The Kingdom fa-3

by Clive Cussler

  The helicopter drew even with the plateau and slowed to a hover fifty feet from Sam and Remi, nose cone and rocket pods pointed directly at them.

  “Don’t move,” Sam said.

  “Chinese Army?” asked Remi.

  “Yes. Same as the Z-9 we spotted yesterday.”

  “What do they want?”

  Before Sam could answer, the helicopter pivoted, revealing an open cabin door. In it, a soldier crouched behind a mounted machine gun.

  Sam could sense Remi’s body go tense beside him. He slowly grasped her hand in his. “Don’t run. If they wanted us dead, we’d already be dead.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw movement. He glanced toward the helicopter and saw Hosni opening the side door. A moment later he emerged. In his hands was a compact machine gun. He raised it toward the Z-9.

  “Hosni, no!” Sam shouted.

  Hosni’s machine gun bucked, and the muzzle flashed orange. Bullets peppered the Z-9’s windshield. The helicopter banked sharply right, then accelerated away, skimming over the lake’s surface toward the ridgeline, where it banked again until its nose was again aimed at the Bell.

  “Hosni, run!” Sam shouted, then to Remi: “Behind the gondola! Go!”

  Remi spun into a sprint, with Sam close on her heels.

  “Remi, the crevasse!” Sam called. “Veer left.”

  Remi did, then pushed off with both legs, diving headfirst onto the gondola. Sam hit it a moment later, then pushed himself to his knees and helped Remi onto the ice shelf. They tumbled down the backside and landed in a sprawling heap.

  From across the plateau they heard the chattering of Hosni’s machine gun. Sam stood up and peeked over the ice. Hosni was standing defiantly at the edge of the plateau, firing at the oncoming Z-9.

  “Hosni, get out of there!”

  The Z-9 stopped in a hover a hundred yards away. Sam saw a flash from the left-hand rocket pod. Hosni saw it as well. He turned and began sprinting toward Sam and Remi.

  “Faster!” Sam shouted.

  With a brilliant flash of light and a plume of smoke, a pair of rockets burst from the Z-9’s pod. In a split second they reached the Bell, one striking the ground beneath the tail, the other slamming into the engine compartment.

  The Bell convulsed, leapt upward, then exploded.

  Sam ducked and threw himself over Remi. They felt the blast ripple through the plateau, felt the ice crackle beneath them. A wave of shrapnel pelted into the gondola and through the ice shelf a foot above their heads.

  Then silence.

  Sam said, “Follow me,” and crawled down the length of the ice shelf to the end of the gondola. On his belly, he wriggled forward and peered around the corner.

  The plateau was strewn with the shattered remains of the Bell. Jagged chunks of the fuselage, still rocking from the concussion, sat amid a sheet of burning aviation fuel. Splintered lengths of rotor blade jutted from the snowbanks.

  The Z-9 had retreated across the lake to the ridgeline, where it hovered, rocket pods still pointed menacingly at the plateau.

  Remi said, “Do you see Hosni?”

  “I’m looking.”

  Sam spotted him lying beside a ragged piece of the Bell’s windshield. The body was charred. Then Sam spotted something else. Directly ahead of them, twenty feet away, was Hosni’s machine gun. It looked intact. He pulled back and faced Remi.

  “He’s gone. Never felt a thing.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I spotted his machine gun. I think I can reach it.”

  “Sam, no. You don’t even know if it works. Where’s the Z-9?”

  “Hovering. Probably radioing their base for instructions. They’ve already spotted us; they’ll be coming in for a closer look.”

  “You can’t hope to hold them off for long.”

  “My guess is they want us alive. Otherwise, they would be pounding this plateau with missiles.”

  “Why, what are they after?”

  “I have a hunch.”

  “Me too. We’ll compare notes later, if we’re alive. What’s your plan?”

  “They can’t land, not with all the debris, so they’ll have to hover above the plateau and fast-rope soldiers down. If I can catch them at the right moment, maybe . . .” Sam let his words trail off. “Maybe,” he added. “What’s your vote? Fight and perhaps die here or surrender and end up in a Chinese prison camp?”

