The Devils Punchbowl

The ground seems to swoop up toward us with surreal speed. I'm trying to force my gaze away from it when Necker takes out his cell phone and speed-dials a number. “Major McDavitt? We’re taking ground fire…. That'’s right, rifle fire, I’d say. Could be hunters, but I don'’t think so. I'm hitting the deck right where we are, maximum safe descent.” Necker gives me a quick glance. “Maybe faster.”

A mile to the west, the Athens Point sheriff’s department chopper banks toward us and accelerates. Just as my heart lifts, another bullet punches though the canopy with the sound of a bullwhip finding flesh.

“God

damn

it!” Necker bellows, pointing toward the levee road. “I think that came from the south,” he shouts into the phone. “Skim the levee road on your way here and see if you see anything. Try to get a license plate.”

The helicopter makes no move toward the levee, but makes for us at what must be maximum speed. Major McDavitt has decided that survival means more than punishment.

Necker’s jaw is set tight, but I see a wry smile on his lips. “So that’s how it is,” he says into the phone. “Medevac time. Well, you’d better call ahead to the hospital. I'm AB positive. Penn, do you know your blood type?”

“O negative.”

Beneath us I see an orange tractor and a propane tank beside what looks like a bunkhouse. A billy goat stands munching something beside a barbed-wire fence—

“Stop looking at the ground,” Necker advises. “You’re turning green. Watch the horizon. I'’ll tell you when to brace. Fifteen seconds. If we overshoot and land in the water, stay with the basket. It’ll float. Unless you want to try to swim right to shore.”

“Shouldn’t we try for the water?”

“We might not be able to swim after impact.”

Good Lord.

The gas jet roars above our heads, heat blasts my

scalp, and the basket presses up against my feet like an express elevator slowing for the ground floor. “That old river’s full of alligators anyway!” I shout.

Necker tries to laugh, but what comes out is a strangled bark. He grabs the valve of the propane tank and shuts off the fuel line. “Five seconds! Brace! Bend your knees!”

I bend my knees and grab the upper frame of the basket, bracing against our lateral motion, which is westward toward the water. We’re moving a lot faster across the ground than I’d realized, but that may actually help us.

The impact is like falling from a galloping horse. My knees collapse and my pelvis slams the side of the basket, jolting me from ankles to crown, and then we’re sliding over the marshy ground as the wind drags us relentlessly toward the water. Necker hauls mightily on a rope, and suddenly the canopy collapses and we shudder to a stop.

The sudden silence is unnerving, but in seconds I hear the steady beating of McDavitt’s helicopter descending beside us.

Hans Necker drops to the floor of the basket like a man who died on his feet. It’s only now that I remember the gunfire that caused this crash landing.

“Are you hit?” I ask.

Necker shakes his head. “Ankle’s broken. One for sure, maybe both. Can you help me up?”

“Hell, yes. Let’s get out of this thing.”

McDavitt is already out of the chopper and running toward us. “Anybody hit?” he calls.

“No,” I shout back. “We need help though!”

When McDavitt reaches the basket, he helps me lift Necker over the side. The CEO grips the frame for a moment and smiles. “This old girl got us down alive.”

“You got us down, buddy. We need to get to St. Catherine’s Hospital, Major. Ready?”

McDavitt nods as we cradle Necker between us in a sitting position.

“Let’s do it.”

I thought the balloon was moving fast when we crossed the river, but Major McDavitt storms back toward Natchez at 120 knots, aiming

for the helipad atop St. Catherine’s Hospital. The town’s top orthopedist is waiting for Necker in the emergency room, and the Adams County sheriff’s department chopper is flying in tandem, following us in. Paul Labry is on his way to the hospital, preparing to deal with what can only be a media crisis for the Balloon Festival.

“How you doing?” I ask Necker, who’s sitting with his back to the wall of the helicopter’s cabin, his left calf propped on my knee to keep his foot elevated.

“Hurts like a son of a bitch,” he says. “But it could have been a lot worse. You did good, keeping it together. A lot of people would have panicked.”

“Oh, I panicked.”

Necker laughs, then winces. “Damn, I’d like some morphine.”

“Two minutes.”

Necker nods. “Let’s talk fast then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don'’t believe in luck, good or bad. We weren’t the first balloon in line, or the last. But we were shot at and hit three times with a high-powered rifle. Anybody who could hit us three times could have killed us if he wanted to. All he had to do was shoot the basket. He’d have hit us or the fuel tanks, or both.”

I look back noncommittally. “So…?”

“So either we stumbled on a psycho hunter having a really bad day, or somebody was trying to send one of us a message. I don'’t have any enemies here yet, so far as I know. What about you?”

I stare back at the CEO but do not speak. Necker didn't get where he is by being dumb.

He changes tack. “A lot of people are about to ask us what happened back there. What are we going to say?”

I'm not sure what to say, to Necker or the public. I can’t quite believe that Sands or Quinn would pull a stunt like that. Especially after I reaffirmed that I intended to do what they’ve asked of me. But who else could it have been?

“Are we off-the-record?”

Necker points at a headset on the floor to indicate that Major McDavitt cannot hear us. “Unless I'm dictating a press release, I'm always off-the-record.”

I take a deep breath and look out at the spire of St. Mary’s,

growing larger in the chopper’s windshield. “I don'’t think you’re going to find out who fired those shots, Hans. But I may know already. Who ordered it, anyway.”

“I'm listening.”

“That was a message telling me to keep my nose out of something. Or my mouth shut. I'm not sure which yet. It had nothing to do with you or the race. I can’t give you details. I wish I could, but I can’t. It’s just not an option.”

“You don'’t think any other pilots are in danger?”

“No. Not unless we get some nutty copycat or something.”

Necker’s appraisal of me is cold and swift. “This isn’t something personal, is it? Like diddling somebody else’s wife?”

“Hell, no. It’s criminal activity. That'’s all I can say. If you could help me, I’d tell you more, but you can’t. Not with this.”

“I know a lot of people, Penn.”

“So do I. This isn’t that kind of problem. Money and connections won'’t help. In fact, money is the problem.”

“This is why you were late this morning, isn’t it?”

I nod.

“Your family’s okay?”

“They are now. They weren’t this morning.”

Necker winces again, then nods slowly. “I see. Okay. Tell me what I can do to help you. There has to be something.”

I think for a moment. “Honestly?”

“Yessir.”

“I need this helicopter for the rest of the weekend, and I need Major McDavitt flying it. From now till Sunday night.”

Necker shifts his leg, grimaces in pain. “You’ve got it.”

“I'’ll pay for his time, of course. I—”

“It’s already paid for. What else?”

“I think that’s all you can do for now. Other than that, I’d just ask that you not let this thing affect your view of the town, if that’s possible.”

Necker smiles. “Hell, I’'ve run into strong-arm stuff in Minneapolis. You get that everywhere. I only wish you’d let me help you. I take it personally when somebody shoots at me. I’d like a few words with the son of a bitch myself.”