A flight-suited man swung up on board and banged on the bulkhead separating the cockpit from the rear of the helicopter. “Ready, ready. Let’s crank it.” Two other men joined the crew — gunners — and sat in the back.
Head settled into his seat. He waved an affirmative to the man. The man turned and cracked a smile at Bruce.
“Howdy, Lieutenant. I’m Zaz, if you need anything. Gotta have ya strap in, if ya would.”
Bruce set his M-16 on the floor and strapped himself into one of the webbed seats. The seats extended down either side of the helicopter. To his right was a hatch, and an automatic weapon hung from a mooring, ready to be swung out the door. The .50-caliber machine gun could be used at either hatch.
The sound of rain was soon overcome by a high whine outside the craft. Bruce recognized the auxiliary power unit. The sound was soon followed by a vibration in the helicopter as the main rotor started up. The rain had left a fresh, washed-out smell throughout the chopper, but that too was replaced by heavy fumes of JP-4 as the craft started vibrating faster.
Bruce leaned back and watched out the side of the craft. He couldn’t see through the rain across the tarmac. His senses seemed abuzz, numbed by a cottony layer. Thop thop thop thop. JP-4, the rain, the vibrations — the excitement seemed to catch up with him, fully hit him in the gut, as he realized that it wasn’t just Yolanda that they were going after. Losing the vice president was one thing; hearing that he was now only an oath away from the Presidency was another.
But grasping that he was going to slip through the jungle to rescue him — with the help of an old Filipino with knee problems — made Bruce want to throw up. His stomach lurched. Bruce turned his head and frantically tried to unbuckle, but couldn’t get his fingers moving fast enough. He vomited just as the chopper lifted from the ground.
Seconds later Zaz shook his head as he surveyed the mess on the helicopter floor. “Damned fighter pilots. You can dress ’em up, but you can’t take ’em out.”
Pulled out of a nap, Catman felt like he was still dozing. Colonel Bolte had been terse during the briefing; none of the grab-ass that usually accompanied the pre-flight briefs took place.
Dead serious.
It was the emphasis on “dead” that got Catman worried.…
Orbit at thirty seven thousand feet and wait for the tankers launched from Kadena. You’ll be going in “hot” when the balloon goes up, and it will have to be pure IFR — Instrument Flight Rules — with the FLIR and LANTIRN. They’ll be taking out the vice president, so if you miss the bad guys on the ground and hit any friendlies, chances are you’ll be taking out the next President of the United States. Any questions? Okay, if nobody screws up then nobody dies. Nobody but the bad guys.
One more thing. You’re not screwing around Crow Valley anymore, hosing down old trucks. This is it, ladies and gentlemen; the real thing. Are there any questions?
FLIR: Forward Looking Infra-Red. That and the LANTIRN navigation and targeting pods had been designed for low visibility. They weren’t made for this weather, and cripes! Especially not with a three-hundred-foot ceiling, pea soup for rain.… And they were supposed to go after an unknown target?!
They picked up their helmets and stepped out into the rain, toward their war birds.
“General, the STE is up. Washington is on the line.”
“Thanks. And shut the door behind you.”
General Newman waited for his aide to leave the communications room. When the news of Longmire’s death broke, a helicopter had been dispatched from Peterson AFB in Colorado Springs to pick up the Chief of Staff. Newman couldn’t be in Washington for another ten hours. A hell of a way to run a war.
“This is General Newman.”
“Dave — Francis Acht.”
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m scheduled to get to Andrews by midnight. General Westschloe at Pacific Air Command is throwing every plane that can make it to Clark out over the Pacific; we’re ferrying in over ten thousand troops from Korea and Japan to aid in the search. By the time I get to Andrews, Clark’s population will have doubled.”
“That’s good. But it’s only a start. Dave — we’ve located the Speaker. He’s jumping at the bit to get something provisional set up.”
“Provisional?”
“That’s right, provisional. The Attorney General balks at doing anything rash, say swearing in the Speaker until Adleman is found — at least until she can get a ruling on this. Dammit, Dave, you guys have got to locate him! The lawyers are having a field day interpreting the accession … and no one wants to commit to having the Speaker step in.
“We’re holding back all public announcements until we get a handle on this. We need an answer, anything that might indicate that Adleman is still alive.”
Newman interrupted. “General Simone is working the problem, Mr. Secretary. There is a strong lead that he is following, and he has his best people on it now. We’re aware of the situation in Washington; there is just nothing more we can do until we actually find Mr. Adleman.”
Both men avoided calling Adleman the vice president. At this point he was either the President or a dead man. Newman felt as frustrated as Acht, but even more under the gun. Even with the changes in Iran, the Middle East, China and North Korea, the cuts that the military had been seeing for the past decade had started to affect operational capability. A military surge of this magnitude was the first real test that the forces had seen since the second Iraq war.
Acht seemed to settle somewhat. “Keep us informed. Secretary Zeringue isn’t here right now, but he wanted me to pass along that he supports what you’re doing and will meet with you tonight at Andrews.”
The reference to Newman’s boss, the Secretary of Defense, brought a smile to the general. The feisty little Secretary was probably off slashing bureaucrats’ throats. It was the first time that Newman had smiled in the past three hours.
A tap came at the door. “The helicopter is ready, General.”
Newman spoke hurriedly. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary. If anything breaks, we’ll keep you informed.”
“Fine. Fine. And General Simone … this lead he’s working on … what are the chances it will work?”
Same as a snowball in hell, thought Newman. A damned First Lieutenant fighter pilot and a sixty-year-old-store keeper. But it was all they had.
“I can’t say, sir. Really can’t say. But Simone says his best men are on the job.”
“This way.” The old man sitting behind Captain Head pointed to the right. The Black Hawk followed the road two hundred feet above the ground. It reminded Richard Head of a James Bond movie, of the helicopter swinging in behind a car carrying the British secret agent.
Flying this low had led to typical reactions from the ground: people shaking fists at them, young children jumping up and down and waving, startled chickens flapping around the farms. So far there were no unexpected hazards — Gould kept a running commentary from the GPS, flight maps, and radar, singing out whenever they were about to come up to a tower.
Head glanced down at the navigation sensors. The TADS/PNVS — Target Acquisition Sight and Pilot Night Vision Sensor — used forward-looking infrared to assist them in the low visibility. The system was slaved to their line of sight and displayed imagery that allowed them to hug the ground.
Pompano pushed his face right next to Head. He watched a small road as it swept by below. “We are five miles away. You need to land us — quickly.”
“By the road?”
“No. You need to take us over the jungle.” He motioned with his arm at a point to the right.