by Stuart Woods
The helicopter began a slow, descending left turn, and Stone made a leap for the copilot’s seat. “Hang on, Peter!” he yelled, grabbing the boy’s hand and dragging him forward. Stone made the copilot’s seat and grabbed the stick, trying to get the chopper level, but then he saw the top of a building coming at him. He yanked back on the stick and cleared the building by a foot, then continued climbing, feeling the airspeed bleed off. They were going to stall any second.
Stone pushed the pilot’s body out of the way and found the throttle, pushing it forward. The chopper climbed, and he breathed a sigh of relief, until he realized that Peter was no longer next to him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the boy tugging at the inert Billy Bob, one of whose legs was dangling out the open door.
“Come back to me, Peter!” he shouted, and in that moment of looking back, he lost control of the helicopter. It banked sharply to the left, and Stone desperately tried to correct. The chopper had turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees before he could level it again and glance back. The good news was both Billy Bob and Peter had been thrown against the left side of the helicopter, away from the open door. “Come to me, Peter!” he shouted.
“No,” the boy shouted back. “He’ll fall out, if I let him go.”
“No, he won’t. Come to me!”
Peter shook his head and clung to Billy Bob.
Stone looked at the chopper’s instrument panel, trying to find something that looked like an autopilot. He found nothing but the usual flight instruments, like the ones on his own airplane. He was headed north again, toward Central Park. At least that was open space, he thought. He might have some chance of setting the thing down. He looked back at Peter.
“Listen to me!” he shouted. “He’s all right, he won’t fall out. I want you to climb over the backseat and stay there while I land. Sit down and don’t move!”
The boy looked at the rear seats, then at Billy Bob, then at Stone. He nodded.
Stone tried to keep the chopper level while Peter inched his way aft. He glanced back to see the boy disappear behind the rear seats. “Thank God,” he said, then he turned his attention back to flying.
It didn’t feel like an airplane, exactly, but it had a stick, rudder pedals and a throttle, like an airplane. He hoped to God he wasn’t going to need the collective handle, because he didn’t really know what would happen if he used it. They were crossing Fifty-seventh Street now, and the bare trees of Central Park beckoned.
Then he heard Peter scream, “Stone!!!” He looked back to find Billy Bob on his knees, his head bleeding and his assault rifle pointed at Stone. What was worse, he could see that a grenade had been attached to the rifle.
“Shoot me, and you die!” Stone shouted.
“Do what I say, or we all die,” Billy Bob shouted back. “The boy, too!”
57
STONE TRIED to think of something, but he could only concentrate on keeping the helicopter in the air.
Billy Bob slipped on a headset and handed Stone one. “We’re going back to Times Square,” he said.
Stone put on the headset. “I’ve never flown a helicopter before. I don’t know if I can make that kind of turn without dumping this thing.”
“Well, you seem to be doing okay,” Billy Bob replied. “Let’s give it a whirl. Say, where’s the boy?”
“I lost him trying to turn this thing. He was trying to keep you inside, and he went out.”
“And I had grown so fond of the little shit,” Billy Bob said. “To think he gave his all for me. Hey, why aren’t you turning?” He nudged the back of Stone’s head with the assault rifle.
Stone started a right-hand turn, keeping it shallow. He was making a wide arc to the east, now, and they were over Fifth Avenue before he was headed south.
“You know,” Billy Bob said, “there are an awful lot of cops around Times Square, and they probably have snipers set up by now. Maybe a nicer spot would be Rockefeller Center, and you’re right on course.”
“Oh, shit,” Stone muttered.
“I can put a grenade right into the skating rink,” Billy Bob said. “The area will be jammed with tourists this time of year.”
“Why are you doing this?” Stone asked. “What’s in it for you?”
“I know I’m not getting out of this alive,” Billy Bob said. “I may as well make a splash.”
“Look, I can fly this thing to Teterboro right now. Don’t you have an airplane out there?”
“Not anymore, Stone.”
“Then hijack one. There are always a dozen jets on the ramp with their engines running, waiting for passengers to arrive. Take one and get the hell out of here.”
“And where would I go?”
“Iceland doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States.” This wasn’t true, but maybe Billy Bob didn’t know that.
“Iceland doesn’t have an extradition treaty? I’ve never heard that.”
“Few people know about it, but it’s true.”
“Bullshit. I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“Then . . .” Stone was about to make another suggestion, but he was interrupted by the sound of the engine sputtering and dying. The helicopter began to descend.
“What the hell is wrong?” Billy Bob shouted.
“I don’t know,” Stone replied. He was scanning the instrument panel, looking for a warning light or some other reason. His eyes stopped on the fuel gauges: One of them showed full, the other empty. He found a lever and shoved it sideways, changing tanks. The engine came back to life, as if it had never been starved for fuel.
“Good work, Stone.”
But now they were low over Fifth Avenue. Stone eased the throttle forward, and the chopper began to climb again. “What’s wrong with Mexico?” he asked.
“Too far. They’d shoot me down before I could get there.”
“Then go offshore and head for South America. They can’t shoot you down over international waters.” This was a lie, too.
“You know, you might have something there.”
“So, we’ll head for Teterboro?”
“Yeah, but not yet; first I want to lob a couple of these grenades into Rockefeller Center, see how they perform. Call it a test.”
“You do that, and they’ll never stop looking for you, Billy Bob. Come on, you’ve got money offshore, right? Head south and lie low. Find some nice spot and buy a house and a few girls. Eventually, they’ll get tired of looking.”
