The Line

by Bob Mayer

  *****

  In the cockpit of the OH-58 observation helicopter Captain Isaac had the controls while Major Quincy was scanning the terrain below with binoculars. They'd waited all night, checking in with local airports and the state police, waiting for a report of the stolen helicopter, but nothing had come in.

  "She could have gone anywhere," Isaac said, keeping Route 293 directly below.

  "She had to land somewhere," Quincy said. "You can't hide the helicopter on the ground."

  Isaac shook his head. "We're looking for a needle in a haystack. She could have gone anywhere," he repeated.

  Quincy pulled away from the rubber eyepiece. "You want to tell the general that?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then fly."

  *****

  Trace reached into the shoulder pocket of the survival vest and pulled out the small pen flare that was standard equipment. She leaned over as far as she could, gritting her teeth as pain exploded anew in her left leg, and pointed the end of the flare up and out the hole in the windshield. She popped it and watched it arc up through the trees.

  *****

  "There!" Quincy yelled over the intercom. "To the right. See it?"

  Isaac looked in the indicated direction and caught the tail end of the small flare as it went back down among the trees. "I got it" He banked hard right.

  Quincy pressed the send button for the radio. "Gray Six, this is Gray Four. Over."

  *****

  Inside Building 600—the Academy Administration Building—the radio call was picked up by a hastily rigged antenna on the roof of the 160-foot tower—the tallest all-stonemasonry building in the world. On the floor just below the roof, General Hooker grabbed the handset. "This is Gray Six. Go ahead. Over."

  "We've spotted a flare. Going to investigate. Vicinity south end of Bull Pond. Over."

  "Roger," Hooker responded. "I'll have a ground unit en route. Out." He put down the handset and turned to two young captains dressed in fatigues and wearing 9mm pistols on their hips. They had flown up with him from Alexandria. "You heard. Get going."

  "Yes, sir."

  *****

  At the MP station, Sergeant Taylor smiled as the radio went dead. Stupid sons of bitches were using the frequency listed as reserved for the superintendent in the West Point CEOI—communications electronics operating instructions. Taylor had been asked to monitor both that frequency and the phone lines, and it sounded like he had hit paydirt. He grabbed the phone and dialed the number of a local motel he'd been given.

  "Harry! Things are moving."

  *****

  Major Quincy looked down through the Plexiglas pedals at the wreckage below. "Surprised she's still alive," he commented.

  "How are they going to account for the chopper?" Isaac asked as he held the OH-58 in a hover.

  Quincy laughed. "Shit, captain, you haven't seen anything yet. I remember back in 'eighty-eight we took out a Blackhawk full of Rangers just to get rid of the 1st Ranger battalion commander because he was making waves. One fucking Huey isn't going to be missed."

  Captain Isaac's knuckles were white on the controls as he maintained a hover. Eight years ago when he'd been approached by The Line it had seemed a golden career opportunity. Now though, after seeing it in action, he was starting to question his decision. Unfortunately, it was too late for questioning. He was in.

  "You might as well call Gray Six and tell them there's no rush. She must be trapped in the cockpit."

  Isaac could see part of an arm moving about inside the wreckage. She was damn lucky to be alive, he thought as he took in the entire scene and the steel cable from the power lines. A pilot himself, he could well imagine what had happened: she'd been flying the lake surface, pinned down below the clouds when she hit the lines, always a pilot's nightmare.

  "Maybe she'll die of natural causes," Quincy joked as he keyed the mike.

  *****

  Trace peered up. An Army OH-58 was hovering about 100 feet up. They'd obviously seen her. She assumed they were radioing for help. "Thank God," she said out loud, leaning back in the pilot's seat to wait.

  She thought of Boomer. First thing she would do when they got her to a hospital was call him. Her head snapped forward. How the hell did she know those people in the helicopter above were friendly? Boomer would tell her to assume they weren't.

