirty green airplane rested on bulbous tires each the size of a beach ball.

Thomas jumped over the last boulder, and with his right hand reached down to a small box and turned the handle protruding from the top. Dozens of flashes ignited, and the far side of the river was engulfed in phosphorous smoke. As the pyrotechnics covered the forest in a blanket of white smoke, Thomas threw the backpacks in the rear seat and climbed into his Piper Super Cub, started it, and waited as long as he dared before pushing the throttle forward.

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In the confusion of the smoke some of the guards went off the river’s steep bank, falling hard onto the rocky riverbed. A few broke their arms; others, their legs. Pedro, after falling face first from the trip wire, was far enough back to see where the previous men had disappeared. The smoke made it impossible to see what was going on two meters ahead of him, but he managed to climb down the embankment to the rocky shore and follow the sound of an idling engine.

Pedro moved forward through the dissipating smoke, careful not to slip into the river water. He recognized the telltale sound of a propeller chopping through the thick, humid morning air as it echoed off the riverbank walls. Pedro aimed his M1 Garand rifle and began to shoot through the smoke toward the noise while still navigating over the boulders. He emptied the clip and reloaded just as the smoke gave him a line of sight to the small plane, its engine now revving up as it pulled away and lifted off the sand bank.

--------

Thomas had just pulled the stick back into his gut and pointed the plane’s nose up to the sky when a shower of hot copper peppered the front of the Piper, shattering the side of the Plexiglas canopy, and unbeknownst to Thomas, mortally wounding one of the plane’s cylinders.

Thomas looked himself over. He was unhurt, but not so the plane as he noted a change in the engine’s tone. He scanned what was left of the instrument panel. The compass and the altimeter had been spared destruction. Thomas would have to make do with what he had. A few more minutes passed as the plane climbed higher into the sky and the unusual noise emanating from the engine kept up a steady rhythm. His situation was stable...for the moment.

Thomas looked once more at the receding riverbed, then reached back for his flight helmet. He unbuckled the hardhat chin strap and flicked it off his head, replacing it with the helmet. He slid the clear Plexiglas shield down, protecting his face from the strong wind coming into the cockpit through the jagged hole in the windshield.

Thomas set the trim tab to gain altitude and pointed the nose east toward the Venezuelan border, hoping the plane would manage to get that far. He knew that if worse came to worst and the engine failed, he could find a nice, suitable landing spot near a road or village and crash land, hopefully surviving, and hike the rest of the way home.

Thomas’s mind wandered and began to calculate the fortune nestled in the rear seat. He was jolted from his reverie when the engine began to sputter.

Damn it!

He looked at his watch and judged he was about 10 minutes away from the border.

“Come on, baby, you’ve given me 30 minutes, be a sweetheart and lend me another 10,” he said, caressing the shattered dashboard. At that same moment the engine let out a scream and the plane shook violently. The propeller stopped spinning, now frozen in the vertical position.

Not good.

He adjusted the plane’s trim to the best glide ratio, which would allow the plane to travel the longest distance possible in proportion to its altitude. A few seconds passed, and the altimeter kept spinning counterclockwise at a high rate of descent, which told Thomas the plane was not going to make it over the mountain range ahead. He began to scan the area for a suitable landing spot when a bright flash illuminated the cockpit for a second. He turned his head toward its suspected origin and caught a glimpse of a tin roof to his right and 1,000 feet below.

He banked the plane toward a nearby hill. After scanning the area, he found what he had been looking for: A narrow farmer’s field cut into the base of the mountain a few hundred feet down and away from the tin roof.

“Well, it doesn’t get any better than that,” he said sarcastically.

Thomas knew he would get one chance at landing on the field, so he strapped himself in tight and began to prepare for a short-field landing.

“Okay, here we go.”

Thomas lined up the plane for its final approach onto the field ahead. He corrected for a slight crosswind as he leveled the wings and lowered the flaps, giving the plane more lift at slower speeds. He was now slightly relaxed, knowing he would make the landing, when suddenly an unseen, strong wind eddy coming off the treetops sucked the plane down and off course as it flew right into its vortex. Thomas slammed the control stick back, overcorrecting, but it was too late as the plane headed directly into one of many trees now in its path.

