by Diane Capri
It was falling.
“Caxton tower,” said the voice of an air traffic controller from their headsets. “Do you see a clear place to put down, sir?” The controller’s voice sounded more tense than Phillips’s.
“Affirmative,” Phillips said before rattling off their GPS coordinates.
A few moments of silence passed before the controller came back. “I’ve notified the emergency services. They’re on their way.”
“Two thousand feet,” Phillips said.
“If we lose radio contact, stay near your helicopter until EMS arrives.”
“Roger.”
“Godspeed, sir.”
Flint heard a distinct click. The controller had nothing else to say. There was nothing else he could do. Flint tightened his grip on the bracing handle and stayed out of the way.
Reed was thrashing and screaming in the backseat.
Flint looked down and out through the plexiglass canopy that allowed a clear view of the ground below. The feature was vital to fine maneuvering in tight landings, but at that moment he was glad Reed didn’t have such a detailed view of the rocks below them.
The helo was still moving forward. Phillips was still finessing the controls. Perhaps a half-mile ahead, Flint saw a smooth patch of ground covered in something green. A tiny lawn in a desert of rock. Which meant there was water nearby as well.
The rocky hills on the ground grew larger. The helo’s forward speed blurred them like the swipe of a painter’s brush.
They were going to crash. All Phillips could do now was simply decide where they crashed. And how.
Flint glanced into the backseat. Reed’s eyes were still wide but he’d stopped screaming. He was blubbering now and repeating, “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!” over and over without pause.
Reed could feel that the Sikorsky had been falling for a long time. He must have known there was an inevitable end to their fall. It was just a matter of whether he would survive. Flint would have tried to reassure him, but Reed was beyond reason.
They had almost reached the tiny lawn. The ground was close—a hundred feet at most. But even if forward speed was dropping fast, they were going to hit beyond the softer green at this rate.
The woman’s voice that had warned them of the engine conditions came back. “Terrain, terrain,” she said. She repeated her warning at two-second intervals. It was the kind of warning to which a teenager might have snarled, “No joke, Sherlock.”
They were directly above the tiny lawn. It was time.
Come on, Phillips. Do it now.
“Autorotating,” Phillips said, as he pulled up on the collective.
Finally.
The sound of rushing air grew to a gale-force storm. Metal groaned and creaked. The Sikorsky shook.
The helo’s nose tipped up like a motorboat. Flint was shoved down into his seat. Reed was pressed into his, still blubbering, “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!”
The big helo decelerated hard.
The nose lowered.
They were horizontal.
The blades spun slowly, each one visible as it whirled by.
Dust swirled into the air. Flint lost sight of the ground when a sandstorm caused by the rotating blades engulfed everything.
Flint and Phillips watched the horizon bar on the display in front of them. The outside world was gone from view.
Phillips twitched the stick, keeping the helo level with the horizon.
The helo hit the ground.
It bounced. Inched sideways.
Bounced again.
Bounced a third time.
On the fourth bounce, the massive Sikorsky passed six thousand feet’s worth of momentum onto mother earth.
Metal creaked.
The helo leaned down on the right, the pilot’s side.
Phillips had waited too long. Flint braced himself for the craft to roll over, visions of scenes from movies like Blackhawk Down running through his mind.
But Phillips was a good pilot. He struggled but ultimately managed to keep the helo upright.
The churning of the rotors and their gears finally slowed to a stop.
Flint relaxed his grip on the handholds. He breathed out. Surrendering the helo’s controls to Phillips had been harder than the landing.
Flint was alive today because he relied on one man—himself. He’d never trusted anyone else. Except, occasionally, Scarlett.
But Phillips had done okay. They were on the ground and all in one piece.
He glanced at Reed. He looked like a child at a stage show right after the magician sawed the pretty girl in half and she waved to the crowd without bloody guts spilling all over the stage.
After a while, the dust cloud settled.
All sounds eventually stopped, even Reed’s blubbering, halting breaths.