  Trace gathered up the diary. She opened it and randomly tore out some pages, stuffing them inside her jacket, pushing them through a hole she tore in the bottom of the inside pocket, then smoothing them out, hidden inside the liner. Then she began to look for a place within arm's reach to hide the book.

  *****

  The white military van with the two captains rolled out Washington Gate and turned left onto 293.

  *****

  A battered El Camino turned right out of the Mountain View Motel on Route 9W and headed north. Harry Franks checked the topographic map of the West Point Military Reservation laid out on the passenger seat. The map was held in place by the weight of a 9mm Heckler & Koch MP5SD5 submachine gun with silencer. His finger traced the route he needed to take. In three miles 9W intersected with 93. Turn left there and head west.

  *****

  "Gray Four, this is Gray Five. Over."

  Quincy keyed the mike. "This is Four. Go ahead. Over."

  "We're passing Camp Natural Bridge. Over."

  "Take a right onto Bull Pond road. You should be able to see us when you get up near the pond. Over."

  "Roger. Out."

  *****

  The helicopter was still up there, which left no doubt in Trace's mind that she had been spotted. Nothing to do now but wait. She'd jammed the diary up underneath the pilot's seat. Although she wasn't sure that was the greatest idea in the world, it was all she could think of.

  *****

  The white van climbed up the steep incline as Bull Fond road went up the side of Blackcap Mountain. It hit a split—to the right to Bull Hill and the fire tower, to the left the sign indicated Proctoria Road. Both captains had spent summers out here in training when they were cadets and knew where to go. They turned left, looping around the south end of Bull Pond. They could now see the helicopter above.

  "Gray Four, this is Five. Over."

  The captain in the passenger seat answered. "This is Four. Go ahead. Over."

  "We've got you in sight. There's a small knoll off to your right. The crash site is on the other side of that knoll. Over."

  "Roger." The van pulled to a halt and the two men got out. They circled to the left of the knoll. As they crested the shoulder of it, they could see the wreckage about 200 meters ahead on the bottom side of the high ground there. They dipped down as they continued and immediately struck swamp. They cursed as cold, mucky water seeped into their jungle boots and they had to beat their way through the thick, dead vegetation. The outlet for Bull Pond ran this way and meandered a bit, causing the swamp they were negotiating.

  *****

  Back at the intersection of Bull Pond and Proctoria Road, the El Camino cruised to a halt. Harry could hear the helicopter ahead. He edged off under the thick cover of some pine trees and parked the car. He checked his map one last time, folded it and tucked it into the cargo pocket of his camouflage fatigue pants. Harry slipped on a combat vest bristling with killing tools and picked up the MP5. Keeping off the road, he began making his way to the west at a slow jog.

  He hit the swamp closer to Bull Pond than the two officers. There the vegetation was thicker, but he had less trouble with it, slipping through the growth, rather than fighting it, years of hard-earned combat experience in a distant jungle coming back easily.

  "Shit," the captain in the lead muttered as he splashed through the creek in the center of the swamp and started up the other side. He drew his 9mm Beretta Model 92 and chambered a round, his partner doing likewise.

  *****

  Overhead, Isaac's concentration was focused on keeping his present position. Major Quincy was following the two officer's p
rogress through the swamp and relaying that information back to Building 600.

  *****

  "What a fucking mess," were the first words Trace heard. She watched the two men in fatigues come up out of the swamp, their boots layered in mud and their exposed skin covered with red scratches.

  She didn't say anything, her attention focused on the pistols in their hands, the rank on their collar and the large rings glittering on each man's left hand. She felt her small reservoir of energy empty; the hope of rescue that had kept her going for over thirty hours snuffed out.

  "Well, looks like you've got yourself in a pretty mess here," the lead officer said as he leaned into the hole in the front windshield. The nametag on his uniform identified him as Karlen. The second officer joined him—his nametag said Marks—and the two stared at her like she was an animal in the zoo.

