“Gray Six, this is Four. Subjects are in a black El Camino open-bed wagon. Over.”
“Stay with them. Four. Let me know which way they go. Out.”
Spitting gravel, the tires of the El Camino spun onto the road. Harry turned the hood west along Proctoria Road.
Trace watched the scenario and realized they were following the route used for the Recondo Run — a two and half mile run in full gear with rucksack that occurred at the end of Recondo training, the last hurdle to getting the Recondo patch. Trace remembered finishing the run with blood oozing through the socks inside her boots, barely able to stand for the entire following week, but she’d finished it. She knew now some of the reason for such brutal training-because there would be times when you would have to ask your body to do things it normally did not want to do and the more you stressed-it, the more you found out you could do so much more than you ever thought possible.
Harry stayed with Proctoria Road, passing the turnoff for OP Charlie and splitting the gap between the ridgelines.
Central Valley was spread out below them with the New York Thruway bisecting it a mile and a half away. The ground dropped off, losing 500 feet of altitude down to the valley floor.
The helicopter was above, having an easy time tracking them. Harry roared past the open field next to Lake Frederic whej-e Plebes camped out every year at the end of Beast Barracks and exited the military reservation onto Mineral Springs Road. He spun a right and drove through the small township of Woodbury, the helicopter gaining altitude but still following.
Clearing the built-up area. Harry floored it, knowing he couldn’t beat the aircraft but hoping to put distance between himself and whatever ground elements the aircraft was directing.
He knew there would be no local law enforcement officials. This was a private war.
He cut over to the road next to the thruway, following it for several miles. First chance he got, he crossed over a bridge to the north side of the thruway. The entire western horizon was filled up with the bulk of Schunemunk Mountain, an eight-mile ridge that crested out over 1,700 feet high. The Erie Lackawanna Railroad curved around the north side of the ridge, and Harry followed the hardtop pavement that did the same loop.
“They’re going north.” Major Quincy was rumbling with the pilot chart — the only map they had.
“Toward Washington ville. Over.”
“What road? Over.”
“Shit,” Quincy muttered. It wasn’t marked on the map.
“Around to the north of this big mountain,” he replied, knowing that answer was insufficient.
“Stay with them. I’ve got a unit leaving post right now.”
The radio went silent.
“They’ll never catch them,” Isaac said to his partner.
“They’re too far behind — post is about twenty to thirty minutes back.
We’ve only got another hour’s worth of fuel, and it’s going to be dark soon.”
“Then we need to stop them,” Quincy decided.
“First open area they hit, try to get down and block the road.”
Isaac glanced at his partner to see if he was serious.
“That guy has got an automatic weapon, and he’s willing to use it.”
Quincy drew an M-16 from the backseat of the helicopter and pulled back the charging handle.
“Then I guess I’d better shoot first.”
Harry slammed on the brakes, expertly spun the steering wheel, and they were heading southeast, with the bulk of Schunemunk Mountain now off to the left.
“Where are we going?” Trace asked.
“We’re trying to lose this helicopter,” Harry replied.
“Then we get going somewhere.”
The roads had all been lined with trees, but now they suddenly burst out into an open stretch, about 800 meters long, and the helicopter swooped in. A man leaned out’ the left side, M-16 in hand.
Harry slammed on the brakes, then just as quickly punched the accelerator, causing Trace to yelp from the sudden pain of being slammed first against the seat belt, then back against the seat.
“Sorry, missy,” Harry said as they shot underneath the helicopter, the skids barely five feet over the roof of the car, the pilot reacting too late. They were back in the shelter of the trees.
“Get down, right above those fuckers,” Quincy ordered.
“I’ll stop them.” He leaned out the left door, hooking his arm through the seat belt to steady himself as he tried to get aim on the car.
Isaac brought the helicopter down as low as he could, concentrating on the trees whirring up toward them and by below.
Quincy fired a three-round burst. It was impossible to see where the bullets had gone, but he knew for sure that he had missed.
“Lower!” he ordered.
Trace looked out ahead, then twisted her head. The man was leaning out, looking like he was firing at them. She looked ahead again.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Harry grinned, seeing what she saw.
Isaac never saw it until it was too late. He was concentrating on the immediate danger of the trees just below.
“Jesus!” Isaac screamed. He hesitated for the briefest of seconds, not sure whether to try to go over or if he could make it between two of the massive steel girder supports of the New York City Aqueduct which loomed across the valley floor, blocking the entire way up over 200 feet.
It really didn’t matter that he froze. He could have never made it over and there wasn’t room to pass between. The blades struck first, a fraction of a second before the nose of the helicopter impacted with a steel girder.
From a forward speed of over seventy miles an hour to zero, the helicopter compressed into the unyielding steel girder, the shattered pieces flying about, littering the valley floor for hundreds of feet.
“Now we go,” Harry said, not bothering to stop to admire the wreckage.
“Where?” Trace asked, no longer capable of being surprised by anything.
He drove hard.
“Colonel Rison’s place, missy.”
After putting a dozen miles between them and the crash site, he pulled over. Pulling a military-issue first aid kit from behind his seat, he quickly bandaged Trace up as best he could.
“The ribs will have to heal on their own. Try not to laugh too much, eh, missy?”
“I’ll try,” Trace said..
“We got a long ride. Let me give you a shot for the pain.”
Trace was in no mood to object.
Harry smoothly slid the needle in and pushed the plunger.
“This will help you sleep.”
Trace was too tired to ask again and too tired to be irritated at the lack of a clear answer as to the destination.
She could already feel the effects of whatever was in the needle. She leaned her head back against the headrest and was unconscious within seconds.
In the superintendent’s office back at the Academy, Hooker put down the now-silent radio. He sat still for a few moments, then looked up at his aide.
“You take charge here. Try to track them down. I need to go to Hawaii immediately.”
CHAPTER 20
A day had passed, and Boomer was ready to explode on all fronts. No word from Trace — Skibicki had checked with Maggie. They had taken no action here, which meant the whatever The Line had planned was going along quite well without their interference.
“I’m worried about Trace,” Boomer said.
“She would have checked in by now. Something must have gone wrong.”
“I’m worried, too,” Skibicki said.
“There’s a hell of a lot at stake here. More than just the safety of Major Trace.