The Texas twilight poured into the cockpit.
Flint looked down through the plexiglass. The Sikorsky was perched firmly on the tiny lawn. Dead center. If he hadn’t lived through it, Flint would have said Phillips’s landing was perfect.
Phillips clicked his radio on. “Caxton tower, we’re down.”
No reply.
“Caxton tower,” repeated Phillips, “we’re down.”
Radio silence.
Phillips glanced at Flint, and shrugged. “Looks like we lost the radio.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Flint looked around inside the Sikorsky. Everything was as expected.
“We’re stuck here for a bit. After a landing like that, almost anything could be damaged,” Phillips said, not even breathing hard. “We can’t leave until mechanics arrive and declare the helo fit for flight.”
Flint didn’t argue. “How far away is Caxton Field?”
Phillips was flipping switches and completing paperwork. “Ninety minutes, give or take.”
Flint unlatched his harness and left Phillips sitting in the cockpit.
In the back, Reed had finally stopped blubbering, but his eyes were still wild. His pants were soaked with urine and his shirt was spattered with vomit. He smelled like an outhouse.
Flint checked him for signs of physical injury and found none. His skin was pale, cool, and clammy. Respiration and pulse rapid. All signs of mild shock.
He untied the extension cord from Reed’s wrists and ankles and tossed it out of the way. He pulled the dangling tape from Reed’s cheek. He unlatched Reed’s harness and laid him on the floor, feet elevated. He raised his head and offered him a few sips of bottled water.
By the time EMS arrived, Reed should be physically fine. Which meant he’d be talking and making trouble. More delay was likely. The last thing Flint had time for was extricating himself from local law enforcement again.
Flint rummaged through the first aid kit for something that might work as a sedative. He found a blister pack of narcotic painkillers. They could make Reed’s symptoms worse, but that was a risk Flint was prepared to take. He pushed four pills through the blisters and opened Reed’s mouth. He dropped the pills inside, offered more water, and held Reed’s lips closed with a firm palm under his chin until he swallowed. Reed didn’t struggle. He’d relax and sleep awhile, which would be better for all of them.
When he’d finished with Reed, Flint found antiseptic wipes in the first aid kit. He cleaned Reed’s stench from his hands as well as possible and then left the helo.
Outside, Flint noticed the layer of dust that covered everything within a twenty-foot radius. The grassy spot was not quite as green under the dust blanket. It was still hot out. Though it was lower in the sky, the sun’s glare continued unabated. The silence, now that the big bird was dead, felt surreal.
He glanced around the area for a quick threat assessment on this side of the Sikorsky. He didn’t have a 360-degree view, but the inbound helo’s racket and rotor wash should have scared away predators like wild pigs, cougars, and coyotes. No water nearby for alligators, stingrays, or other killers. The most common threats of nature in Texas, besides humans, were venomous spider
s and snakes. He hoped they’d all scattered, too.
When Flint was a kid, he’d been bitten by scorpions, spiders, and fire ants more times than he cared to remember. A few scars from the welts still dotted his ankles. He didn’t dwell on them. The memories made him itchy.
Once, Scarlett shot a snake not ten feet from Flint’s side. They’d been shooting targets out behind one of the abandoned barns at Bette Maxwell’s ranch. He’d never forget it. She was eighteen and had packed to leave for good the next day. She said she was never coming back. They didn’t know if they’d ever see each other again. They were horsing around, trying not to focus on her departure, not paying attention to the ground.
The small venomous creature slithered up behind Flint and to his left, in his blind spot. Scarlett saw it, raised her gun, and fired without so much as a gasp or a blink or a moment’s pause. He’d jumped ten feet and landed flat on his ass, screaming and cussing at her for shooting so close to him.
Until he saw the thick red-and-yellow-banded viper separated from its head on the ground not twelve inches from where he’d been standing. He’d screamed and she’d laughed, and he’d wanted to kill her on the spot and hug her at the same time.
