Jeffrey’s father looked doubtful. “Can’t we just get out and ford the stream?”
“Negative! There could be snipers
The town cars started up again. The ride was terribly rough. Both cars wobbled and bounced on their torn-up tires. Smoke was coming from under the hood of Jeffrey’s car.
Still both autos pressed on hard, forward along the ravine beside the creek. The Apache helicopters flew top cover, and the crowd of emergency vehicles kept pace along the parkway. Now there was no clearance between the creek and the embankment. The town cars tilted sideways, their damaged suspensions complaining. They threatened to lose all traction and smash against the heavy trees still lining the creek.
The parkway crossed overhead, and now the road was on Jeffrey’s right. Both town cars veered onto the road, swerving through panicky oncoming traffic. They got into the right lane and Jeffrey’s driver stepped on the gas. Suddenly the right rear tire of his car disintegrated altogether, from too much shrapnel damage, and the car sagged down on the wheel rim.
The driver just kept going. A steady shower of sparks and smoke was left in the wake of Jeffrey’s vehicle; the grinding noise of steel on the roadway was nearly unbearable. The smoke from under the front hood was getting heavier and heavier. The front windshield was gathering an ever-thicker coat of soot and oil and dirt. There were countless bullet pockmarks. The bodyguard had to open a window and stick out his head to help guide the driver as he steered. The car was hard to control and kept weaving onto the grassy shoulder.
“Watch for land mines!” the driver shouted.
“Terrific,” Jeffrey’s father mumbled.
Jeffrey looked behind again.
The other car still followed, but had had to drop back so the driver wouldn’t be blinded by the smoke from Jeffrey’s car. Jeffrey and his father began to choke on all the fumes.
“We’re almost there!” the driver said.
The ravine grew broader and both side slopes became less steep. The town cars emerged from the park and jumped the curb and skidded to a halt. In front of them, barring further progress, was the wide Potomac itself. In an open area beside the river sat a huge Marine Corps transport helicopter. Both army Apache gunships orbited vigilantly overhead.
Heavily armed marines had already formed a perimeter. They motioned for everyone to get out of the cars.
The noise of the Marine Corps helo was painfully loud, even with its engines just on idle. The stink of the turbine exhaust added to all the other burning smells. There was grit in the air, blown by the spinning main rotor blades; the small tail rotor spun much faster, in a blur. The entire helo was painted in camouflage, a blotchy pattern of matte dark green and black and brown.
“Those men, the attackers,” Michael Fuller shouted in Jeffrey’s ear. “They looked liked Russians!”
Jeffrey nodded. “Former Spetznaz probably! Special forces, in the pay of the Axis now!”
Michael Fuller hesitated. “Is it always like this?”
“Is what like what?”
“The combat!”
Jeffrey looked his father right in the eyes. “Welcome to my world!” Jeffrey reached out a sweaty, smoke- stained hand. Jeffrey’s father shook it; Michael Fuller’s hand felt like an ice cube.
“I’ll see you, Dad!”
Marines hustled Jeffrey and Wilson and Ilse to the helo. The crew chief handed them cranials and floatation vests. The cranials were collapsible flight helmets. They opened like a clamshell, had built-in hearing protection, and came with big padded eye goggles. Jeffrey and Wilson and Ilse quickly got ready for the flight.
So close to the aircraft, conversation was impossible. The crew chief used sign language to show each of them where to sit. They climbed inside the helo. The seat frames were made of stark aluminum tubing, and the seat backs and bottoms were simple thick black vinyl sheets. Shoulder straps came over each shoulder. They clipped into the buckle of a belt that covered both thighs. Jeffrey pulled all the fittings very tight.
The helo was an SH-60 Seahawk. The transport compartment had seating for ten. On board were Jeffrey and Ilse, sitting side by side facing forward at the rear of the compartment. Wilson sat up front, facing Jeffrey. The only other passengers were the crew chief and his assistant, who slammed the door.
The engine noise grew stronger, even through the soundproof ear cups of Jeffrey’s helmet and the insulated padding of the fuselage walls. The vibrations through the seat and through the floor rose to a heavy rapid shaking. The Sea-hawk took to the air.
The helo rose quickly and headed out over the Potomac. The Pentagon was a huge gray squatting presence up ahead, the oblique perspective from the helo making the five-sided building seem oddly elongated and flat.
Jeffrey saw a thinning pillar of black smoke, rising from where the first ambush broke out.
They flew past Theodore Roosevelt Island and over bridges; the interior of the aircraft had a metallic, oily, hot-plastic smell. Then the helo was rushing along the Potomac, closer to and then right past the Pentagon and the airport, at 150 knots, at barely a hundred feet above the river.
The Apache helos flew armed escort. Jeffrey could see their Gatling guns pivoting in their chin mounts, scanning both banks of the river, cued to sights mounted on each gunner’s special helmet. Each Apache’s pilot sat above and behind the gunner in the long and narrow two-man combat helicopters.
Jeffrey tried to slow his pulse and just enjoy the ride and savor life. He’d hated the feeling before of just being a passenger, of having to huddle passively while others fought and died protecting
The engine sounds swelled louder, and the rotor vibrations got more rough, each time the helo banked steeply right or left to follow the river. But the steady vibrations were reassuring. There was no incoming fire from either side of the Potomac. The direction of the golden sun, low on the horizon now to the right, confirmed for Jeffrey that the helos were heading south.
Then Commodore Wilson caught Jeffrey’s eye. The muscular black man gave Jeffrey a sidelong glance and pointed at Jeffrey’s chest, then shook a finger. Jeffrey looked down and saw why. His Medal of Honor was gone. It must have been torn off when he tried to get out of the town car to help that wounded pregnant woman lying in the street.
CHAPTER 6
A half-hour flying time south of Washington, Jeffrey’s helicopter banked again, hard left and then hard right, along a wide curve in the Potomac near Fredericksburg, Virginia. Now that he was coming down from the emotional highs of combat and survival, he felt drowsy and thirsty and couldn’t really concentrate on organized work. That would come later — all too soon, when he rejoined his ship.
The helos still followed the river, the Seahawk with its passengers and the Apaches with their Gatling guns. The Potomac began to open out and formed a broad tidal estuary, lined by scenic inlets and coves. Beyond the houses and occasional towns on both sides of the water, rolling southern pine forests stretched to the visible horizons. The forested terrain was sometimes sliced by roads, or railroads, or rights-of-way for high-voltage power lines. Once Jeffrey saw a freight train, with eight diesel locomotives and an endless stream of cars. The diesels were painted olive drab for camouflage — it was their straining exhaust plumes that gave them away.
Jeffrey’s Seahawk turned right and again headed south. Out of both sides of the aircraft, suddenly, he saw Chesapeake Bay. The water reflected the blue of the sky, shading to green in shallower places. Yellow-white sand beaches, grassy salt marshes, and tree-studded swamps rolled past as the helo kept up its high-speed dash. The two army Apaches continued flying escort, one close to each shore of the huge and elongated bay.
Civilian marinas were closed for the war’s duration, and Jeffrey saw no pleasure craft at all. The lowering sun
