Hover

by Anne A. Wilson

  I occupy myself with the visualization of the approach. Just like shooting free throws with an invisible basketball, I see in my mind’s eye the fast rope as I want it to occur, which usually leads to a rapid-fire transition over the deck.

  When the time finally comes, the hour approaching 0530, the sky is just beginning its early-morning transformation. A veil of blue replaces the unforgiving black, although the sun has yet to make its appearance over the horizon.

  “All right, guys,” Animal says. “This is going to need all your focus. If anything’s going to happen with this mission, it’ll happen here. Mess, be ready on the .50 cal. There’s a good chance we’re gonna need it.”

  “Roger that, sir,” Messy says.

  “Set on the rope, Lego?”

  “All set, sir.”

  “Martin, you set aft?”

  “Standing by,” Jonas says.

  “Five five, six seven, you’re one mile,” Eric says. “Give me an ops normal when you’re done and then buster out.”

  I hear the urgency in his voice. Get out of there, basically.

  “Six seven, five five, wilco,” I say.

  “I’ve got the wake,” Messy calls.

  “Roger, I’ve got it,” I say, picking up the whitewater trail that leads to the ship.

  As we look ahead, the dark silhouette of a massive-sized, multi-deck yacht ekes into view.

  “Holy smokes, will you look at that!” Messy says.

  This ship looks almost as large as the frigate in our battle group—at least five stories high. But the details I need are lacking. She’s not running any lights and I squint to find the flight deck.

  “Sara, do you have the deck?” Animal asks.

  “Not yet.”

  “Lucky day,” Animal says. “It’s smack on the back end, just like we’ve practiced.”

  “Yeah, lucky,” I mumble. “Okay, I’ve got it now.”

  The external worries that I normally shut out begin to gain traction. Training is … well, training. I’ve done some pretty fancy flying at night and with not much in the way of references, but no one has ever shot at me in the process. Eric knew what I might face and was terrified at the prospect. I start to wonder for the first time ever, only thirty seconds from the drop, what will be waiting. Will they have gunmen standing at the ready, weapons aimed at the flight deck, or more accurately, at the pilots and crew hovering over it?

  Since I left the worries until so late, I have only one thought to still them. In, out, and done. Just like training. If you can get in and out expeditiously, you minimize time spent presenting yourself as a target. Just do it. In, out, and done.

  “Okay, ma’am, ease it up and begin your flare,” Lego says.

  We’re about thirty yards from the ship when I begin to slow, simultaneously spinning to the left, bringing the helicopter perpendicular to the superstructure.

  “Right thirty, right twenty…,” Lego calls as we begin to fly sideways.

  I look to the right, out my side window, the hairs rising on the back of my neck. This flight deck is micro-sized, probably used for small corporate helicopters only. But then, I have to remind myself we’re not landing here, so it doesn’t matter. Just stay smooth on the controls. You’ll be done and gone in twenty seconds.

  “Right ten…”

  Now that I’m sideways and slowing down, I pull up on the collective lever that allows me to stop my rate of descent.

  The number-two engine spools up quickly, too quickly, emitting a loud whining noise.

  “Right five, rope’s out…”

  I’m listening for the number-one engine, waiting for it to kick in and relieve number two.

  “Over deck, first man out…”

  Something’s wrong.…

  “We lost number one!” Animal shouts.

  The rotors are slowing. The second engine is trying to take the load, but it doesn’t have enough power to keep us up. We’re sinking! Holy crap!

  The low rpm warning horn blares in my helmet and there’s nothing I can do except make a last-second positional correction, moving the aircraft a touch to the left. A sick queasiness spreads through me as I watch the tips of the rotor blades clear the superstructure by mere inches, dropping into a space never designed for an aircraft as large as ours.

  “Last man out—pull up, pull up, we’re dropping, shit, we’re dropping!”

  “Landing—” is all I can get out before we slam hard on the deck. The last members of the SAS squad run out from under the rotor arc and disappear into the dark recesses of the ship.

  “Holy fuck!” Lego says.