  "Hurt bad?" Karlen asked with a grin.

  Trace tried to speak, but her mouth was bone dry. She worked around a little saliva and tried again. "My legs are pinned," she rasped.

  "Hmm, too bad," Karlen said. He looked around, taking in the attitude of the crashed helicopter and the wreckage. "Seems like she should have at least broken her neck on impact don't you think?" he said to Marks.

  "At the very least. Maybe some internal damage also," Marks said as he clambered in the left cargo door and removed an emergency ax from its mooring on the left rear firewall. He climbed over the co-pilot's seat and squatted down next to Trace. "What did you take from the cemetery?"

  "What are you talking about?" Trace said.

  "What did you take from the cemetery?" Marks repeated.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Trace said. "I was doing a test flight and hit those wires and crashed. I've been trapped here and—"

  "You stole this helicopter from Target Hill Field after digging up something at Custer's grave," Marks said. "What did you dig up?"

  "I don't know—" Trace finished the sentence with a scream as Marks slammed the blunt end of the ax into her ribcage. She tried to control her breathing with short gasps as each breath caused the broken ribs to discharge mini-explosions of pain.

  "What did you take from the cemetery?" Marks continued, the ax poised.

  "I didn't take anything," Trace gasped.

  Marks pulled back the ax for another blow. The left side of his head disintegrated as two 9mm rounds ripped through it, and his body was flung into the back cargo compartment.

  Karlen whirled, bringing his pistol up to bear. He was still searching for a target as a line of 9mm subsonic rounds stitched a tight and neat pattern from his lower right stomach and up across his chest. The impact of the bullets slammed him against the Plexiglas in front of Trace, his blood forming a grotesque pattern as he slid down to the ground, a look of surprise still on his face.

  Trace watched, still trying to breathe shallowly, as a large figure materialized out of the edge of the swamp like a ghost, his black skin glistening from the sweat of his efforts running here, after hearing the scream.

  "You all right, missy?"

  "Harry," Trace whispered.

  Harry came up, letting the MP5 hang on its sling. He took the ax out of Mark's dead hand. "Let's get you out of here."

  *****

  Overhead Major Quincy was still stunned at the rapid death of his two comrades. Isaac turned the helicopter, putting some distance between themselves and the large black madman with the submachine gun.

  Quincy finally reacted, keying the mike. "Gray Six, this is Five. Over."

  "This is Six. Go ahead. Over."

  "They're dead. Gray Four is dead. There's some man down there, working in the wreckage. She's still alive. Over."

  There was a long pause. "Keep them in sight. I'll get help to you ASAP. Out."

  *****

  Harry ignored the helicopter. It was an unarmed OH-S8, and there was no place close around to land. They could fly around up there all day and beat their meat as far as he was concerned. He figured he had about thirty minutes before they got someone new out here on the ground and whoever it was wouldn't be as cocky as these two assholes had been.

  He levered the ax handle between the edge of the seat just to the left of Trace's leg and the panel. Leaning back he strained, watching the wood carefully, hoping the metal would move before the wood broke. With a slight noise, the panel moved a quarter of an inch. He heard Trace suck in her breath.

  "Sorry, miss, but it's going to hurt getting this off you."

  "Shit," Trace said. "Only hurts when I laugh."

  Harry smiled. Biceps bulging, he exerted pressure and now the panel moved back, until a good four inches of space appeared above her legs. Harry did a quick primary medical survey of Trace, making sure that he wouldn't do any permanent or fatal damage by moving her.

  "We need the diary," Trace said when he was done. She pointed out its hiding place and Harry tucked it into the back of his pants.

  Tenderly, he scooped her up in his arms. Trying to be as smooth as possible her carried her out of the helicopter and headed back for his car, the helicopter buzzing overhead like an annoying mosquito.

  Harry's internal clock was working, judging reaction times versus road distances. It was going to be close. "Can you take a bit more pain?" he asked.