Ever after, Scarlett insisted she’d shot a rattler that was about to impale his ass. He’d countered that the little snake wouldn’t have been able to jump that high. He was already over six feet tall at the age of sixteen. And it wasn’t a rattler. It was a coral snake. Not that its precise species mattered. The childhood rhyme popped into his head: “Red into black, venom lack. Red into yellow, kill a fellow.”
According to Scarlett, that day wasn’t the first time she’d saved his sorry ass. His memory of childhood events was a bit different. He recalled several times when he’d returned the favor by saving her, although she disputed every instance.
After she left the next day, Flint spent several hours with the encyclopedia in Bette’s school library, memorizing the pictures of every dangerous animal known to inhabit Texas. These learning sessions had served him well over the years he’d spent in service to Uncle Sam, and after.
He saw no such creatures around this side of the helo. They’d probably run far enough to make the area fairly safe for now. He’d keep a watch, though, just in case.
What had caused the engine to flame out? Flint ran through the day’s flights in his head.
The Sikorsky had been fine on the inbound trips from Houston to Bette Maxwell’s to the Oakwood ranch to Wolf Bend. Nothing at all out of the ordinary in several hours of flight, three takeoffs, and two landings.
He reviewed the Sikorsky’s behavior on departure from Wolf Bend. The helo’s takeoff and initial ascent had been practically textbook. During the flight, Phillips had pushed the engine a bit, but it was nothing Flint hadn’t done before without consequences. He saw the instruments again in his mind’s eye. Nothing seemed amiss.
Yet the engine temperature had risen too high, and the engine flamed out.
In Flint’s experience, fuel issues were the most likely cause. Probably slow fuel delivery, which was usually an obstruction of some kind in the fuel line. Not the kind of thing that simply manifested out of the blue.
Must have happened when Phillips refueled while Flint was in Wolf Bend. Maybe Phillips allowed someone else to refuel the Sikorsky. Flint always did those tasks himself. Certified pilots were expected to perform certain routine maintenance functions, and refueling fell into that category.
“That guy stinks.” Phillips jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward Reed as he jumped to the ground. “EMS should be here in due course. Caxton is a pretty good airfield. We might be able to get another helo over from Houston in a couple of hours. Pick you up there and deliver you to Houston before midnight.”
Flint didn’t intend to wait any longer than necessary, but there was no reason to argue with Phillips. “Engine on this bird overheat like that before?”
“Not that I’m aware.” Phillips pulled out a stick of gum, unwrapped it, and stuck it in his mouth. Flint could smell the sweet pungent strawberry as he chewed.
Flint nodded. Scanning the ground for snakes, he walked around the Sikorsky to the sponson and opened the door covering the fuel cap. The door was held steady in the open position by a single flexible strut, which wasn’t standard on the Sikorsky. This one was a modification, probably classified as a fatigue life-limited component. It was frayed and weakened, close to the end of its useful life.
But not the cause of the engine trouble. Certainly not ideal, but it was noncritical and didn’t impact the fuel delivery system. As long as the strut was tucked inside the fuel door and not baking out in the hot sun, it should be okay until it could be replaced in Houston. Worst case, if the strut failed and snapped, the metal cover would slam down or flap around or fall off during flight.
Flint reached inside to test the fuel cap. The cap was securely locked into place. It wasn’t missing or faulty. No air or debris sufficient to clog up or interrupt the flow of fuel should have been able to enter the fuel line at the cap.
He pulled off his sunglasses and bent his neck to look inside the fuel door toward the fuel line. Barely inside the metal door, on the side adjacent to the weakened strut, he saw it.
A crimp in the fuel tube. Definitely crimped enough to choke the flow of fuel through the line, causing a flameout.
He heard two snaps and smelled the strawberry before he turned around.