  I glance over to the engine gauges. The tachometer reads zero, but everything else reads good. No caution lights, either.

  “Sara, keep it turning!” Animal shouts. “Mess, stay on the .50 cal! Lego, check the cowling, tell me what you see! I’ll cover you!”

  “On it!” Lego says.

  Animal yanks out his radio cord and scrambles out of his seat, pulling the 9mm from his vest in the process. I’m left looking at the superstructure of the ship, realizing I’m probably the easiest target that has ever presented itself to a waiting gun. Holy shit.

  “Ah, fuck!” Lego says. “We busted an oil line!”

  “Can you fix it?” Animal says from one of the crewman’s radio lines in the back.

  “Yeah, but we’re gonna need to shut down.”

  “Fuck!” Animal says.

  “Give me ten minutes, sir.”

  “We don’t have ten minutes! Can you do it in five?”

  “If I have Mess to help me, then yeah, five minutes!”

  “Okay, do it!” Animal orders. “But stay up on your long cords so I can talk to you.”

  “We’re on it!” Lego says.

  “Sara, shut down and get back here ASAP!”

  I kill the remaining engine, stop the rotors, and crawl to the back, past the main cabin door. Animal has manned the .50 cal.

  “Here, you take this,” he says, swiveling the butt of the machine gun to me. “I’ll cover from the rear.”

  He runs to the aft ramp, sidearm in hand, and peers out the back. I grab the machine gun and point it at the superstructure. The main cabin door is to my left, the gun protruding through the window that lies adjacent to it.

  I’ve only fired a .50 cal a handful of times in my career and only at non-moving cardboard cutouts. But I’ve stripped and cleaned hundreds of these weapons. I’m hoping that will count for something now.

  I quickly scan the ship structure in front of me. On navy ships, I’m used to looking at the metal doors of an aircraft hangar once we’ve landed. But here, I see a row of floor-to-ceiling glass windows. They span almost the width of the flight deck, leaving room for walkways on either side so passengers can move forward along the outside railings of the ship.

  Just above the level of glass windows is a patio with … lounge chairs? I blink in the low light. Yep. Six lounge chairs with overstuffed cushions and an awning overhead. I’m unable to make out much more from this vantage point.

  I take a chance and sneak a look behind me, peering through the windows to where Lego and Messy stand on the other side of the aircraft. They’re covered in engine oil, their faces periodically illuminated by their flashlights that flicker through the engine compartment.

  I turn back to face the windows, scanning across the deck and then up to the patio above. I don’t see anyone.

  And it’s quiet.

  Actually, it’s too quiet.

  “Sir, forgive me for asking a stupid question, but doesn’t it seem awfully quiet to you? I mean, for landing on a hostile ship and all?”

  “You’ve just read my mind,” Animal says.

  “What the…,” Lego says.

  “What is it?” Animal asks.

  “Sir, you’re not gonna fuckin’ believe this! The line’s been cut! The oil line’s been fuckin’ cut!”

  “What?”

  “Holy crap, Kyle,” Messy says. “Look at this!”
<
br />   “Oh, my fuckin’ god…,” Lego says.

  “What now?” Animal says.

  “Sir, did you ever get an oil pressure caution light?” Messy asks.

  “No.”

  “How about the oil pressure gauge?”

  “It read normal,” he says.

  “Wait, that’s imposs—” I start.

  “That’s because someone cut the wires to the indicators,” Messy says.

  “That son of a bitch…,” Animal says in disbelief.

  “What?” I say. “What’s happening?”

  “Lightning was right…,” Animal says, more to himself than any of us.

  “Right about what?” I ask.

  “Lego, Mess, get that oil line patched up as fast as you fuckin’ can!” Animal says.

  “We’re almost there, sir!”

  And then, like a slow-motion sequence in an action film, two shots ring out from the dark.

  Animal jerks back and falls in a lump on the ramp. I swing the mount to the origin of the gunfire, but I’m yanked backward, my arms pulled behind me. The bracingly cold shaft of a gun barrel presses into my neck.

