“Negative, Marine flight. We are contracted to the relief agency Medecins 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.
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.”
Two miles from where the land met the sea, the Israeli renegades banked north to meet up with the jet fighters, skirting the outer reach of Saudi Arabia’s coastal defenses. There was no chance the lumbering Super Stallion could outrun the Blackhawk, but they certainly were trying. It took only three more minutes for the American helicopter to take up a position above the Israeli’s huge rotor.
“You’d better have a damn good idea,” the copilot shouted. “Radar has those jets down our throats in four minutes.”
Mercer worked furiously. “When I shout, break left as hard as you can, then land this pig. Fast. Those jets may take a shot even after I destroy the Stallion.” He keyed his mike to speak to Yosef. “Listen up, you son of a bitch, and listen good.”
“Ah, the good doctor is back,” Yosef replied mockingly. “I thought you’d already left us.”
“I’ve always preferred roulette, but I know enough about poker to know that when your bluff gets called, the game’s over.”
Yosef’s voice was strained and his reply took just a fraction too long. “And you think I’m bluffing? Remember, it’s not your life you are gambling with but that of your friend, Harry White.”
“Asshole, I know you’re bluffing.” Mercer estimated how long it would take a two-pound object to fall from the door of his helicopter and land on top of the other. Gauging as best he could, he cut ten seconds’ worth of fuse from the coil in his kit bag and seated it into his last stick of dynamite. “And in about a minute you’re going to pay the highest stakes of all.”
“Bravado, Dr. Mercer,” Yosef replied. “In one minute, if I’m not given free passage, two F-16s are going to blow you from the sky. I may die, yes, but so will Harry White. Your revenge may be gratifying, but it will also be short-lived.”
“You should have known when to fold ’em, partner,” Mercer drawled. It took a few tries to light the fuse in the air whipping around the cabin, but once it was burning evenly, he shouted, “Now!”
The Blackhawk pilot had anticipated Mercer by a crucial half second, and when he released the explosive, he realized it would miss the upperworks of the Israeli helicopter. While an explosion near the hull of the Sikorsky would be damaging, it was doubtful it would cripple the huge cargo chopper.
Mercer’s mouth opened for a scream of frustration even as the Blackhawk twisted and fell from the sky so fast that he became momentarily weightless. Yet his gaze never left the Israeli helo or the little package tumbling torward it.
A helicopter’s rotor produces lift by creating a pocket of high pressure below the blades and low pressure above. For a chopper the size of the CH-53, tons of air rush into the vortex around the rotor, centering the craft like the eye of a hurricane. Into this maelstrom fell the dynamite. The little bomb would have fallen harmlessly past a conventional aircraft, but when it felt the relentless draw of the turbine-powered blades, it changed direction in midair. The millisecond before the packet was shredded by the rotor, the fuse touched the chemical explosives.
The helicopter vanished behind an expanding blossom of fire, and when it finally reemerged, the six rotor blades and the top third of the aircraft were gone. The Super Stallion was dead in the air, only its forward momentum carrying it in a flagging parabola. Mercer didn’t blink until it slammed into the cobalt-blue sea, fire from its ruptured tanks washing away on the waves spawned by the impact. In a second it was gone.
“Get us to the Arabian coast and under their radar umbrella,” Mercer shouted to the pilot, but the veteran was way ahead of him. The chopper settled into a flight path scant feet above the sea, the engines torqued for maximum speed.
“Those jets are breaking off and returning north,” the copilot yelled a minute later.
Mercer was too tired to care, but he gave a weak cheer for the crew’s benefit. “Let’s get back to the mine. We’re not done yet.”
It took forty minutes, and on the inbound flight they heard radio chatter from other Blackhawks ferrying the injured to the amphibious assault ship.
Habte was the first to greet Mercer on the ground, shaking his hand solemnly, then enfolding him in a brotherly hug that would add another day or two to the recovery time for Mercer’s broken ribs.