Phillips stood ten feet behind him, legs braced apart in the proper stance, holding the pistol carried by Navy SEALs. The pistol that set the standard by which all other combat handguns are measured. A Sig Sauer P226. Pointed directly at Flint.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I’d rather not shoot you, Flint.” Phillips snapped the sweet pungent strawberry gum. Maybe he’d been a smoker. Or a ball player. Regardless of its origin, the chomping and snapping habit was annoying. “We wait here for the EMS. Get back to Caxton. And then you can go on to Houston. You’ll be a few hours late, that’s all.”
Flint was standing directly in front of the sponson. If Phillips shot the Sig, he’d hit the fuel tank. The Sikorsky wouldn’t be fit for even limited flight. Flint had to move. “Late for what?”
“Late for whatever you’re planning to do when you get there.” Phillips held the Sig steady. Textbook for a man with his training. “Which is way better than arriving dead, don’t you think?”
“Can’t argue with your logic.” Flint hadn’t raised his hands or anything silly like that.
“Toss me that Glock in your pocket,” Phillips said.
Flint briefly considered arguing about it before he pulled his weapon out and tossed it toward Phillips. He didn’t try to catch the gun. It fell to the ground near his feet.
“Now what?”
“We wait. Sit on that rock to your left.” Phillips pointed with a nod of his head to an area behind Flint.
Flint couldn’t see the rock, but changing a potential bullet’s trajectory from the fuel tank is always a good idea. He sidestepped away from the Sikorsky without taking his gaze off Phillips. He didn’t expect Phillips to shoot him. But he hadn’t expected him to sabotage the fuel line and bounce the helo to the ground either.
So far, this was the sort of gun-waving that experts called threat display. A warning. Showing how far Phillips was willing to go to persuade Flint to change his behavior. Phillips was simply offering him a choice. The classic fight or flight.
Phillips wasn’t attacking him. Not yet. But his attention never wavered. He could change his plan and shoot to kill in a fraction of a second.
George Patton once said that a good plan, violently executed, is better than the perfect plan next week. Flint figured Patton’s good plan required a weapon in hand and probably wasn’t recommended against an armed Navy SEAL, one of the best-trained combat fighters on the planet.
Flint’s peripheral vision picked up the brown boulder jutting above the others on his left. Not that he was planning to sit. “So you
’re working for Crane, then?”
“He pays well.” The gum snapping and strawberry scent traveled across the quiet distance.
“So I’ve heard. Shaw pays well, too. Whatever Crane’s offered you to keep me here, Shaw will pay you more to let me get back on the job.” Maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn’t. But it sounded like something Shaw would do.
“Sit.” Phillips moved the gun slightly toward the boulder. “We’ve got about sixty more minutes to wait.”
“You’re working with guys like Paxton and Trevor. You could do better.” Flint was quick on his feet but not faster than a round shot from a P226. He moved closer to the boulder.
He felt the hot sun and knew the weakened strut on the fuel cover door wouldn’t hold up long exposed to the heat. It would fail. And when it did, the cover would drop.
Could he use the clanging as an adequate distraction? “Paxton and Trevor attacked me with Tasers, did they tell you that?”
“They told me they tried.” Phillips grinned and snapped and chewed. “They suggested I use more firepower.”
“It’s too hot to sit out here for an hour.” Flint had lain in wait under worse conditions for much longer, but Phillips didn’t know that.
Phillips nodded. “We can’t fire up the engines for air-conditioning.”
“There’s got to be some shade around here somewhere. We’re standing on grass. Grass needs water.” He tossed his head back. “Over that ridge, probably.”
A smirk settled across Phillips’s face. He gestured with the Sig’s barrel. “After you.”
Flint shrugged. Moving was better than sitting. Momentum could be used to advantage. Much harder to launch any kind of attack from a seated dead stop.
Flint sidled around the big rock and took a few slow backward steps toward the most likely shady spot over the ridge. He calculated the distance between them. Considered how quickly he could subdue Phillips and fire. He scanned from behind his sunglasses to find even a mediocre plan. Where was George Patton when you needed him?
Phillips followed leisurely, close enough to shoot without the need to aim, cracking the strawberry gum all the way.