The Blackhawk banked right and headed back to the north, to the secure area of Devil’s Nest, the other AH-6 flying escort. Turcotte flipped off the safety on the Calico as they headed toward the treeline. Whatever was going the on, it was clear to Turcotte that it wasn’t going according to Prague’s plan.
“Pass complete. Three’s coming home,” Quinn announced.
All eyes were on the screen. The bogey was still behind Three. It continued that way for about a minute, then suddenly the second dot broke away, heading back to the northeast, where it had just come from.
“Get Aurora on that bogey!” Gullick ordered.
“We’ve got to get these people,” Prague ordered as the helicopter banked toward the rapidly fleeing pickup truck.
“They’re civilians,” Turcotte protested, leaning through the door and checking out the truck.
“They saw too much. We can’t have them talking about seeing helicopters here. Fire across the front of the truck,” Prague ordered the pilot, who expertly sideslipped his helicopter so that they were now flying sideways, with the nose of the aircraft — and the chain gun hung off the skid — pointed toward the pickup. A stream of tracers arced out, right across the headlights of the pickup, and the brake lights flared.
“Goddamn!” Turcotte yelled. “Are you crazy?”
“Put us down on the road in front of them,” Prague ordered, ignoring Turcotte.
“Who are these people, Billy?” Susie screamed. “Why are they shooting at us?” Billy didn’t waste time trying to explain. He slammed truck into reverse as the helicopter settled down in front of him in the glow of the headlights, blowing dirt and debris up into the air, blinding him.
The pickup’s rear tires slipped into the drainage ditch on the side of the road. Dirt flew as Billy threw the gear into first, but they didn’t move.
The skids touched ground and Prague was out the door, leaving the dart rifle behind in favor of his Calico. Turcotte followed, right on his heels. Turcotte’s mind was trying to sort out all that had happened and was happening.
“Hands up and out of the truck!” Prague yelled.
The doors opened and a man stepped out, a woman following, hiding herself behind the man’s bulk.
“Who are you people?” the man asked.
“Cuff them!” Prague ordered Turcotte.
“They’re civilians.” He stood still.
Prague shifted the muzzle of his Calico in Turcotte’s direction. “Cuff them.”
Turcotte looked at the weapon, looked at Prague, then pulled out two plastic cinches from his vest and secured the couple’s hands behind their backs.
“Let me see your ID,” the man demanded. “You can’t be doing this. We didn’t do nothing wrong. You ain’t cops.”
“Get in the helicopter,” Prague ordered. He herded the procession toward the AH-6.
“Where are you taking us?” the man asked, standing stubbornly in the middle of the road just short of the helicopter, the girl still cowering at his side.
Turcotte looked at Prague and saw the way the man’s body was set, saw his finger shifting from outside the trigger guard to inside, a sure sign he was about to fire.
Turcotte had been trained just like Prague: the only safety was the finger off the trigger.
Turcotte quickly stepped in between. “Just do as he says. We’ll get this sorted once we get back to base. There’s been an accident,” he added lamely. “I’m Mike,” he said, tapping the man on the shoulder and pointing at the helicopter, the sudden human gesture momentarily disorienting the couple. The man looked at Turcotte. “Billy. This here’s Susie.”
Turcotte nudged them toward the helicopter. “Well, Billy and Susie, looks like the man wants you to go for a ride.”
“Shut up, meat,” Prague snarled, gesturing with the weapon.
They got into the helicopter and the pilot lifted.
A third dot was now on the screen, popping on the screen over eastern Nevada and heading almost directly toward Bouncer Three, which was returning to base. Gullick knew that was Aurora on its way to intercept the bogey.
“The bogey is dropping off the chase, sir,” Quinn reported. The bogey was circling, heading back in toward the Nightscape objective.
“Redirect Aurora toward Nebraska,” Gullick ordered.
Quinn complied.
“Aurora ETA at the objective?” Gullick immediately demanded.
“Ten minutes,” Quinn announced.
Not bad time to cover almost twelve hundred miles. But in this case it might be about nine minutes too late, Gullick reflected as he watched the symbol that represented the bogey close on the target site. He briefly considered ordering Bouncer Three to turn around, but that was beyond the present scope of his authority. Gullick smashed his fist down onto the desk in front of him, startling those in the Cube.
The AH-6 cleared the trees at the edge of a field and turned to the north. Turcotte had strapped the man and woman into the backseat and squeezed in next to them.
Prague was twisted around in the right front seat, the barrel of his Calico pointed rearward, his finger caressing the outside of the trigger guard.
Turcotte looked at the muzzle, then at Prague. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t point that thing at me,” he said into the boom mike. Turcotte was scared. Not so much because of the gun pointed at him, although that was a problem, but more because the man holding the gun was acting so irrationally. What did Prague think he was going to do with these two civilians?
“I don’t give a fuck what you’d appreciate,” Prague answered over the intercom. “You questioned me in the middle of a mission. That’s a no-go, meat. I’m going to have your ass.”
“These people are civilians,” Turcotte said. The couple were ignorant of the conversation because they weren’t wearing headsets.
“They’re fucking dead meat now, as far as I’m concerned,” Prague said. “They saw too much. They’ll have to go to the facility at Dulce and get clipped.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, or what you’re talking about,” Turcotte said, “but they’re—” He halted as the helicopter suddenly jerked hard right, then dropped altitude.
“What are you doing?” Prague yelled at the pilot, keeping his attention on the backseat.
“We got company!” the pilot screamed in return. A brightly glowing orb — about three feet in diameter — appeared directly in front of the windshield. The pilot slammed the collective down and pushed the cyclic forward in evasive reaction, but the glow dipped right down with them and crashed into the front of the helicopter. There was a shattering of Plexiglas and Turcotte ducked his head.
“Prepare for crash!” the pilot yelled into the intercom.
“We’re going—” The rest of his sentence was cut off as the nose of the chopper impacted with the ground. The blades cartwheeled into the soft dirt and exploded off, miraculously pinwheeling away and not slashing through the body of the aircraft.
Turcotte felt a sharp rip in his right side, then everything became still. He lifted his head. The only sound was a high pitched scream. He turned to his left. Susie’s mouth was a wide-open and the sound was emanating from it. Billy’s eyes were open and he was blinking, trying to see in the dark. Turcotte reached down and unbuckled Billy’s seat belt, then whipped out his commando knife and cut the couple’s hands free. “Get out,” he said, nudging them toward the left door, before turning his attention to the front seat.
The pilot was hanging limp in his harness, his right arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Prague was beginning to stir.