covered? He knew it would be — the gouge showed dark, heavy sand, not the fine whiteness of the beach near the trees. They would not even have to wait until the pallet's wreckage slid into the water; the sea was coming in to meet the MiL. Already, it was perhaps an inch, two inches farther up the flank of the helicopter, lapping gently, deceptively against the Plexiglas of the gunner's cabin. The rotary cannon's barrel was already dipped like a straw into the water. The tip of the airspeed sensor boom toyed at the surface. The Mil was leaning to starboard and tilted nose down, too. Its weight should have been pressing the wreckage of the pallet down into the compacted sand of the bar— should have been. But it had moved twice, three times, although only by inches. Either it would move as they began to rerig, or — or the tide…
'Lane! I want you in here. You do the cowhand's job, Mac.'
'Sure.'
'Get the rigging kit onto the sand. I need you—'
'I release the rotor brake every time you want the rotor head moved, huh, Major?'
'Got it right off the bat. Change places with me. Come on.'
Lane dragged the section of pallet and the elements of the rigging kit up the slope of the sandbar, Mac wading into the shallow water to help him, the coiled rope over his shoulder. When they had finished, Mac waved.
'Ready when you are, skipper.'
'OK. Lane, let's change places.' He reached back into the cockpit and tugged the transceiver from its mounting, then clipped it to his pocket. 'Garcia — situation report now.'
'Major — we're making it,' he heard Garcia breathlessly reply, his words accompanied by a soughing like that of the wind. 'We got the wobble pump operational, we're fueling up now. Then we'll re-rig our rotors. Any more orders?'
'You're going to have to tow out one of the fuel cells to me. Just be ready. Out.'
Lane was standing beneath the cockpit. Gant balanced in the doorway, assessed the stability of the tilted helicopter, then jumped into the shallow water. Looked up at once — the Mil had not moved. He exhaled with noisy relief.
'OK, Lane, just take your time, huh?'
Lane reached upward, grabbing the frame of the open door with one hand, the sill with the other. Like a hunchback, he placed his feet in the niches in the fuselage, hesitated, then scrambled softly into the cockpit, straightening gingerly only after a long hesitation. Something groaned beneath the MiL, but it had not moved. It was simply the tide that shocked — another inch, maybe two.
Swiftly, Gant rounded the drunkenly hanging nose and walked up the slope of the sandbar. The water had been warm; he had hardly noticed. The morning was still. The temperature wasn't much over sixty, but it was humid and breezeless. Tension made him sweat.
He squinted into the light, looking up at the locked rotors. Four of the blades clustered over the tail boom required moving. And first he must rerig the blade that would hang closest to the water — a measurement of the incoming tide. If it dipped below the surface, then when he started the engines it would break, stranding the Mil for good. So—
'You lasso each of the rotors, Mac, and haul them around to the rigged position. I'll lock and secure.'
'Sure, skipper.' Mac had taken the coiled rope from his shoulder. He grinned and wiped sweat from his forehead.
Gant touched gently at the flank of the MiL. Placed his hands firmly on the stubby port wing, above the rocket pod, which stared threateningly into his stomach. He heaved his body onto the wing. The helicopter quivered, rocked gently, settled back. There was a groan of splintered wood, but no sideways or forward movement. Mac's breath exhaled noisily. Gant stood on the wing, then began climbing slowly, using the handholds set in the fuselage. Tension shook his frame; sweat blinded him — just that small effort, and he felt weak, as if the air was that of some Turkish bath. He pressed his body against the fuselage, edging upward. Lane's features appeared pale and nervous through the cloudy Plexiglas to his left, beyond the plugged air intakes.
He scrambled into a crouched position atop the helicopter, near the opening of the oil-cooler intake. He nodded to Mac.
'OK — throw up the tools.'