“Too short!” Thomas screamed through his teeth as he physically lifted himself off the seat.

Ah, crap!

The Piper smashed into the top of the tree, leaving its landing gear and part of the tail behind in the foliage. Thomas was thrown forward in his seat, but managed to coax what was left of the plane down onto the field, where it hit hard, then flipped over twice before skidding over the side, down a steep hill, and into the jungle.

Thomas’s eyes opened to an upside-down world. He shook his head, got his bearings, and checked for serious injuries.

No pain...that’s always good. Uh-oh, fuel smell. Mags off.

Thomas reached out and turned the ignition key, his body still hanging from the seat harness.

Main battery... He flicked the switch marked battery to the off position. Off.

Seatbelt o—

Thomas unbuckled himself and fell hard onto the ceiling of the fuselage. He crawled out and collapsed flat on his face. After brushing the last few terrifying seconds off his mind, he flipped onto his back and took in the thick jungle canopy above. He crawled back into the fuselage, grabbed all his belongings, and then pulled himself up on his feet with the help from a dangling vine. He staggered away from the plane, removed his dented Army flight helmet, and replaced it with the hardhat.

You lucky son of a bitch.

Thomas looked back at his plane, and after getting his bearings, took some time to remove all identification from it—last thing he needed was to be tracked down. He touched his palm on the destroyed fuselage one last time, picked up his belongings, threw on his backpack, and climbed up the wooded hill to the field above.

It took some time to scale the 50-foot hillside, the weight of the pack dragging him down with every misstep. After a struggle he was standing on a flat, low, uncut grass surface. He gulped some water from his canteen and surveyed the field. A tall tree to his right held tight to part of the plane’s tail section. Below it was what looked to be a wide hut. Next to the hut was an overgrown path following the contour of the hill.

Thomas took in his new surroundings as he walked to the path. A few parrots flew across the trees at the end of the field. Nature called out in song all around him.

His short walk ended in front of a wide barn door kept closed by a rusty padlock. He tugged on the lock and tried to peek through the small crack in the dried-out wood paneling. His face lit up when he saw the outline of a plane sitting in the darkness. Thomas couldn’t see much else, but his hopes were high once more. He turned and headed up the path to try to find the airplane’s owner.

The structure before Thomas was well hidden by countless vines. After a few moments his eyes picked out the front of a gate to his left. Beyond the rusty iron gate lay even more tree cover.

“Se encuentra el dueño de la casa?” he yelled for the owner of the house.

Thomas gave it some time, shrugged, and pushed the gate open, cringing at the squealing sound the gate’s rusty hinges made as they pivoted.

“That will sure get anybody’s attention,” he said as he stepped onto the property, but still no sign of life.

Ten paces in he found himself in the middle of a lush courtyard. Behind was the gate embedded in the tall, ivy-covered wall. To the left was a gray, three-foot-high flat rock wall with a view of the lush green valley below. Within the courtyard was a very impressive botanical garden, bearing many plants, including some rather exotic-looking orchids and ferns. He walked on the gray, decomposed granite path through the courtyard, and saw the main house in the distance peeking through the dense foliage.

Thomas followed the path through Eden. On his way he picked a pear from its tree and mulled it over, wondering how hard it must have been to grow them in such a temperate climate, took a bite, and marveled at its incredible taste.

“Damn, that’s a great pear!” He looked around and reached up to pull down more of the lush fruit, stuffing them alongside the emeralds within his safari jacket’s lower pockets.

Thomas’s tour of the gardens ended in front of a wide porch built from the same stone as the walls surrounding the property. A few hammocks and a couple of wicker chairs made up the décor. A soft breeze fluttered dead leaves around as an open French glass door at the back banged up against the whitewashed wall with each gust.

