McAllen motioned for the pilot to go to the back, open the bay door.
“You smell that?” cried Khaki. “That’s fuel.”
The pilot reached for the side door and inched it open, just as McAllen seized it, glanced up, and aimed his SIG P220 pistol, screaming in Russian, “Don’t move!”
With a gun to his head, the pilot was most accommodating, and McAllen climbed up into the helo, took the pilot’s sidearm from his holster, then motioned him back toward the cockpit.
“Something’s wrong with this helo,” hollered Khaki.
McAllen ignored him for now. “Rule, get everybody else in here,” he ordered his assistant. “Khaki, come on up, get in the co-pilot’s seat. But I don’t think you’re flying.”
After ordering the co-pilot to turn over his sidearm, McAllen moved back, allowing Khaki into the cockpit. The co-pilot vacated his chair and slowly headed into the troop compartment, Khaki’s pistol trained on him until Rule got back inside and took over.
McAllen and Khaki donned headsets, then Khaki spoke quickly to the pilot in Russian, his language skills even better than McAllen’s. In fact, the two spoke so quickly that McAllen only picked up a word here and there.
“All right, he doesn’t care, he’ll fly us where we want to go so long as we don’t shoot them, but it’s no coincidence they were just sitting here.”
“How bad?”
“He says they’re having trouble with the gear. And there’s an electrical problem along with a fuel leak somewhere. Remember, these Russians have some new gear, but the old stuff is
“So we just got into a flying bomb.”
“Pretty much.”
McAllen lowered his voice, even though he didn’t need to. “Don’t tell the other guys.”
Khaki winked and said, “We’re screwed.”
“Less screwed than before. At least we got a ride now. How’s the fuel?”
“They filled it up before leaving Behchoko, but we’ll find out just how bad this leak is.”
McAllen spoke slowly to the pilot, asking him more about the fuel problem.
The pilot threw up his hands, shrugged.
Bastard wasn’t telling.
“It’s about a two-hour ride up to your pilot’s last known coordinates,” said Khaki. “We might make it there, but if we don’t refuel, this won’t be our ride home.”
“Just get us there. My CO’s working on the rest.”
Friskis, Gutierrez, Palladino, and Szymanski piled into the bird, and Rule shut the door behind them.
Then the assistant team leader rushed up, slapped a hand on McAllen’s shoulder, and shouted in his ear, “Do we have to take the co-pilot?”
“No, you’re right. Good call. Ditch him.” While Rule took care of that, McAllen ordered the pilot to take off.
The rotors began to kick up as Rule shoved the co-pilot outside, then slammed shut the door.
After jogging a few yards away, the co-pilot whirled around and raised his middle fingers.
“He’s not happy!” Rule cried.
“He’s lucky we didn’t shoot him,” added McAllen.
As the engine began to roar even louder, and the floor began to vibrate, McAllen grabbed onto the back of the pilot’s seat as the gear left the ground.
“This helo is a piece of crap!” shouted Rule.
McAllen smiled darkly. “But it’s all ours!”
While Khaki ordered the pilot to bank away and head north, McAllen wrestled with the idea that they could use the helo and its weaponry to assist the SF guys.
What a surprise that would be, seeing a Ka-29 swoop down to take out Spetsnaz infantrymen on the ground, not Canadians and Americans.
But they didn’t have the fuel, might need the weapons later on, and there was always the chance that they could be accidentally taken out.
So there it was. Despite the pure, unadulterated frustration, they would stick to the plan.
Of course, those Special Forces boys weren’t about to let him live down that decision. “Outlaw One, this is Black Bear, over!”
“Go ahead, Black Bear.”
“Is that you in that Russian helo, over?”
“Roger that. Sorry we couldn’t stick around for the cake, but I think your operators got it under control, over.”
“If this channel wasn’t being recorded, you know what I’d be telling you right now, don’t you?”
McAllen knew. And he’d probably say the same thing. “Understood. Outlaw One, out.”
“Don’t let it bother you, Sergeant,” said Khaki over the intercom. “Every player has his part.”
“Yeah, but you know, you can’t help but ask — what’s more important? One pilot? Or helping secure an entire town?”
“That’s not your question to answer.”
“No, but it’s still mine to ask.”
The driver of the pickup truck had introduced himself as Barry. He was three hundred and fifty pounds of flannel-clad Canadian hunter/firefighter, and he barreled down the street at sixty-plus miles per hour, with Vatz buckled into the passenger’s seat, Band-Aid jammed into the backseat.
Vatz had contacted the other four guys he had posted downtown, and they were already en route to the airport in another truck.
Meanwhile, some of Captain Rodriguez’s men were reconnoitering the roadblocks, while others attempted to fall back into the neighborhoods to see just where those Spetsnaz troops had moved. Rodriguez had said he’d already lost four men, and that he still hadn’t heard when the Tenth Mountain Division’s first troops would arrive from Grand Prairie.
They drove in silence for a minute, then Barry suddenly blurted, “This is like something out of a movie. I mean, this stuff doesn’t happen to folks like us.”
“Well, it does now,” said Vatz.
“I got a condo in Florida. What am I doing here?”
“Saving your town,” said Band-Aid.
“Speaking of which, I heard we destroyed all of their helicopters.”
“I didn’t hear that,” Vatz said.
“I also heard that a squad or two went off into the neighborhoods. They’re using gas.”
“What else did you hear?” asked Band-Aid.
“They shot down the two choppers we had up there.”
Vatz rubbed his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders began to loosen. “I saw one of our birds go down. But we also took out the helo that was after it.”
A crash and muffled
Suddenly, the truck was drifting to the left, cutting into the wrong lane and now racing toward a building.
Vatz glanced sidelong at Barry.
He’d been shot in the chest by a sniper, and blood had splattered all over the cab. A gaping hole had opened in the windshield.
Band-Aid was screaming that the round had missed him by a few inches. Most of the rear window was gone.
Before Vatz could grab the wheel, the truck plowed through the glass door and adjoining wall of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce, cinder blocks and glass tumbling down onto the hood, crashing through the windshield and onto Vatz as he ducked, burying himself in the floorboard.
But the truck kept on moving, blasting through decks and counters until Vatz reached up through the debris