  “That’s a good girl,” Jonas says. “Let’s just stay nice and calm.”

  43

  At the rear of the aircraft, Collin and Bartholomew usher Lego and Messy into the cabin at gunpoint.

  “Now, before we proceed further, I believe Romeo is awaiting your ops normal call,” Jonas says.

  I hear a small moan. Animal is trying to move. He lies at the top of the ramp, in a crumpled heap near the side bulkhead.

  “You are going to turn on the battery,” Jonas says, “and you will give a proper ops normal call. If there is any deviation whatsoever, guaranteed you’ll have a front-row seat as I finish off Mr. Amicus,” he says, pointing to Animal’s wounded form.

  Oh my god. Animal …

  Don’t shake, Sara. Just do this. Stay calm.

  I step into the passageway that leads to the cockpit and reach up to flip on the battery switch that’s secured to the overhead console. But my hand is shaking so badly, I can’t get the switch.

  Breathe, Sara. Breathe.

  I try again, supporting my right arm with my left, and finally turn it on. I reach over and key the mic on the cyclic control stick located in front of my seat.

  “Shadow Hunter six seven, Sabercat five five, ops normal, four souls, zero plus three zero fuel, over.”

  “Five five, six seven, copy ops normal,” Eric says. “State plans for fueling, over.”

  I look back at Jonas, and he shakes his head in warning.

  “Six seven, five five, Kuwait International, over.”

  “Five five, six seven, copy,” he says, sounding relieved.

  Jonas reaches past me and flicks the battery switch off.

  Pulling back into the main cabin, Jonas turns to Lego and Messy.

  “Now, Mr. Legossi, Mr. Messina, you are going to finish the repair to the oil line and you will do so in a timely manner, as we have a schedule to keep. We need to be airborne in fifteen minutes.”

  He looks up, his attention turned to the men now entering the aircraft from the far aft ramp, all of Middle Eastern descent. They’re carrying several crates between them that they begin loading into the aircraft. They walk right past Animal without a glance.

  “Oil line?” I say. “But how would you know—”

  “Because we cut it, lovely lady. That’s how I know.”

  “But why?”

  “I doubt you would have bothered to land otherwise,” he states matter-of-factly.

  “What if we can’t repair it?” Lego says.

  “Ah, your reputation precedes you. This is well within your capability to repair … and repair quickly.”

  Lego is about to protest.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Jonas says, wagging a finger. “You will do this, unless of course…” and he points to Animal, who has now rolled over onto his back, blood seeping through his flight suit.

  Jonas eyes Lego carefully.

  “I already see the wheels turning, Mr. Legossi,” Jonas says. “Not only will you fix it, but you will fix it right, because you and the pretty lieutenant here are going to fly us out. So fix it as if your own life and the lieutenant’s depend on it. Because they do.”

  Lego switches his gaze to me and we share a long look. He’s silently asking me for approval to finish the repair.

  “Why do you need this aircraft?” I ask.

  “We need transport to complete our mission,” he says proudly.

  “What mission? What are you doing?”

  “Ensuring my retirement, love. Some mighty powerful people would like to see the demise of a certain former U.S. president, and they’ve paid handsomely to ensure it happens. They know we can get it done.”

  “What? The assassination … it’s … it’s you?”

  He smiles wickedly, but the sick grin quickly disappears.

  “Well, no, love, originally it was not me.” He waves his hands at the men loading crates. “It was our Iraqi friends here. But the Aussie intel analysts are rather pesky and discovered their plan.”

  “But why are you—”

  “I suppose you could call me a hired hand, which is unfortunate, really. Someone coming to a job like this with my qualifications should carry a far more elegant moniker.”

  This can’t be happening. This can’t—

  Stop it, Sara! Think!

  But I don’t know what to do—

  Well, keep him talking until you figure something out!

  “But who … hired you?” I stutter.

  “Ultimately, the Iraqis, and for a handsome sum, I might add.”

  “Ultimately…?”