  Remi smiled gamely. “You really have to ask?”

  Half hoping, half expecting the Z-9 would make a reconnaissance pass before putting men on the ground, Sam sent Remi back along the ice shelf, where she buried herself in the snow between a pair of drifts. Sam crouched beside the gondola and readied himself.

  For what seemed like several minutes, but was likely less than one, Sam listened for the sound of the Z-9 approaching. When it came, he waited until the chopping sound was deafening. He risked a peek around the corner of the gondola.

  The Z-9 had stopped in a hover, just off the edge of the plateau and a few feet above it. The helicopter slid sideways like a dragonfly waiting for its prey to appear. In the side door, Sam could see the door gunner bent over the machine gun.

  Suddenly the Z-9 veered away and dropped out of sight below the plateau. Seconds later Sam saw it streaking back across the lake. Sam didn’t think but reacted, scrambling from behind cover and running, hunched over, to Hosni’s gun. He snatched it up and sprinted back to the gondola.

  “Made it,” Sam called to Remi, then began checking the machine gun. The wooden stock was partially splintered, and the fore stock charred by flames, but the working parts seemed in order and the barrel unscathed. He ejected the magazine; thirteen rounds left.

  Remi called, “What are they doing?”

  “Either leaving or waiting for enough of the aviation fuel to burn off so they can come in for a fast rope.”

  The Z-9 reached the edge of the lake and swooped upward along the slope to the ridgeline. Sam watched, fingers mentally crossed that the helicopter would keep going.

  It didn’t.

  As had become its pattern, the Z-9 banked over the ridge, reversed course, and came streaking back across the lake.

  “They’re coming back,” Sam announced.

  “Good luck.”

  Sam mentally rehearsed his plan. Much would depend on whether the Z-9 presented him an open door as the soldiers prepared for their fast-rope descent. Firing into the aircraft’s fuselage was pointless; Hosni’s attack had proven that. What Sam needed was a chink in the armor.

  The rush of the Z-9’s engine drew nearer, and the rhythmic chop of the rotors rattled Sam’s eardrums. He waited, head down and watching the ice a few feet from the gondola.

  Wait . . . wait . . .

  Snow began whipping across the ice.

  Sam peeked around the corner.

  The Z-9 was hovering thirty feet above the plateau.

  “Come on, turn,” Sam muttered. “Just a little bit.”

  The Z-9 pivoted slightly, bringing the door gunner around so he could cover the soldiers’ descent. Two thick black ropes uncoiled from the door and hit the ice. The first pair of soldiers stepped up to the door. Sam could just make out the pilot’s seat diagonally behind them.

  Sam took a breath, set his teeth. He clipped the fire selector to Single Shot, then ducked out. In a crouch, he brought the machine gun to his shoulder and took aim at the Z-9’s open doorway, then shifted left, placing the sight over the door gunner’s helmet. He fired. The gunner crumbled. Sam switched the fire selector to Three Round, adjusted his aim again, and fired a burst into the doorway. Hit, one of the soldiers stumbled backward; the other ducked and dropped to his belly. Sam now had a clear view of the pilot’s seat-but that would last only a second or two, he knew. Even as he readjusted his aim he could see the pilot’s arm’s moving, adjusting controls, trying to make sense of the chaos around him.

  Sam focused on the seat back. He took a breath, let it out, then pulled the trigger. A trio of bull
ets peppered the Z-9’s interior. Sam pulled the trigger again, then once more. The machine gun let off an empty click; the magazine was empty.

  The Z-9 pitched sideways, nose spiraling down and toward the plateau. Through the open cabin door the lifeless body of the door gunner slid out, followed by a second soldier. Arms flailing for handholds, two more soldiers tumbled through the door. One managed to snag the Z-9’s landing skid, but the other plummeted to the ground. Now fully out of control, the pilotless Z-9 hit the plateau, crushing the hanging soldier beneath it.

  Sam tore his eyes free, ducked behind the gondola, and sprinted to where Remi was lying. “More shrapnel coming!” he shouted, and dove on top of her.

