"Lower that thing again!" he yelled. "I'm going down!" Taylor said, "Sir, we have no idea if the chopper will remain stabilized—" "Now!" August barked as he pulled a parachute from the equipment locker and slipped it on. "I'm going to hook 'er to the tail boom. When I get to Boisard, we're going to drag this sucker home." "Sir, we're tested for two thousand pounds, and the chopper is—" "I know. But as long as the helicopter rotor is turning, it won't be deadweight! Tell the pilot to stay with him, no matter what. I'll flash you twice when I've hooked her, then you radio the pilot to turn around!" Taylor saluted, then moved toward the controls with a confidence he clearly didn't feel.
Like its namesake, the Osprey tore relentlessly through the sky. As it did, the cable unwound and August was lowered at an angle toward the chopper. He torqued around the cable as he descended, twisting around several times before he was able to grab the stabilizer. Crawling to the opposite side from Boisard to keep from unbalancing the aircraft, he hooked himself to the boom and then latched the cable around it as well. It slid back, smacked up against the tail fin with a clang, and held there.
August had his fish. But he didn't signal the Osprey. He had something else in mind.
Looking forward, he began shimmying along the boom toward Manigot. The headwind was devastating as he inched ahead. As he neared the cabin, the LongRanger suddenly righted itself and swung off toward the east. The Osprey got a late start keeping up. The cable played out and the LongRanger shuddered violently as the cable grew taut and the hoist held.
August slid from the top of the tail boom to the side.
He looked up to make sure that Manigot was okay, and then he looked down. His legs were less than two yards from the skid. They were two dark, windy yards, but the tips of the skid were directly below him. If he released himself, he'd have to pass them on his way down.
He tucked his arms at his sides and chucked all his rules about planning. This was one of those things like a shot from the key: either you made the basket or you didn't.
He removed his gloves and let them drop. He undid the metal clasp which held him to the line which girdled the tail boom. He waited for the LongRanger to stabilize again, and then he dropped.
August reached out at once. Free of the chopper, he was blown backward. But not so far backward that he couldn't reach the rear strut of the skid. He hooked it with his left arm, quickly reached over with his right, and struggled to pull himself over. The wind was intense and he hung down at a forty-five-degree angle, slapping against the baggage compartment as he fought to haul himself in.
Now he saw the pilot look back at him. There was someone between the seats of the flight deck, on the floor, struggling to rise. As the pilot turned away, he tried to throw the chopper into another dive. The cable held, both vehicles shook, and then the pilot looked back again. This time, though, he was not looking at August but at the cable.
Slowly, he began backing the helicopter up. With a flash of terror, August realized what he was trying to do. He was attempting to use the rotor to cut the cable. If he couldn't get away he was going to take everybody down.
August scrambled feverishly to drag his leg up over the skid. As soon as he was standing, he reached for the cabin door and literally yanked it open. He hurled himself into the passenger compartment. With two strides he was in the open flight deck. Stepping over the semiconscious man on the floor, August cocked his arm into a tight jujitsu chamber, with the elbow waist-high, straight back, and punched the pilot in the side of the head. With piston-like speed, he hit him a second and third time, then pulled the dazed man from the seat.
Dropping into it, August held the control stick steady while he turned to the man on the floor.
"Hausen? Get up! I need you to fly this damn thing!" The German was groggy. "I… I tried to steady it for you… twice." "Thanks," August said. "Now c'mon—" Slowly, Hausen began to drag himself into the copilot's seat.
"A little faster, please!" August shouted. "I have very little idea what I'm doing here!" Wheezing, Hausen flopped into the seat, dragged a sleeve across his bloody eyes, and took the stick.
"It's okay," the German said. "I… I have it." Bolting from the pilot's seat, the Colonel angrily threw Dominique into the cabin, then went back to the open door.
He leaned out. Boisard was manfully making his way to Manigot.
"We're secure in here!" August yelled. "When you have him, undo the cable!" Boisard acknowledged and August ducked back inside.
"You okay up there?" the Colonel shouted to Hausen.
"I'll be fine," the German said wearily.
"Keep it steady until you get the word," August said.
"Then we'll head back to the factory." Hausen acknowledged. Bending over Dominique, August picked him up, plunked him into a chair in the cabin, and stood in front of him.
"I don't know what you did," August said, "but I hope it was bad enough so that they put you away forever." Dazed and bleeding, Dominique managed to look up at him and smile. "You can stop me," he said through loose teeth, "but you can't stop us. Hate… hate is more bankable than gold." August smirked. And punched him again. "There's interest on my account," he said.
As Dominique's head rolled to his right, August went back to the open hatch. His arms shaking from exhaustion, he helped Manigot inside. When Boisard was finished unhooking the cable, August assisted him in as well. Then he closed the door and fell heavily to the floor.
The sad thing was, the bastard was right. Hate and hate-mongers continued to flourish. He used to fight them.
Used to be pretty good at it. Still was, he had to admit. And though it took a while for his brain to catch up to his heart, he knew that when he landed he had a call to make.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
The men of the Gendarmerie had secured the factory by the time the Osprey returned. The New Jacobins had been rounded up and handcuffed. They had been separated into groups of two and placed in office cubicles guarded by two men each. Ballon believed that martyrs and heroes were either exhibitionists or wind-up toys. They were less likely to do anything if no one was there to see or provoke them. The quick collapse of the New Jacobins reinforced something else which Ballon also believed. That they were cowardly pack animals with no stomach to fight when left on their own or faced with equal or superior numbers.
Whatever the truth of the matter, there was no further resistance as local police vans were summoned to cart the captives away. Ambulances were also called, though Ballon insisted on being treated at the site and remaining there until the Osprey and LongRanger had returned. Along with the others, he'd watched the distant struggle. Until the Osprey pilot radioed that Dominique had been taken, no one knew what the outcome had been.
When the Osprey landed, followed by the LongRanger, Colonel August personally took charge of Dominique. They exited side by side, August holding Dominique in a forearm lock. The Frenchman's forearm was facing up, resting on August's. His elbow was tucked into August's armpit and his hand was turned up and back toward his body. If he tried to escape, August would simply bend the hand toward his body, causing excruciating pain in the wrist.
Dominique didn't try to escape. He could barely walk.
August immediately turned him over to the Gendarmerie. He was placed in a van with Ballon and four of his men.
"Tell Herr Hausen he can have the headlines," Ballon told August before they drove away. "Tell him I will write them myself!" August assured him that he would.