“Start flying east as fast as this thing can go. I suspect the helicopter we’re chasing is much bigger than this one, a cargo ship that won’t have your speed.” Mercer’s assumption was based on the Israelis’ deluded plan to recover the Ark of the Covenant. He had no idea how big the artifact was reported to be, but he guessed that the Israelis would provide a large enough machine, no matter what its size.
Mercer ducked his head into the cockpit.
“Who in the hell are you?” The pilot was startled that his passenger was a civilian.
“Philip Mercer. I’m the guy you were brought in to rescue.”
“Hey, we’ve got orders to drop you at the staging area,” the copilot said.
“Fine by me, but you do that and there’s no way we’ll catch that other chopper. Chavez told me the AWACS can’t track it, and we’re the only other pairs of eyes in the area.”
The twin General Electric T700s screamed at their maximum rating, pushing the lightly laden utility helicopter at over two hundred miles per hour. The ground under the roiling sky rushed by in a nauseating blur. Mercer buckled himself into the seat closest to the open door, acting as another observer for the pilots, scanning their starboard side for the fleeing Israeli craft.
The pain in his chest was excruciating. He found an emergency medical pack under his seat and choked down some painkillers. He then used the pocket knife from it to slice off two seat belts. He tied the cut ends together and wrapped the belts around his chest, using the buckle mechanism to ratchet his makeshift binding tight. It was a dangerous mend, but for the first time since the Apache had exploded over his head, he could breathe with a degree of normalcy. He wiped sweat from his face and no longer feared mercury poisoning. He didn’t think he’d stopped sweating since his first mad dash into the mine with Selome and the diamonds.
“There!” the copilot called out. “At our one o’clock position about two miles ahead.”
The Blackhawk was fast approaching the Red Sea coast, and the weather had deteriorated. Wind whistling into the back cabin of the craft carried a deluge of rain, and drops peppered the wind screen like pebbles. The massive escarpment that protected the African coast from the ravages of the ocean dropped from under the helicopter in a gut-wrenching swoop, and the pilot mirrored the dramatic plunge perfectly. In another minute they would be over the Red Sea and shortly after that, if the fleeing helicopter didn’t change direction, they would fly into Saudi Arabian airspace south of Mecca.
The American chopper was gaining on the Israeli Super Stallion, but the huge khaki helicopter had a big head start and Mercer knew they couldn’t catch it until they reached the Arabian peninsula.
“If we maintain pursuit, we’re going to have to alert the Saudi Air Force,” the pilot pointed out.
“So do it,” Mercer replied, exasperated by the details.
“I’ve got a transmission on an emergency channel,” the copilot called. “I think it’s from the Super Stallion.”
The voice over the radio was accentless and the transmission was clear. “American helicopter, American helicopter, this is Mercy Flight One en route to Mecca with victims from the Sudan famine. Why are you pursuing us?”
“You want to handle this?” the copilot asked Mercer.
“Yes,” he replied tightly. “I’ve got it. Mercy Flight One, this is a United States Marine Corps helicopter. We do not wish to open fire, but you are carrying international fugitives wanted for terrorist acts. Over.”
“Negative, Marine flight. We are contracted to the relief agency Médecins Sans Frontiers. We are carrying starving children to a hospital in Mecca.”
“If you do not return to Eritrean airspace and land at Massawa, we will have no choice but to shoot down your craft. Over,” Mercer bluffed. With just an M-16, he couldn’t do more than dent the fleeing craft.
The coast of the Arabian peninsula was fast approaching, and the Blackhawk pilot was reluctant to broach the sovereignty of a friendly nation.
A new voice came over the net, one Mercer recognized immediately. Anger boiled up within him. “Dr. Mercer, how good to hear from you again,” Yosef said. “I was hoping you were listening. I’ve learned that you may be erratic, but you can also be very predictable too.”
“You are going to die, you son of a bitch,” Mercer seethed.
“I don’t think so,” Yosef replied mildly. “You see, we’re still holding your friend.”
Mercer felt as if the helicopter had hit the side of a mountain. He’d forgotten they still held Harry. At that moment he knew the fanatics were going to get away with everything.
Switching to intercom mode, he asked the pilot if their communications gear could make a satellite call, and when he received an affirmative, he asked him to contact Dick Henna’s cell phone.
“I take your silence as acknowledgment,” Yosef said across the airwaves. “Very reasonable. Calling in the Marines was poor form, Doctor. Since the sniper I sent after your friend with the phone didn’t return, you forced my hand a bit early, and without the Ark, there is no way to guarantee Mr. White’s safety. In fact, my last order to my people was that he is to be killed. Unless I rescind that order, your friend’s life is at an end. Give me and my team free passage, and when we arrive in Israel, I’ll have White released. Don’t consider this a failure on your part, just a stalemate.”
The pilot cut off Yosef’s speech by switching channels from the cockpit, and Mercer heard Dick Henna’s voice saying hello.
“Hi, Dick. It’s Mercer.”
“Jesus H. Christ. Where in the hell are you?”
“I’ll tell you in a second, but first, have you made any progress finding Harry?”
“Yeah, he’s back in Washington. He’s been here for a while now.”
“I’ll call you later.” Mercer killed the connection and slumped. Oh, God, thank you.
The guilt and the fear and the responsibility fell off Mercer in a liberating wave, leaving his mind clear for the first time since Harry’s abduction. It was over. He was finished. Nothing else mattered anymore. Harry was safe. Selome was safe. The Eritreans were free. Even Gianelli’s plan to blackmail the diamond cartel was over. He knew if he let it, his relief would cut through his resolve. But he wasn’t quite done yet. Mercer wasn’t going to allow Yosef to escape. He didn’t want it for his friends or for anyone else. He wanted this for himself.
The pilot spoke before he could switch the radio back to the fleeing chopper. “We’ve got two problems here, Dr. Mercer. One is we’ll enter Saudi airspace in about four minutes. The other is a pair of fast movers just came up on radar. They’re closing at mach one from the north. ETA is ten minutes.”
“Whose are they?” Mercer had a sinking suspicion he knew the origin of the approaching jets.
“I’ve got no IFF signature off either of them.” The pilot referred to the Identify Friend or Foe transponders carried by the military aircraft of the United States and her allies.
“So they’re not Saudi?”
“I doubt they’d shut off their IFFS over their own territory, especially since the coastline’s covered with SAM installations.”
“In other words, we’ve got ten minutes before that helicopter’s fighter escort arrives.”
“Yup.”>
“Let’s take ’em down.”
“Hey, listen, Doc, is that such a good idea? I mean, whoever has the clout to wrangle up fighter cover must be legit.”
Mercer grunted. “We’re about to be one of the checks and balances of the Israeli democracy. Maneuver us directly over that helicopter. I’ve got an idea.”