“Algien se enquentra?” Thomas called out again, asking if anyone was home. He stepped up onto the porch, then moved forward and peeked in through the door. It was a mess inside. Leaves had accumulated in the corners of the room, chairs were tipped over, and all the cabinets were open. He reached under his jacket, pulled out with his gloved hand his “borrowed” CIA suppressed .22, and pulled back on the action, checking to see that it was loaded. Being extra cautious always kept one alive. He sidestepped around the perimeter of the living room, the .22 by his side at the ready.

The room was square. It had a river rock fireplace flanked by two paintings opposite the front entrance. To the left was the dining room with a picturesque view of the valley; to his right, a den lined with bookshelves.

He did a double take on the paintings. The artist who had painted the colorful, deep-green landscape, which swirled into and out of texture, seemed so familiar to him. He just couldn’t pinpoint it. He walked up to the one on the right and read the artist’s name.

“Van Gogh. You have to be shitting me,” he gasped.

Thomas went on to see the other artist on the wall. Matisse. He then stepped into the dining room. On the wall hung a Renoir and a Pizarro. Four paintings worth a fortune. Astonished by the find, he went looking around the rest of the house, careful not to let his guard down. His luck struck once more with a Picasso in the master bedroom.

The main house was small, with only two bedrooms. The single-story house had been abandoned in a hurry. Luckily for Thomas, whoever had ransacked the place had no clue what they were doing. The house was intact but messy, and the food and silverware were gone. Next to the main house stood the servants quarters; they, too, were empty, but it was a different story. All that was left were the walls, everything else was gone, even the toilets and sinks. It looked to Thomas that the thieves either respected the owner’s property or feared what might happen if they took anything of real worth.

Thomas ended his search back in the living room. He went through the pair of doors that led into the den, and looked over the untouched books on the shelf. Some titles he recognized; Hemingway, Edgar Allen Poe, Kafka. Others were in German. He then came across an unusual title.

“Mein Kampf,” he whispered.

Thomas pulled the book from its shelf and noticed an awful but familiar smell, easily recognized from time spent at war: The smell of death. He moved closer and sniffed, noticing that the smell got stronger.

Is it coming from behind the bookshelf?

He put the book back and began to probe the wood structure.

“There you are,” he said as he found the locking mechanism and pulled on it.

Click.

The shelf shifted. Thomas grabbed the side with his empty hand and pulled it open, revealing a hallway into another room.

A fluorescent tube flickered above him as he inched ahead, pointing his weapon forward. The smell was overpowering. He reached up and removed the dirty towel from around his neck and covered his nose and mouth, trying hard to ignore the smell of rotting flesh coming through the towel.

The windowless room was half the size of a typical garage. Two of its walls were lined with bookshelves and the other two covered in pictures. There was a solitary mahogany desk in the center of the room, stacked with papers, and a slumped swollen human body.

Thomas holstered his gun and walked to the body, grabbed it, and pulled it with considerable difficulty up and back onto its chair. The body was stiff with rigor mortis. Thomas calculated the man had been dead at most for about 72 hours. After checking it for wounds, he concluded that the old man had most likely died of natural causes.

There was a partially written letter on the desk, along with the usual artifacts—pens, a paperweight, stationary, and a letter opener. Thomas picked up a half-written letter and tried reading it. He recognized a few German words, but not enough to make any sense of what was written there. He lifted his head and scanned the room once more.

In front of the desk was a reverse-mirror image of the library wall in the den, lined with books of all sizes and colors. In the center of the wall hung a one-by-two-foot painting of a government building. The painting was mediocre and Thomas wondered why it would be hidden in such a room, away from view of the casual stranger. He walked up to it and found out why.

“A. Hitler,” Thomas whispered in amazement.

He looked back at the body, then again at the picture. The thought crossed his mind, but the dead man at the table bore no resemblance to the artist of the painting on the wall. Thomas looked over the body once more. The man seemed to be in his early fifties, tall and well built, but the swelling and rigor mortis made it hard to guess any better. With that thought aside, he began to search the room.

The books seemed to be of a scientific nature, most with pages upon pages of calculations. Some were of astronomical charts, the rest German novels. Thomas then came across a photo album. What he found inside left a chill in his bones.