  “Ah, you would be interested to know this,” he says. “You have a high-ranking U.S. intelligence officer under the employ of the Iraqis. We go back a long way, he and I, so when he needed someone to disrupt this joint Australian-U.S. intervention and ensure the boats made it to harbor, he contacted me. Brilliant choice, wouldn’t you say, mates?” he says, looking up to Collin and Bartholomew, who meet his gaze only momentarily before returning their focus to Lego and Messy.

  I, too, glance at my aircrewmen, guns pointed at the backs of their heads, and my legs quaver, weakened when I think of Lego’s kids and their artwork tacked around his bunk. And Messy’s wife, Leah, and their baby, due just after we return.

  You’re responsible for them, Sara.

  But I still don’t know what to do—

  Keep stalling! He likes to talk. He’s arrogant. Use it!

  “You said you needed our aircraft to complete the mission. Why would you need it if the plan was to take the ship to port?” I ask.

  “A recent development, that. The Kuwaitis went and closed their ports and secured their borders. The airspace is restricted, too—that is, unless you’re a U.S. Navy helicopter,” he says, clearly proud of himself. “I came up with the solution—entering the country with our men, weapons, and equipment via this aircraft right here,” he says, slapping the bulkhead.

  “What about your squad? The other men on your team?” I say.

  “Uh … tied up at the moment,” Jonas says with an altogether unmirthful laugh. “Easy when you have a rookie crew, selected by myself, of course.”

  So it’s just Jonas, Collin, and Bartholomew. I wonder fleetingly if he meant exactly what he just said—that he’s tied up his teammates and left them somewhere on the ship.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Ah, that you don’t need to know, because you won’t be with us at that point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We just need you to fly long enough to know that the engine has been repaired properly and then, how shall I say this? Well, you’re expendable at that point. So the four of you will be going for a swim.”

  I look up to Lego and Messy and our eyes share the same anger.

  “But who’s going to fly then?”

  “That, my dear, is why I’m rec
eiving a kingly sum for this. Your Romeo isn’t the only one with a dual designation.”

  The military rolodex file I carry in my head starts spinning. Australian Navy. Australian Navy aircraft. Australian Navy helicopters. They fly tail-rotor aircraft, not tandem-rotor. He hasn’t flown a tandem-rotor aircraft.

  “You can’t fly an H-46,” I say.

  “Hey, if I can fly a tail-rotor bird, I can certainly handle this thing.”

  Interesting. Something in his voice … He said he needed us to fly to ensure the engine was repaired correctly, but I wonder if it’s more than that. I wonder if he’s worried about his own ability to execute the takeoff. The initial lift to a hover would be the most dangerous moment, when the aircraft is the most difficult to control. But once in level flight with eighty or ninety knots of airspeed, taking the controls and maintaining a somewhat smooth flight wouldn’t be too difficult. And if he’s flying to a runway somewhere, he can land at speed, just like an airplane would, avoiding the hover altogether. But I caught something in his voice—the worry. Worry he was trying to cover up with a bluster of bravado. To negotiate his price with the Iraqis, no doubt he played up his abilities as a pilot. But I think he needs us. He needs us to make this work.

  My eyes shift to Animal. He’s fumbling with his hands, trying to find the zipper of his survival vest. Oh god, this is ripping my heart out to watch him.

  I make the boldest decision I’ve ever made in my life.

  Turning to Jonas, I breathe in deeply, steeling my nerve, because I’m scared out of my mind. “We’re not repairing anything until I can stop the bleeding on Commander Amicus.”

  “Excuse me?” Jonas says with a mixture of shock and anger. “You’re not exactly in a position to be making demands.”

  “You need these two to repair the engine and you need me to fly. We’re not going to do either until I can tend to him.”

  “Hey, I don’t need you to fly,” he says.

  “Then just shoot me and get it over with.” The words are out before I can stop them. But I can’t bear to watch Animal struggling another second.

  If he really needs me to fly, I should be okay. If not …

  Jonas looks at Lego and Messy and then down to Animal. He hesitates before speaking again, and in that moment, I know I’m right. He does need us.