Just then the corporate jet appeared in his windshield.
“THERE’S A VAN down on the road on the eastern shore,” the pilot of the Challenger said to Hanley as he screamed past Bennett at a low altitude.
“What does—” Hanley started to say before being cut off.
“There’s the Robinson,” the pilot shouted.
“Can he see the van?” Hanley asked.
“Probably,” the pilot said, pulling out of the pass and climbing, “but he’s still a distance away.”
“Get out of there,” Hanley ordered. “We just received word from the British authorities that their fighters are only a few minutes away. They can handle things now.”
“Acknowledged,” the pilot of the Challenger said.
ON THE GROUND near the van, the two men watched as the Cessna came closer.
“I think I see a helicopter farther back,” one of the men said.
The other man stared into the mist. “I doubt it,” he said. “If it was that close, we could hear the engine and the rotor slap.”
They could see the door of the Cessna open.
THE TWO MEN could have heard the engine of the helicopter—if the engine had been running. Instead, the cockpit of the Robinson had grown eerily quiet, with only the sound of the air slipping past the fuselage as Adams initiated an autorotation. He angled toward land and prayed they would not fall short.
Cabrillo just caught a glimpse of the van and the flashing strobes as they dropped.
He didn’t bother to tell Adams over the headset—he had his hands full right now.
BENNETT PUSHED ON the box and it flipped out of the open door. Then he righted the Cessna and turned to head for the airport in Inverness. He was climbing into the air to clear the hills at the far end of the lake when he caught a quick glimpse of the helicopter only five hundred feet off the ground.
As soon as he could get the Cessna stabilized and on course he’d call and report.
A ROCK IN a box falls straight to earth. The meteorite plummeted down and slammed into a spot of soggy peat without breaking. The two men raced over and were just starting to pull the box from the mud when the high- pitched whine from the engines of a pair of fighter jets grew louder. Raising their heads, they stared up as the jets streaked past.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” the first man said as soon as he yanked the box from the peaty soil.
The second man raced ahead to start the van while the first followed with the box.
“I THINK I can make the road,” Adams shouted over the headset.
The Robinson was in a depleting arc powered only by the air flowing up through the rotor blades and causing them to spin. Adams was controlling the helicopter to the ground—but he was losing air speed fast.
The edge of the loch and the road were fast approaching, and he started his flare.
THE FIGHTERS CAME up behind Bennett and the Cessna so fast it was as if they had appeared out of thin air. They crossed within feet to either side, then blew past him and initiated high-speed turns. Just then his radio squawked.
“This is the Royal Air Force,” a voice said, “you are to make your way to the nearest airfield and land immediately. If you refuse to comply or take evasive action, you will be downed. Acknowledge receipt of this message.”
The two jets had completed their turns and were approaching Bennett head-on.
He waved his wings in reply—then he reached for the satellite telephone.
SO CLOSE AND yet so far.
Cabrillo glanced out the side window before the helicopter dropped behind a hill. The van and the drop zone were less than a mile away. Even if Adams could get them to the ground alive, by the time they climbed from the Robinson and jogged to the site, the van—and the meteorite—would be gone.
He clutched his satellite telephone to his chest and braced to hit the ground.
THE DRIVER OF the van slammed it into gear and stepped on the gas. The rear tires pawed at the muddy soil and spit peat into the air. Fishtailing, he reached the pavement and started down the road to the south.
He glanced quickly in his rearview mirror and found the road empty.
ADAMS PLAYED THE Robinson with all the finesse of a concert violinist. Gauging his flare with precision, he pulled up on the cyclic at the last possible second when the helicopter was in an arc only a few feet off the ground. The change in pitch on the rotor blades bled off the last of the stored air speed and the Robinson stopped in the air and dropped the last few feet to the road on her skids. The airframe took a thump, but not a hard one. Looking over at Cabrillo, Adams exhaled in a loud burst.
“Damn, you’re good,” Cabrillo said.
“That was a rough one,” Adams said, removing his headset and opening the door.
The helicopter was blocking the road almost completely.
“If we had a mile more fuel,” Cabrillo said, opening the door and stepping out, “we’d’ve had them.”
The men rose to their full height on the road and stretched.
“You’d better call Mr. Hanley and report that we’ve lost them,” Adams said as Shea and the MG appeared over the hill and slowed because the road was blocked.
“In a minute,” Cabrillo said, glancing at the MG as it pulled to a stop.
Shea poked his head out the side window. “You men need some help?” he asked in a Texas twang.
Cabrillo trotted over to the MG. “You an American?”
“Born and raised,” Shea said proudly.