The first few pages were those of what looked like military friends, and the dead man sitting in the back seat of an observation plane at an earlier time in his life. The next pages showed some scenic pictures of a mountain retreat, followed by the dead man alongside Adolph Hitler and his entourage. Thomas looked at the pictures in disbelief. The next pages were of another mountain range and an ominous-looking castle perched on the mountainside. Then came the disturbing pictures, first of some labs, then of malnourished people alive in one picture, and grossly dismembered or disfigured and dead in the next. The progression of pictures depicted continuous experiments that produced horrible deaths until the last pictures that showed a few souls alive in the before-and-after pictures.

Thomas looked back at the dead man, but this time in true disgust.

“You son of a bitch.” He walked over to the body and pushed it aside. It tilted over and thumped on the hard concrete floor. “Let’s see who you are.”

Thomas, now determined, began to open the desk drawers. All he found were more files and papers he couldn’t read. He flipped through them, but none had a closing signature or any sort of identification as to who had written them.

Thomas looked up from the desk and focused on the painting, noticing something he had not seen before. It was at an angle from the wall, much like an open door. He went around the desk and stood in front of the painting, reached out, pulled on the edge of the frame, and pivoted it out.

Hello there.

“Sure,” he said, looking back at the body, “where else would you keep it?” Thomas studied the safe embedded in the wall. Its door was smaller in size than the painting and had a combination lock with a steel handle. He wrapped his gloved fingers around the handle, closed his eyes, and pulled the lever down.

Click.

Thomas smirked as he pulled open the heavy safe door.

A thimble size light bulb flickered inside the safe, dimly illuminating a thick manila folder, a small dark-blue velvet box, and a few papers. He pulled the contents out of the safe, one at a time, and found what he was looking for.

The small booklet was burgundy-colored with a gold inlaid eagle perched atop the Nazi swastika. He opened the passport and flipped to the picture of a much younger Nazi SS officer, who now lay dead on the floor. The man’s name was Hans Kammler, a name Thomas did not recognize.

There were some medals inside the velvet box. The thick manila envelope contained a set of plans, more paperwork with calculations, and pictures of scientists working around a donut shaped, cylindrical machine the size of a truck’s tire.

Thomas looked in once more and found a set of keys against one of the corners of the safe. As he took the keys out, the leather on his index finger got caught up on a fine metal ridge embedded into the side of the safe.

There you go...one more surprise.

Thomas pushed against the opposite side of the ridge and a lid swung open. He reached in and found a tin, shoebox-sized box within. The box was heavy and rattled as if something were loose inside. It also had a key lock. Thomas picked up the keys he had found in the safe, but none fit the small lock.

He looked around the room and found an old leather briefcase in which he put the contents of the safe along with the tin box. The thought of taking the Hitler painting crossed his mind, but he decided it was not worth the effort to carry it across the jungle.

Thomas left the stench of the secret room and entered the living room. He put his backpack down and began to empty its unnecessary contents to make space for his emeralds by taking out all the extra clothing, a couple of paperback books, the waterproof poncho, and his digging tools.

He sat on one of the lush couches in the living room and rearranged the pack to maximize the space within. Thomas grabbed the throw pillow on the couch, took out the stuffing inside and emptied the emeralds from his pockets into it. After adjusting both emerald bags at the bottom of the larger backpack, he put the old leather briefcase inside, along with what he deemed essential supplies for the trip ahead. That left the tin box, which he put on top of the backpack and flapped the canvas lid over it, securing everything inside.

Thomas collected all the paintings by removing the priceless works of art from their intricate frames, and wrapped each one in sheets from the bedrooms. He then placed one on top of the other, covered them in the waterproof poncho and secured the bundle to the outside of the backpack above the smaller pack now hooked securely to the main pack. He shook the backpack, making sure everything was strapped on tight, ran his arms through the straps, and adjusted the weight comfortably on his shoulder. Suddenly, Thomas looked up as he heard a distinctive chopping sound echoing through the valley, the telltale sound of a helicopter.

Shit!