  Two of the Z-9’s rotors struck the ice first, shearing off and hurling away a quarter second before the fuselage struck. Pressed flat in the snow, Sam and Remi waited for a fiery explosion but none came. They heard a high-pitched grinding sound followed by a trio of grenade-like whumps.

  On impulse, Sam stood up and glanced over the gondola.

  It took a full two seconds for his brain to register what he was seeing: the Z-9, skidding, hurtling toward him, the mangled fuselage, half sliding, half lurching, as the remaining rotor blades splintered on the ice and propelled it forward. It looked like a crippled bug in the throes of death.

  Sam felt a hand clamp onto his. With surprising strength, Remi jerked him back to the ground. “Sam, what do you think you’re-”

  The Z-9 slammed into the gondola, shoving it backward into Sam and Remi, who began backpedaling, feet scrabbling over the ice.

  The gondola stopped moving. The grinding thud-thud-thud of the helicopter’s skid continued for a few seconds, then suddenly died save the stuttering coughs of the engine turbine.

  That too stopped, and Sam and Remi found themselves in perfect silence. They got to their feet and peeked over the gondola.

  “Well, that’s not something you see every day,” Sam said drily.

  32

  NORTHERN NEPAL

  It took ten seconds for Sam and Remi to piece together the scene that lay before them.

  After bouncing off the gondola, the crippled Z-9 had reversed course and skidded toward the runnel that cut through the plateau, where, like a pinball caught in a groove, it had slid to the edge of the plateau, then over-or partially over. The Z-9’s tail, a few inches narrower than the runnel itself, had become lodged in the trough.

  The helicopter’s cabin sat suspended over the edge, water cascading over the fuselage and through the open cabin door.

  “We should see if anyone’s left alive,” Remi prompted.

  Wary of the still-hot engine, they picked their way over to the Z-9. Sam knelt down beside the runnel and crawled on hands and knees to the edge. The fuselage was crushed to half its height, and the windshield was missing. He could see nothing through the doorway, so thick was the cascading water.

  “Anyone in there?” he shouted. “Hello!”

  Sam and Remi listened but heard nothing.

  Twice more Sam called out, but still there was no response.

  Sam stood up and rejoined Remi. He said, “Lone survivors.”

  “That sounds both wonderful and terrifying. What now?”

  “First, we can’t climb out of here. And even if we managed to without getting injured, we’re thirty miles from the nearest village. Between the subzero temperatures at night and no shelter, we’d have little chance. For that matter, we need to start thinking about surviving tonight.”

  “Cheery,” Remi said. “Go on.”

  “We have no idea how long before Karna declares us overdue and a search party is mounted. And even more important, we have to assume the Z-9 was in contact with its base after Hosni opened fire. When they don’t make contact again and don’t return, the base will send another helicopter, probably two.”

  “Any guesses on how soon?”

  “Worst case, a matter of hours.”

  “Best case?”

  “Tomorrow morning. If it’s the former, we may have an advantage: nightfall’s coming. It’ll make it easier for us to hide. I need to get inside that thing.”

  “What, the Z-9?” Remi said. “Sam, that’s-”

  “A really bad idea, I know, but it’s got supplies we need, and, if we’re very lucky, the radio may still work.”

  Remi considered this for a few moments, then nodded. “Okay. But first let’s see what we can scrounge from the Bell’s wreckage.”

  This took but a few minutes. There was little of value left, mostly charred bits and pieces from their packs, including a half-shredded section of climbing rope, a smattering of items from a first-aid kit, and a few tools from the Bell’s tool kit. Sam and Remi picked up anything that could be of use, whether recognizable or not.

  “How’s the rope look?” Sam asked.

  Kneeling beside their pile of supplies, Remi examined the rope. “It’ll need some splicing, but I think we’ve got eighteen or twenty feet of usable line here. You’re thinking a belay for the Z-9?”

  Sam smiled, nodded. “I may be a bit thick at times, but there’s no way I’m crawling onto that death trap without a safety line. We’re going to need something piton-like.”

  “I may have just the thing.”

  Testing the ground as she went, Remi moved off across the plateau and soon returned. In one hand she was holding a shard of helicopter rotor, in the other a fist-sized rock. She handed them to Sam and said, “I’ll start on the rope.”