  "Do whatever it takes," Trace replied.

  Harry carefully shifted her to an over-the-shoulder carry, then he began to jog. Despite his best efforts, every footfall was agony to Trace, jarring the broken bones in her leg and ribcage. She squeezed her eyes closed and went into the suspended time mode she had learned as a plebe at West Point—you were somewhere you didn't want to be, doing something you didn't want to do, but since you had no choice, you learned to zone out from reality. Trace tried as best she could but she'd never experienced pain like this and was very grateful when Harry halted at the car and lowered her into the passenger seat. She wanted to lean over to ease the pain in her ribs, but Harry insisted on buckling the shoulder belt on her. He got in and briefly consulted the map.

  *****

  "Gray Six, this is Four. Subjects are in a black El Camino open-bed wagon. Over."

  "Stay with them, Four. Let me know which way they go. Out."

  *****

  Spitting gravel, the tires of the El Camino spun onto the road. Harry turned the hood west along Proctoria Road. Trace watched the scenario and realized they were following the route used for the Recondo Run—a two and a half mile run in full gear with rucksack that occurred at the end of Recondo training, the last hurdle to getting the Recondo patch. Trace remembered finishing the run with blood oozing through the socks inside her boots, barely able to stand for the entire following week, but she'd finished it. She knew now some of the reason for such brutal training—because there would be times when you would have to ask your body to do things it normally did not want to do and the more you stressed it, the more you found out you could do so much more than you ever thought possible.

  Harry stayed with Proctoria Road, passing the turnoff for OP Charlie and splitting the gap between the ridgelines. Central Valley was spread out below them with the New York Thruway bisecting it a mile and a half away. The ground dropped off, losing 500 feet of altitude down to the valley floor.

  The helicopter was above, having an easy time tracking them. Harry roared past the open field next to Lake Frederic where Plebes camped out every year at the end of Beast Barracks and exited the military reservation onto Mineral Springs Road. He spun a right and drove through the small township of Woodbury, the helicopter gaining altitude but still following.

  Clearing the built-up area, Harry floored it, knowing he couldn't beat the aircraft but hoping to put distance between himself and whatever ground elements the aircraft was directing. He knew there would be no local law enforcement officials. This was a private war.

  He cut over to the road next to the thruway, following it for several miles. First chance he got, he crossed over a bridge to the north side of the thruway. The entire western h
orizon was filled up with the bulk of Schunemunk Mountain, an eight-mile ridge that crested out over 1,700 feet high. The Erie Lackawanna Railroad curved around the north side of the ridge, and Harry followed the hardtop pavement that did the same loop.

  "They're going north." Major Quincy was fumbling with the pilot chart—the only map they had. "Toward Washingtonville. Over."

  "What road? Over."

  "Shit," Quincy muttered. It wasn't marked on the map. "Around to the north of this big mountain," he replied, knowing that answer was insufficient.

  "Stay with them. I've got a unit leaving post right now." The radio went silent.

  "They'll never catch them," Isaac said to his partner. "They're too far behind—post is about twenty to thirty minutes back. We've only got another hour's worth of fuel, and it's going to be dark soon."

  "Then we need to stop them," Quincy decided. "First open area they hit, try to get down and block the road."

  Isaac glanced at his partner to see if he was serious. "That guy has got an automatic weapon, and he's willing to use it."

  Quincy drew an M-16 from the backseat of the helicopter and pulled back the charging handle. "Then I guess I'd better shoot first."

  *****

  Harry slammed on the brakes, expertly spun the steering wheel, and they were heading southeast, with the bulk of Schunemunk Mountain now off to the left.

  "Where are we going?" Trace asked.

  "We're trying to lose this helicopter," Harry replied. "Then we get going somewhere."

  The roads had all been lined with trees, but now they suddenly burst out into an open stretch, about 800 meters long, and the helicopter swooped in. A man leaned out the left side, M-16 in hand.