[h3]The Isabel Gemio Story - Part VI[/h3]

Rain pounded on the tin roof of the aircraft hanger, drowned out by the crack of thunder as lightening ripped across the heavens.  Sheets of rain, propelled by gusts of wind swept across the airfield like grey curtains against the towering black clouds that filled the horizon from end to end. To the men who stood on the tarmac watching the huge four engined aircraft descend toward the it seem as though it would crash for sure as the wind and rain buffeted it. They could see the wings rising and following as the pilot fought with the controls, the black bladed propellers clawing at the air as the aircraft dropped toward the run way. 

The landing gear appeared to brush the tree tops as the plane lumbered over the outer perimeter of the airfield and the watching crowd released a collective gasp of breath they did not realize they had been holding. The tarmac below the aircraft, as far as anyone could see, was running with so much water it appeared as though the plane was trying to touch down on a river. Landing lights blinked feebly against the encroaching darkness and fire crews had been mobilized to stand by. 

Dropping lower, the plane flashed past huge hangers that housed the airships grounded by the storm. Lightening strikes hammered the tall buildings and everyone waited for the awful moment when one of the strikes would shatter the aircraft in mid-air. It seemed as if there was no way they could not, the strikes were happening with such frequency there was no doubt that the heart of the tempest was passing over them at that very moment.  

Then the wheels hit the ground and water exploded upward, drenching the aircraft, drowning one of the engines so that it sputtered and died. The plane slewed violently for a moment before the pilot was able to regain control, and then the tail struck once, twice, a third time, finally onto the runway and steadying the aircraft. 

"That was some amazing fucking flying." Breathed one of the watching groundcrew. 

Landing lights from the aircraft lit up the [i]São Paolo[/i] sign as it began to slow and taxi toward the large hanger that had been cleared specifically for its arrival. The interior was bright with floodlights and a row of cars was parked to one side, mostly unmarked sedans, but two marked Police cars as well, the Brasilian flag on their bumpers indicating they were federal officers. 

"Who did you say is on that plane?" The same man had turned to a dour looking policeman with the rank of Captain on his shoulder.

"I didn't. And you would do well to not ask again." The policeman replied coldly before walking away.

The short conversation summed up much of how the evening had gone so far. The groundcrew had been spirited away from their usual jobs and hurried to this distant hanger on the far side of the airport. No explanation was given save that an aircraft was arriving from Spain and it was a priority flight. Now the crazy fuckers were trying to land in the middle of the worst thunder storm they had seen in years. At first it had been exciting, the secrecy of it, but that slowly wore off as the groundcrew began to realize just how mysterious their arrival was. The cordon of police, about half in uniform, were all fully armed and no one had been allowed to enter or leave the hanger since the doors opened. For a bunch of airport jockeys on minimum wage, it was the type of event one thought might involve a bullet in the back of the head at the end. 

The big plane, its long silver body turned a brilliant blue by a nearby lightening strike, was turning toward the hanger now, one engine still spinning slowly to a stop. The words [i]Unión Aérea Española[/i] were emblazoned on the fuselage and the tail had been painted over with a Spanish flag. The plane with its four huge engines was a common enough type used by the Spanish airline industry, big, reliable, and able to make the Atlantic journey with minimal layovers. On this particular day however, there were no expectant faces pressed to the windows, in fact the plane looked completely empty. 

The roar of the engines were deafening, even through the ear protection they wore, as the plane nosed its way into the hanger. Wet brakes squealed and crewmen hurried forward to place chocks beneath the huge rubber tires as the aircraft came to a halt on the dry concrete floor of the hanger, water pouring off its silvery flanks to create a treacherous puddle. The remaining three engines quit abruptly and the pilots sagged in their harnesses, the looks of abject terror on their faces visible even to the men standing outside. No one could blame them, most had assumed they were dead men. A ladder was pushed forward to the door of the aircraft and an audible "click" as the door swung open. 

"Eyes down and turn around. Any man who tries to look will be shot!" Roared a police officer, racking the action on his machine gun as he turned on the groundcrew, all of whom suddenly found the concrete floor and wall behind them fascinating. 

Sara Reicker stepped onto the top step of the boarding platform, her senses assailed with the smell of rain and heavy ozone from the storm that rippled and cracked beyond the confines of the tin walls. Beneath it was the sharp smell of aviation fuel and chemicals commonly associated with an airport. The wind whipped her black hair around her face and tugged at the blue dress that she wore and she felt a surge relief to be out of the plane after so many hours in the air, and, frankly, she had thought they were going to die on the approach to São Paolo. But they hadn't, and here she was. She still hadn't decided if she wanted to throw up or not.

"Senhora Guerrero, welcome to Brasil." A well built plainclothes policeman had stepped to the bottom of the ramp. "I am amazed you're alive."

Sara spared him a wide smile and she made her way down the steps. She was travelling under a false name on a real Spanish passport, prepared for her just four days ago when orders had at last come to her in Malaga. For the past while she had been content to wander the streets, taking time to study Spanish and Portuguese in the comfort of the Royal Palace with a private tutors.

"Thank you. I was quite certain we were going to get knocked out of the air," She glanced down at the mans badge. "Capitán Aveiro." Her Portuguese was clipped and precise, the type of pronunciation typical of someone who wasn't native to the language.  

"José Dinis Aveiro, at your service." He replied with a small bow of his head. While he was unsure who exactly Sara was, his government had made it very clear that she was to have complete cooperation from him and his office. "We have a car that will take you to the hotel at once."

"Ah, no need, thank you." She held up a hand. "Take me to the newspaper instead. I believe you still have it cordoned off?" She smiled again and touched a hand to her belly. "I am still not sure I will not throw up. The hotel will not help, but work will."

Aveiro nodded and gestured toward the waiting cars, their engines rumbling to life as they approached. He and Sara took their seats in the middle car, the vehicle pulling forward as soon as the doors had slammed close, moving out into the pouring rain and toward the city.