  Sam used the rock to first smooth the edges of the shard’s upper half, then to taper and sharpen the lower half. Once done, he found a particularly thick patch of ice a couple paces from the edge of the plateau just to the right of the Z-9. Next, he began the painstaking process of hammering the makeshift piton into the ice. When he finished, the shard was buried a foot and a half in the ice and angled backward at forty-five degrees.

  Remi walked over, and they used their combined weight to wrench and pull the belay until confident it would hold. Remi uncoiled the spliced rope-into which she’d tied knots at two-foot intervals-and secured one end to the piton with a bowline knot. After shedding his jacket, gloves, and cap, Sam used the loose end to fashion a rope seat, with the knot tight against his lower back.

  “If this thing starts going over the edge, get clear,” Sam said.

  “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Concentrate on you.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” he said with a smile.

  He kissed her, then walked toward the Z-9’s upturned tail assembly. After giving the aluminum side a few test shoves, he climbed up and began crawling toward the cabin.

  “Getting close,” Remi called. “A couple more feet.”

  “Got it.”

  As he reached the edge of the plateau, he slowed down, testing each of his movements, before continuing on. Aside from a few heart-skip-inducing creaks and groans, the Z-9 didn’t budge. Foot by foot, he crawled forward until he was perched atop the Z-9’s belly.

  “How’s it feel?” Remi called.

  On his hands and knees, Sam shifted his weight from side to side, slowly at first, then more vigorously. The fuselage let out a shriek of tearing aluminum and shifted to one side.

  “I think I found its limits,” Sam called.

  “You think so?” Remi shot back. “Keep moving.”

  “Right.”

  Sam moved sideways until his hip was up against the landing skid. He grasped this with both hands and leaned over the side as though looking for something.

  “What are you doing?” called Remi.

  “I’m looking for the rotor mast. There it is. We’re in luck; it’s jammed into the runnel. We’ve got a bit of an anchor.”

  “Happy day,” Remi said impatiently. “Now, get in there and get out.”

  Sam gave her what he hoped was a reassuring grin.

  After adjusting the rope so it ran straight back to the piton, Sam grasped the skids with b
oth hands and lowered his legs down along the fuselage. The spewing water immediately drenched his lower body. Sam groaned, clenched his teeth against the cold, then kicked his legs, trying to gauge his position over the door.

  “I’m going in,” he called to Remi.

  Sam kicked forward, swung his legs backward, then repeated the process until he’d built up a steady rhythm. At the right moment, he let go. The momentum carried him through the cascade and into the cabin, where he slammed into the opposite door and landed in a heap on the floor.

  He went still, listening to the Z-9 groan around him. A shudder coursed through the fuselage. Everything went still. Sam looked around, trying to orient himself.

  He was sitting in icy water up to his waist. Part of the flow was seeping out around the closed door, the other part flooding into the cockpit and out through the shattered windshield. A few feet away, the body of a soldier lay lifeless. Sam eased forward until he could see between the cockpit seats. The pilot and copilot were dead, whether from his bullets or the impact, or both, he couldn’t tell.

  He could now see that the cockpit had suffered more damage than he’d realized. In addition to most of the windshield, a section of the nose cone and dashboard, including the radio, was gone, probably somewhere at the bottom of the lake by now.

  The helicopter dropped beneath him.

  Sam’s stomach rose into his throat.

  The movement stopped, but now the helicopter was resting at an angle; through the cockpit, he could see the waters of the lake far below.

  Running out of time . . .

  He turned around, eyes darting around the cabin. Something . . . anything. He found a partially full green canvas duffel bag. He didn’t bother examining the contents, but instead began snatching up loose items from inside the cabin, paying little attention to what they were. If they felt useful and would fit in the bag, he took them. He searched the dead soldier, found a lighter but nothing else of use, then turned his attention to the pilot and copilot. He came away with a semiautomatic pistol and a kneeboard stuffed with paperwork. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a half-open hatch at the rear of the cabin. He climbed up to it, stuck his hand inside. His fingers touched canvas. He pulled the object free: a lumbar pack. He stuffed it into the duffel.