that belongs to them. Understand, we’re transmitting on an unsecure circuit so they can hear your response. Now is the time to come clean, Seahawk. Tell us what’s going on so we can make arrangements to work this out.”
“Pamela, what the hell?” the pilot said.
“What?” she snapped. “You think I have something to do with this?”
The pilot made no response.
“Seahawk, hit the deck,” a voice snapped. She recognized it as that of Tombstone Magruder.
“Roger,” the pilot said even as he shoved the collective forward and headed for the surface of the ocean.
“What’s going on?” Pamela asked, fear making her regret her earlier denial.
“We’ve got a chance down here. Keep one hand on your harness release latch, the other on your seat. If you see the side door open, get the hell out of Dodge. You got that?”
“Jump out of the helicopter?”
“Unless you want to be a welcoming committee of one for a missile, yes,” the pilot said dryly. “You may not have noticed but we’re a little short on countermeasures or electronics. This is a commercial helicopter, lady — not a military one. And short of simply trying to get lost in the haze — which, I might add, is a zero probability event — discretion is the better part of valor. I’ll keep us as low as I can, but you be ready to move.”
Pamela stared at the ocean, which had seemed closer just moments before. Now it looked dangerously distant. How far was it, anyway? Fifty feet? Thirty feet? She had no idea. Her fingers were already moving over her harness, making sure she could get it off quickly.
“Seahawk, incoming!” the circuit shouted.
“Now!” The pilot shoved the collective forward, dropping them down until the skids seemed like they must be cutting through the waves. He slammed the hatch open. “Go now!”
The brief maneuver had taken them measurably closer to the water. Pamela bolted out of her seat, stepped forward, and, without bothering to consider what might wait for her below, jumped. She cleared the skids by two feet, and the fall seemed to take no time at all. She plunged into the ocean, the impact driving the breath out of her lungs, as did the cold current below the surface.
For a moment, there was peace. Bubbles drifted past her, and the silence underwater was pure and clean after the noise inside the helicopter.
Almost immediately, her lungs started to hurt. She kicked hard, grabbing water with cupped hands and forcing herself back up to the surface.
The emergency inflation ring — where was it? Her already chilled fingers reached down the lanyard and yanked. Immediately, the gas canister expanded the life jacket around her. That done, she looked around for the helicopter. It was far above her, continuing to ascend. As she watched, there was a flash of silver in the air, heading straight for the helicopter. Then the explosion — deafening at this range, orange and yellow flames shooting through black smoke, an immediate vaporization of the aircraft. She let out an involuntary scream, and resisted the impulse to dive back into the cool, deep silence of the sea.
“Pamela! Over here.” She barely heard the pilot’s voice over the noise of the explosion. He was swimming toward her, cutting clean, short strokes through the sea, dragging a package behind him. Ten feet to his right, the co-pilot executed a smooth breast stroke. Once they got to her, they hooked a line on their air vests through a loop on hers, securing the three of them together. Then the pilot activated the auto-inflation lanyard of the package he’d been towing. There was a sharp hissing sound, and the package unfolded immediately and began assuming the shape of a life raft.
“What happened?” Pamela asked. It was a stupid question — what had happened was obvious. But the pilot knew what she meant.
“Once you were clear, I hauled back on the collective so she’d gain altitude and jammed the throttle open. Then we bailed down. We weren’t much higher than you were, but it was still a long way down.”
Drake choked as a small wave slapped her in the face. “We had a raft?”
“Complete emergency survival gear is required by both the FAA and the Navy for flights over water. I never thought we’d use it, though.”
“There they are,” the co-pilot said, speaking for the first time. He pointed to the horizon. Three small black specks just barely above the surface of the ocean were heading for them. “That’s our ride home.”
“If they can get here,” the pilot said. There was a sudden blast of noise from overhead and two Forgers streaked by. “It looks like the Russians may have some thoughts about that.”
“They wouldn’t strafe us,” Pamela said. “Tell me they wouldn’t.”
Neither man answered her. She knew a moment of despair, then looked back at the helos.
Surely the
Lab Rat raced across the flight deck as soon as the rescue helo touched down. Before the rotors had even come to a complete halt, he was standing by her hatch, waiting, a look of anticipation on his face. For a moment, Pamela felt a flash of irritation. Clearly, he had no concern about their helo, about the Russian missile shot, or about her own condition after jumping out of the helo. All he could think about was the government in her pocket.
Drake fumed. The plane captain finally approached, tapped Lab Rat politely on the shoulder, and motioned for him to move away. Lab Rat moved back just far enough to give the plane captain access to the hatch. Then, undaunted, Lab Rat leaped into the small passenger compartment as soon as the hatch was open.
Without a word, he held out his hand. As she fished around in her pocket, a smile broke out on his face. Finally, she withdrew the crystal and placed it carefully in his hand.
“Thanks,” he shouted as he leaped out of the helicopter. “You have no idea what this means. None at all.”
Later, after she had been checked out by medical, had a long, hot shower, and changed into fresh clothes, she felt the weariness hit. It came on so suddenly she staggered, then stretched out on her rack. Waves of blackness swarmed over her, forcing her eyes shut. She was already dreaming when she heard a rap on the door.
For a moment, she considered pretending she wasn’t there. Or shouting at them to go away. But that seemed like so very much trouble. Before she could decide what to do, the doorknob turned and the door opened. Tombstone stood framed as a dark figure against the red lights out in the passageway.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
With a groan, she shoved herself up on an elbow. Thank god she was still fully dressed. “Sure, OK. I’m not promising I can stay awake, though.”
He pulled the metal chair away from the drop-down desk, turned it backwards, and straddled it. He crossed his arms on the back and rested his chin on his hands. “It’s official. You’re no longer in purgatory. You did a good thing today, Pamela. A very good thing.”
“Thanks. I could have done without the part about the missile, though.”
“Oh, I think that will play out all right, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She was unable to suppress a jaw-cracking yawn.
“You’ll see.” Tombstone fell silent, and Drake couldn’t summon up the energy to engage in polite conversation. She felt herself drifting off, even sitting. She heard Tombstone stand up, the chair scraping across the tile.
“I’ll go now. I just wanted to pass on my thanks. I know you’ll hear it from the rest of the Navy later on — maybe not so much in public, because a lot of this will still be classified. But we remember who our friends are. You know how that works.”
Suddenly, everything was all right. Tombstone, the Navy, her career — everything was just fine. She smiled up at him, then said, “We’ll talk later when I’m awake. And thanks for coming by. That means a lot to me.” She was asleep before the door shut behind him.
