Hudson took another drag on the cigarette. He wasn’t sure the Russians would check the Azores. But two Americans and a foreigner landing in what was essentially an international airliner — and then waiting around for three days without talking to anyone — was the kind of thing that might draw attention.
“At some point, you’re going to have to decide what you’re more afraid of,” he said, nodding toward the plane sitting alone in the drizzle. “A little turbulence or a knife in the gut.”
Tarasov looked up to the churning dark sky. He shrugged and held his hands out, palms up, like a man trying to show the world he had no money. “But we cannot fly like this,” he said.
“Land,” Hudson clarified. “We cannot land like this.” He made a motion with his hand like a plane descending and flaring for landing.
“But we can sure as hell take off,” he continued, raising his hand again. “And then we can head due west. No mountains that way. Nothing but ocean… and freedom.”
Tarasov shook his head, but Hudson could see his resolve faltering.
“I checked the weather in New York,” he said, lying once again. He’d done no such thing, not wanting anyone to guess his destination. “It’s clear for the next forty-eight hours, but after that…”
Tarasov seemed to understand.
“We go now or we’re stuck here for a week.”
His passenger did not appear to like either choice. He looked at the ground and then out toward the big silver Constellation with its four massive piston engines and sleek triple tails. He stared into the rain and the cloak of the night beyond.
“You can get us through?”
Hudson flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with his boot. He had him. “I can get us through,” he said.
Reluctantly, Tarasov nodded.
Hudson looked out toward the plane and made a winding motion with his hand. The sharp sound of the starter motor rang out and black smoke belched from the number 3 engine. The plugs fired and the big radial engine came to life. In moments, the huge propeller was spinning at fifteen hundred rpms, blasting rain and spray out behind the aircraft. Seconds later the number 1 engine sprang to life.
Hudson had hoped he would be able to convince their passenger to fly. He’d left Charlie Simpkins, his copilot, in the plane and told him to keep her primed to go.
“Come on,” Hudson said.
Tarasov took a deep breath and then stepped away from the door. He began walking toward the waiting plane. Halfway there, a shot rang out. It echoed across the wet tarmac, and Tarasov lurched forward, arching his back and twisting to the side.
“No!” Hud
son yelled.
He sprang forward, grabbing Tarasov, keeping the man on his feet and hustling him toward the plane. Another shot rang out. This one missed, skipping off the concrete to the right.
Tarasov stumbled.
“Come on!” Hudson shouted, trying to get him up.
The next bullet hit Hudson, catching him in the shoulder, spinning him around. He fell to the ground and rolled. The shell had knocked him downward like someone hitting him from above. He guessed the shot had come from the terminal’s roof.
Wincing in pain, Hudson pulled a Colt.45 from his shoulder holster. He spun and aimed toward the roof of the building, firing blindly in what he guessed was the approximate direction of the sniper.
After blasting off four shots, Hudson thought he saw a shape duck behind the lip of the terminal’s roof. He fired another shot in that direction and then grabbed Tarasov once again, pulling him backward toward the plane, dragging him across the ground like a sled, until they reached the stairs near the front of the aircraft.
“Get up,” Hudson shouted, trying to haul him up.
“I… can’t,” Tarasov said.
“I’ll help you,” he said, lifting. “You just have to—”
As he pulled Tarasov to his feet another shot cracked, and the man sprawled to the ground face-first.
Hudson ducked behind the stairs and shouted toward the aircraft’s open doors.