Cyndi frantically searched for an open patch of ground to land on before the rotors lost all lift and autorotation became impossible.
Pierce swooped in for the kill. Now only half a mile away from the gravely wounded Little Bird, Pierce let out a maniacal laugh. “I never lose, sweet cheeks! See you in hell!”
Hatred, ego, and an ultracompetitive personality had caused him to become so focused on killing Lance and Cyndi that he’d lost all situational awareness. Major Pierce, Delta Force team leader, had violated the number one rule in the Special Operations world—never assume your adversary is dead.
An AIM-7 Sparrow missile flew right into the open door of his AH-6M before exploding.
Pierce was dead long before his helicopter fell from the sky and slammed into the parade field on the base.
Cyndi was right about pilots.
Pierce wasn’t the only warrior who lived by the motto I Never Lose. The F-16 pilot had turned his fatally damaged jet toward Pierce and fired off the missile just before ejecting.
Chapter Forty-Five
Cyndi ignored the fiery explosion off in the distance at the parade field. Her entire focus was on getting them down in one piece. With the engine on fire, she only had one chance to get the autorotation right.
At their low altitude, making it to the heliport was impossible. The headquarters building was dead ahead. It had a large parking lot that was only half-full. Cyndi made a snap decision and committed to landing there.
The crippled helicopter fell from the sky. At the last second, she pulled up on the collective and eased back on the cyclic. The nose pitched up. Cyndi was trying to round out of the rapid descent at the same point that the helicopter would contact the ground—without stalling first. In a helicopter she’d never flown before.
She’d started the flair ten feet too low.
The AH-6M slammed into the pavement.
Its skids splayed outward.
Both pylons snapped off.
The spinning rotors flexed downward on impact. The tips of the composite blades shattered as they sliced through the tail boom. Razor-sharp pieces peppered the headquarters building, shattering windows. Startled office workers dove for cover under their desks..
As designed, the structure under their seats collapsed, absorbing the energy from the hard landing that would have otherwise crushed their spines.
Cyndi and Lance were dazed from the impact. They sat motionless for a few moments. Slowly, they began to get their wits about them. Sore but thankful to be in one piece, the missileers unbuckled.
“You okay?” Cyndi asked groggily.
Lance rubbed his neck. “I think so.” There was an odd sensation on the back of his hand as he massaged his neck. He lowered his hand. The skin on the back was pink and the hair had been singed off. With his senses still caught up in a cloud of confusion, the reason didn’t immediately register in his mind.
Lance looked up. The ceiling was engulfed in flames. Fire from the burst oil tank had burned through the roof and was now spreading to the cockpit.
Lance shoved Cyndi out her door then dove out the opening on his side. With the skids collapsed, the fall was only two feet.
They got to their feet and limped away from the burning helicopter, rejoining at the steps leading up to the building.
In seconds, the fire had breached the fuel tank.
The Little Bird detonated with a thunderous BOOM.
Rounds from the Gatling gun began to light off, sounding like popcorn cooking on a stove. Nearby cars were caught up in the conflagration, exploding as well. The parking lot resembled a scene from Dante's Inferno.
Cyndi and Lance looked away and shielded their faces from the intense heat. Passersby rushed toward the burning helicopter, ignoring their own safety.
Although terrible, this accident paled in comparison to the destruction that would have happened if their missile had launched or had fallen into the wrong hands. With a renewed sense of urgency, they climbed the concrete steps leading to the headquarters building. The imposing, modern structure was palatial in comparison to most of the other buildings on base.
Before leaving the command post, Colonel Wilmer had threatened his staff with prison time if they told anyone about the incident at Alpha One. He scurried down the sidewalk leading to the headquarters building with a death grip on a manila folder. Despite the freezing temperature, he was perspiring. “Why me?” he asked himself rhetorically. Something caught his eye. He looked up just as the helicopter slammed into the parking lot. He waddled off toward the lot in a partial jog.
Wilmer approached the flaming wreckage but was driven back by the severe heat. He decided to direct the rescue efforts from afar and let braver souls risk injury searching for survivors.
Lance yanked open the heavy, ornate metal door leading into the 90th Missile Wing headquarters building.
Spotless, polished granite covered the expansive lobby. The Global Strike Command emblem was centered in the floor. The walls were lined with flags representing every unit in the command. To the right, a middle-aged receptionist sat behind a large marble-clad desk. When Cyndi and Lance rushed up to her, she looked up and let out a frightful scream.
It was no wonder; they looked like they’d just finished a shift at the slaughterhouse.
Blood covered Cyndi’s hands and was streaked across her cheeks from wiping her tears away in the silo. Her flight suit was covered in soot from the burning helicopter.
Lance wouldn’t be auditioning for commercials anytime soon. Blood-soaked gauze was wrapped around his leg, his elbow was blood-stained, his flight suit was torn, and he had dried blood on the side of his head where Cyndi had kicked him.
“Oh my God! What happened to you?” the receptionist asked, wide-eyed.
“It’s a long story,” Lance quipped.
“We have to see General McNeil right now. It’s an emergency. Where is his office?” Cyndi pleaded.
“Down that hallway,” the woman responded, pointing across the lobby. “But you can’t just storm in there! You need an appointment!” She began leafing through her appointment book. “And a