He pulled down on the straps, tightening the backpack to his body, checked the living room once more, and jogged out into the courtyard. Thomas didn’t know if they were hostile, and even though the sound was far away, he wasn’t going to take the chance. He would have to disappear into the jungle. He took off running through the garden past the rusty front gate, and down the path.

The helicopter was getting closer as he reached the old barn at the end of the path. He stopped in mid-stride and looked back at the wood structure.

“Might as well check.” He removed his triple barrel rifle from the sheaf that was strapped to the side of the pack, cocked the exposed top hammer, aimed and squeezed the trigger, blowing out the lock along with the surrounding wood with a powerful 45-70 buckshot round. He pulled on the long door, letting in the light that revealed an unusual shape within.

Thomas let go of the door as gravity took it and swung it open. He stood there and stared at the weirdest-looking plane he had ever seen. Time was of the essence, so he jumped onto the left wheel strut, found a perch, then climbed up to the wing to check the fuel tanks. To his good fortune the plane was fueled up. He stepped down, opened the side hatch, and stuck his head into the cockpit and moved the battery switch, checking to see that it had a charge. The battery indicator dial swung its needle to full charge.

So far so good.

Next he moved the control stick, making sure all the control surfaces were in working order. Satisfied that the plane was safe to fly, he took off his pack, put it in the rear seat, and sat himself in the front seat. Thomas took a few moments fiddling with the rest of the gauges, trying to figure out what each one did.

Key? Need the keys!

“Damn, I don’t have time to hot-wire you,” he grumbled. Thomas determined that he had about a minute left before he would have to abandon the plane and hop into the jungle. He reached back and started emptying his backpack.

“Ha!” he said in triumph as he found the keys in the old leather briefcase. “Now let’s see if this is the luckiest day of my life!”

Thomas began to slip each key into the slot on the flight panel. On the third try the key slid in and turned, and a green light lit up above the key. Next to it was a dime-sized button, which Thomas pressed. The long, two-bladed propeller spun twice, shaking the plane from side to side.

Okay, that should be enough to lubricate the cylinders.

Thomas turned the magneto switch to both, set the mixture to full, pumped what he figured out was the primer, and advanced the throttle a half an inch forward. He closed his eyes, and hit the starter switch once more.

The long, two-bladed wood propeller swung, but this time it was accompanied by a popping sound. He kept the starter depressed while he fiddled with the throttle, and with a loud bang the engine caught on. Each of the eight cylinders began to fire. It was music to his ears. He pulled the throttle back and settled the plane into a smooth but loud idle.

Thomas patiently scanned the gauges, making sure everything was in working order. Then from above, the hangar shook as a Bell 47 helicopter sporting the Colombian colors flew right over and down the grass strip, heading to the smoke rising up from the crash site. Thomas had not noticed the smoke as he ran down the hillside, and now figured that the spilled fuel must have ignited when it touched the hot engine exhaust tube.

He stared at the helicopter as it hovered a few feet above the ground. The two passengers shifted inside, trying to get a better view at the burning wreckage below. The helicopter then fired a burst of bullets into the jungle from its twin .50 caliber machine guns, each one mounted on the outside of the helicopter’s skids. The copilot threw a round object out and toward the smoke plume. After a few seconds, Thomas felt the concussion of a grenade exploding.

Swell, they’ve got machine guns and grenades.

He looked at the end of the runway, then at the helicopter hovering in his path. “Fuck it!” He set the flaps to 40 degrees and pushed the throttle lever forward until it stopped.

The plane leaned to the left and Thomas applied right rudder to compensate for the torque the engine produced. Inside the hut it became a blinding whirlwind of dust as the plane accelerated out into the open field. The tail rose up, catching Thomas by surprise. He pulled back on the control stick and the tail came back down, only to rise again. Thomas stabilized the plane and felt as the wings bit into the wind, lifting the plane up and away from the grass runway.

“Hey, assholes! Look left!” he screamed as he got closer and his speed increased. “Look, damn it!” Thomas screamed again as he calculated that the helicopter was not high enough off the ground for his plane to safely pass under it.

