contacts during his time at the CIA, and the Corporation had been visited by the Grim Reaper as well, but he'd never asked another man to die so that he could live.
He reached into his pack and handed the portable GPS to Mike. The RHIB's at waypoint Delta.
There's no place to land, Mike said. You remember how thick that jungle was. And there's no way I can ditch this thing in the river without killing us all.
Don't worry about an LZ, Mark Murphy shouted forward. I got that covered.
Cabrillo knew to trust the eccentric Mr. Murphy.
Swing us around and punch in waypoint Delta.
Not Delta, Murph said. Echo.
Echo? Juan questioned.
Trust me.
The Eurocopter's navigational computer was self-explanatory, so Mike punched in the coordinates from the handheld GPS, then swung the chopper around to a southeasterly bearing. So far, his flying had been smooth and controlled, just as he'd been taught. Gomez Adams would be proud.
Looks like we have enough fuel. Barely, he said.
Chairman, Mark shouted. Starboard side. Maybe three klicks back.
What?
I saw the flash of sun off the other chopper's windshield.
Juan looked out the side window. He didn't see anything but he didn't doubt Mark's eyesight. The Argentines were coming a lot faster than he'd thought. Then he should have realized it. With their helo burning oil, they didn't have the speed to match the other bird. And the Argentine Major would tear the guts out of his aircraft in order to get his prey.
Mike, he shouted. Give us everything she's got. Company's coming.
The turbines kicked up a notch but didn't sound healthy. Metal was grinding someplace in the engine compartment, and it was only a matter of time before they shut down.
Juan looked around the cabin for additional weapons. The door-mounted .30 caliber was a better option than their H&K machine pistols, but only if the other helo came up on the port side where the gun was mounted. He found a medical kit under the bench seat and a red plastic box containing a large-bore flare pistol and four stubby projectiles. Juan knew the script for this mission didn't include a billion-to-one shot with a flare, so he left it on the bench.
Mark, jury-rig a harness for me, he ordered as he set to work unbolting the old Browning machine gun from its webbing gimbal.
The gun was a thirty-pound, four-foot-long antique with a single pistol grip at the end of its boxy receiver. A belt of fifty brass cartridges dangled from the breach and made an almost musical chime when they clinked together. He was familiar enough with the weapon and knew it had a reputation for reliability as well as a recoil that could shatter teeth.
Juan stripped off his shirt. He wrapped the garment around the Browning's twenty-four-inch barrel and tied it off with the rest of the surgical tape.
Murph, meanwhile, shucked out of his combat harness and reconfigured the nylon webbing into a long loop that he clipped to a D ring just forward of the starboard door. He clipped the other end to the back of Cabrillo's combat harness. He used the strap of his backpack to make a second loop that would go around the Chairman's ankles. He would hold the other end to prevent Juan from falling into the Eurocopter's slipstream.
I see them in my mirror, Mike announced from the cockpit. If you're going to do something, do it quick.
How much farther? Juan asked.
Eight miles to Echo. And just so you know, I don't see anything below us but jungle.
I said, trust me, Mark fired back hotly.
Juan looked at Pulaski. Had he not been shot, he knew his men would be bantering, not sniping at one another. Jerry's head lolled and, had Mark not strapped him in, he would have tumbled to the floor.
They're opening their side door, Trono said. Okay, I see a guy. He's got a Browning like ours. He's fired! He's fired!
Accustomed to strafing unarmed civilians fleeing from their villages, the gunner had fired far too soon. Three numbers then came into play. Mike saw the muzzle flashes reaching him at the speed of light, about three hundred million meters per second. The stream of bullets was approaching from a kilometer away at eight hundred and fifty meters per second. The nerve impulse, from brain to wrist, traveled at only a hundred meters per second. But it only had a meter to go. One-hundredth of a second after the first round was fired, Trono cut the power to dump altitude. Gravity had more than a second to pull the helicopter earthward. The string of white phosphorus tracers arrowed well over the spinning disk of the chopper's main rotor.
Juan nodded to Mark. Murph hauled back on the starboard door until it locked against its roller stops, and then he grabbed the loop of webbing around Cabrillo's feet.
The Chairman let his upper body fall out of the helicopter, coming up short when he hit the end of his tether. The tremendous power of the wind nearly pushed him back inside, but he fought it with every muscle in his legs and back.
Because he was firing aft from the right-side door, he had to shoot offhand, his left gripping the trigger and his right clamped over his taped shirt. There was no help for the spent brass flying into the helo's cabin.
His sudden appearance had startled the Argentine pilot, but he was moments late taking evasive action. Juan used those seconds and opened fire. The .30 cal bucked in his arms like a jackhammer, and heat began seeping through the gun's barrel sleeve and the bundled shirt.
It was a miracle that the flapping ammo belt didn't jam as the machine gun chewed up cartridges at four hundred rounds per minute and spat out a metallic plume of empty shells that pattered to the deck like shiny hail.
The clear Plexiglas windshield of the fast-approaching helicopter turned opaque as round after round punched into it, spiderwebbing the plastic until it was almost a solid sheet of white. The pilot veered sharply away, making the mistake of not passing behind the Corporation's pilfered chopper and giving Juan more opportunities to fire. He had no idea if the follow-up barrage struck his target, but it certainly caused the other helicopter to fly a miles-long arc away.
LZ coordinates coming up, Mike said. If the prospect of landing the unfamiliar Eurocopter bothered him, it didn't come through in his voice. What the . . . ? I'll be damned. Murph, how did you know?
A quarter mile from waypoint Echo the decaying wreckage of the blimp was an area large enough to land the helicopter where the jungle vegetation was no more than a few feet high and composed mostly of immature shrubs and ground cover.
When the Flying Dutchman crashed, Mark shouted back, its rubber gasbag would have landed nearby. As it lay across the jungle canopy, it would have shaded the plants under it until they died. Nothing would grow there until the envelope decomposed, forty or fifty years later. Voil+, instant landing zone.
Pretty slick, the Chairman told Mark with more than a little pride. Even for you.
Strap in, Mike warned.
Hemmed in by thick jungle that rose a hundred or more feet into the air, the clearing was coming up fast. Trono slowed the Eurocopter on his final approach, skewing the aircraft to the left, then too far right, before centering over the nearly open area. He eased off the power, and the chopper slowly lowered itself earthward. When a sudden gust threatened to push the main rotor toward the wall of trees, he chopped the throttle a little too much, and the four-million-dollar aircraft hit with a bone-jarring impact. He immediately killed the engines. The turbines wound down, but the rotor continued to whip the grass into a frenzy and caused the trees to sway as if caught in a gale.
Everybody out, Juan commanded. That other chopper will be back any second.
Mike unbuckled his harness, and Murph went to work on Jerry's.
Forget it. I ain't going anywhere, the big Pole muttered. His chin was covered with blood. He held up an object for the others to see. Somehow, he had managed to pull a wad of Semtex plastique explosives and a pencil detonator from the thigh pocket of his combat fatigues. Give me one last shot.
Ski? Mike's eyes were pleading.
Not this time, bud. I don't have it in me.