The wrench glinted in the sun. He caught it easily. Then he grabbed the second tool out of the air, clanging it down against the drum of the exhaust port, which boomed hollowly. He nodded again, paused to look across the water. In a mirror image of what he was about to attempt, he could make out Garcia atop the 24A, unlocking his second rotor. Kooper had dragged the first one into position; it was already rerigged for takeoff. It was a race, and he suddenly appeared to be falling behind; Garcia did not have the urgency of the creeping tide to prompt him.
From his vantage, the sandbar already appeared narrower, a sliver of gouged whiteness reaching out from the shore. No longer like a crooked arm, only as thick as a beckoning finger. The chin radar had disappeared beneath the water; the FLIR, too, was gone. The tip of the sensor boom had dipped below the surface, the rotary cannon was half drowned. Urgency panicked him, made him feel old and insecure as he straightened up, balancing his weight evenly, one foot to either side of the exhaust. Then he sat down gently.
Minutes, minutes…
He unlocked the first rotor.
'OK!' It was necessary and unnecessary to shout, but he did so, releasing the tension that threatened to cramp his arms, his grip on the tool. Mac's lasso floated upward; Gant grabbed it and crawled along the tail boom, a four-footed animal disoriented on a high wire, looping it over the tip of the first rotor. 'OK!' He felt the sweat sheening his body inside the flight overalls, and wiped at his forehead and eyes. Raised his body to watch.
Mac walked into the water, tugging the rotor slowly away from its folded position, the rope taut, dropping beads of bright water. The rotor tip moved downward in an arc. Gant could not breathe.
He scuttled back along the tail boom, seating himself once more on the warm metal of the exhaust. He began rotating the nut, one eye watching the moving rotor tip as it dipped toward the water. Fish flicked like silver metal fragments. The wrench rotated the large nut, drawing back the triple lugs, which allowed their mating lugs to engage in their housings and become locked when the special retracting tool was withdrawn. The rotor stopped moving. Gant almost fearfully studied its tip. Less than a foot from the water. Once any part of it was submerged, the game was lost.
'One!' he yelled. 'OK, Lane — release the rotor brake!'
He moved away from the rotor head. As the brake was released in the cockpit, the rotor head moved, bringing it to a more convenient position. Mac flung the lasso but failed to loop it on the tip of the next rotor. Gant s temperature soared; he clamped his lips shut, watched Mac throw again, catch the tip, tighten the noose. He waved him to begin pulling the rotor into position, retracting the lugs, loosening the nut with the wrench.
A frantic stealth; a tense, almost slow-motion sequence of actions. Lasso, wrench, retracting tool, wrench, the insertion of a wired pin. Hydraulic pressure would complete the locking of each rotor at the moment of engine- start… lasso, wrench, retracting tool, wrench, wired pin, rotor brake… His back and arms ached, his body was bathed in sweat. The water edged slowly — no, they were laboring slowly, with effort, the sea just slid and rose — toward the rotor tip. Starboard undercarriage beneath the water, the sea lapping high up on the gunners cockpit, Garcias Mil in the hazy distance already fully rigged.
'Lash the fuel cell as securely as you can,' he was instructing Garcia, even as he tightened the fourth nut, at the point of removing the retracting tool. 'Make the towrope as long as you can — I don't want this baby disturbed by your downwash. Get that fuel and the wobble pump out here as quick as you can.' 'OK, Major — with you as soon as we can.' Gant did not look up at the beach again. He stared instead at the tip of the rotor that leaned out over the water. Inches now. They wouldn't have time. Inches…
He heard the 24A's engines start, the rotors wind up. A shattering noise that seemed like laughter mocking the immobility of his own helicopter. He tightened the last nut and removed the retracting tool. He reached for the last wired pin and fitted it. The retracting tool slithered from his damp grasp, clanging down the bulkhead, splashing into the water—
— a moment of relief that he had finished with it, that he need not waste time retrieving it, then he realized that Lane, his own task completed and startled by the noise behind him, had lurched across the cockpit to look out, leaning his weight too quickly, too heavily against the frame of the door—
— Mac's mouth opening in surprise, even warning, Gant clinging to the rotor head, still straddling the