The plane closed the distance between the two aircraft. Thomas saw the helicopter pilot turn his head, and the two of them made eye contact. Thomas cut the throttle and flared the plane, forcing it back down onto the runway.

The pilot pulled on the collective, and the helicopter began to lift just as Thomas’s propeller reached the point where the landing skids had been. The propeller completed its rotation and the tip of the blade nicked the bottom of the left skid.

The helicopter pilot’s first reaction was instinctive. He pulled up in time for the two aircraft to miss each other by millimeters. Unfortunately, the helicopter pilot’s second reaction was panic, and the third anger. These three separate reactions became one as the pilot input them into the control systems.

The rising helicopter swung around, machine guns blazing, as the tail rotor rotated the fuselage right, trying to track the plane that had almost collided into it. But the inputs were too much for the helicopter as the extreme vibrations and .50 caliber machine guns’ fire and kickback made the pilot overexert, sending the helicopter into a dangerous pitch.

Thomas had the best seat in the house as he pushed the throttles forward once more. He watched through the greenhouse canopy as the helicopter maneuvered into firing position. But what he saw that the pilot of the helicopter did not, was the tree vine dangling innocently in the flight path of the helicopter’s tail rotor.

The tail rotor and vine exploded as one, sending the helicopter completely out of control. Thomas ducked as one of the tail rotor blades flew toward him. The blade made contact with one of the many small glass windows that made up the top of the canopy structure of the plane, and sprayed the broken glass all over the cockpit interior. He felt the shards hit his hardhat and shoulders, cutting through his clothes and slashing his skin, but he didn’t care. Not because he had cheated death once more, but because he now faced a solid wall of green jungle.

The helicopter pilot and his passenger froze in fear as the blades struck the ground, sending the frame of the helicopter cartwheeling out of control and into the mountainside of the runway. The pilot was thrown out of the cockpit, and cut in half by the remaining rotor blade. The rest of the helicopter smashed into the mountain. Thomas felt the concussion of the explosion as the helicopter disintegrated when the armed grenade that the copilot had accidentally dropped, exploded.

Like the pilot in the helicopter, Thomas needed to go up, so he pulled back on the control stick and tried to push the throttle past its stop. The plane reacted as he put the stick into his gut. His eyes grew wider as the engine revved up, spinning the propeller as it cut its way through the dense foliage. He heard the landing gear snap some branches, and just as quick as the mayhem began, it was replaced by blue sky and the rhythmic hum of the airplane’s engine.

Thomas banked the plane, and looked back over his shoulder to see the burning grass runway, and the smoldering black smoke rising out of the pile of jumbled steel. He convulsed once, twice, and burst into nervous laughter. After a few seconds he took a deep breath, let it out, and released his death grip on the stick and throttle.

He took his bearings and headed east to the safety of the Venezuelan border, looking around every so often just to make sure he was the only one in the air. The plane flew at a steady 80 knots and bounced through some unstable air as it crested over a lush green mountain peak. Thomas banked the plane and descended into the valley, looking for signs of civilization. After some time he made out the faint outline of a dirt road peeking through the green Amazonian canopy. The road hugged the mountain’s base, winding its way down to a riverbed, then crossed the river at a rickety bridge. He mimicked its every turn, flying slow and low until coming to a small town surrounded by plowed fields. It had been 40 minutes since his escape, and by the looks of the town below, Thomas recognized that he was now in Venezuelan airspace.

The plane hit another mild patch of turbulence, and something rattled below his seat. Thomas reached down between the control stick and seat, pulled out the tin box that he’d found in the safe, and flipped it in his hands, mulling over the faded address: Cullinan, South Africa.

He held the control stick between his legs, pulled out the K-bar knife from its sheath on his belt, and worked the tip of the knife into the small lock attached to the top lid, all the while keeping the plane level with his knees. After a few turns and a twist, the box lid flew open.

Thomas’s grin showed his crooked teeth as he stared down into the tin box.

This is the luckiest day of my life!

Inside sparkled hundreds of uncut diamonds.