“You make it sound so inviting,” Billy Bob said.
“It’ll never happen if you fire those grenades,” Stone said. “The cops will blow us out of the sky; they’ll be finding pieces of us around midtown for days. But, right now, they’re standing off. We can make Teterboro.”
“That’s a very tempting thought, Stone,” Billy Bob said.
“Turning right for Teterboro,” Stone said. He eased the chopper into a right turn. Then he felt the gun barrel at the back of his head again.
“I don’t think so,” Billy Bob said.
“Come on, why not?”
“Because I’m tired, Stone. I’ve run out my string, and this is going to be my last day on the planet. Yours, too. You know, I’m really sorry about the boy; he was a sweet kid.”
Stone leveled out heading west. He wasn’t going to be complicit in this. If he and Peter were going to die today, then they weren’t going to take hundreds of others with them. If a grenade had to go off, then the Hudson River, he decided, was the best place for it to happen. He didn’t think Billy Bob would have time to fire one and reload from the case before he could dump the helicopter into the icy river.
“Hey, you’re headed in the wrong direction,” Billy Bob said.
“No, I think you really want to go to Teterboro; that’s the best deal.” They had crossed Sixth Avenue, now, and Seventh was coming up fast. Five more crosstown blocks, and he’d make the water. Stone pushed the throttle farther forward and adjusted the trim to keep the chopper level, so it would pic
k up speed. He watched the airspeed climb from eighty-five to a hundred knots.
Billy Bob rapped him sharply on the head with the barrel of the assault rifle. “You’re not paying attention,” he said.
Stone felt a warm trickle of blood run down his scalp to his neck. “There’s something I’ve got to do before we go back to Rockefeller Center,” Stone said.
“What do you mean, there’s something you’ve got to do?” Billy Bob demanded. “This is my party, and we’ll go where I say.”
“Yeah, well you’re going to have to say it to that police helicopter on our tail. Those things are equipped with rocket launchers, you know, but if we can get across the Hudson, they can’t touch us. They’ll have to scramble Jersey State Police choppers on the other side, and that will take time.” He was coming up on Twelfth Avenue, now, and the river was just ahead.
“What police chopper?” Billy Bob asked. “I don’t see it.”
“It’s dead behind us, and gaining,” Stone said. “But we can make Jersey, and we’ll be okay. The chopper crossed the banks of the Hudson at a thousand feet, and then Billy Bob did something that Stone would always be grateful for.
He stepped back, transferred the assault rifle to his left hand, grabbed a handgrip bolted to the airframe and stuck his head into the slipstream, leaning out and looking behind them for the police helicopter.
Stone yanked back on the throttle, whipped the stick to the right and the chopper went into an impossibly steep right turn. He looked back to see Billy Bob hanging out of the helicopter, still gripping the rifle, hanging on to the handgrip for dear life. Stone kicked the right rudder, and the chopper’s roll became even steeper. It was more than Billy Bob’s grip could handle. His grip failed, and Stone watched him begin his plunge toward the icy Hudson a thousand feet below.
But Stone had no time to relish the moment, because the helicopter continued to roll. Stone could see the George Washington Bridge, in the distance, and it was upside down. Stone had a sensation of falling from the sky, and he closed his eyes. Then a huge explosion rocked the helicopter, and Stone knew Billy Bob had tested his grenade.
58
THE HEAT from the explosion caused a huge thermal, and the helicopter rode it upward, threatening to roll again. Stone got hold of himself and got hold of the stick. The airspeed had bled off to sixty knots, and he was afraid of stalling again. He shoved the throttle forward, and held the stick centered between his legs, hoping aerodynamics would do the rest. But now there was something new—a thumping vibration that rhythmically shook the chopper.
The instrument panel was a vibrating blur, so he looked outside to orient himself. He was flying up the river toward the George Washington Bridge, and he didn’t have enough altitude to clear it. He pushed the stick down, and a moment later, the bridge passed over him. He eased back the stick, trying to gain altitude without advancing the throttle. He thought he must have lost a rotor tip in the explosion, and he didn’t want to put any more strain on the machine.
Finally, he was at the top of the Palisades, the high cliffs overlooking the Hudson, then he managed to gain another couple of hundred feet. He remembered that Teterboro was southwest of the bridge, and he eased the chopper into a shallow left turn. The vibration increased, but soon, he was on the right heading. Then he saw a big business jet a few miles ahead, making an approach, and he followed its line of flight toward the runway. He had the airfield in sight.
He found a radio in the panel, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the frequency for Teterboro tower, so he tuned in 121.5 mhz, the emergency frequency, and pressed the push-to-talk switch. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he said. “Helicopter approaching Teterboro from the northeast for emergency landing. Teterboro tower, if you can hear me, clear the way, because I’ve never landed a helicopter, and I think I have a broken rotor tip.”
“Stone?” A familiar voice
“Dino?”
“Right behind you, pal.”
“Helicopter, Teterboro tower,” an urgent voice said. “We have you in sight; cleared to land anyplace you want to put her down. Suggest runway one niner, if able.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” Stone replied. “Dino?”
“Shut up and fly the chopper,” Dino said.
Stone took his advice. He began trying to slow the helicopter; he was too hot, and he pulled back on the throttle and held his altitude to bleed off airspeed, the way he would do in an airplane. He could see the runway, now, and he was about two hundred feet above it. He pulled the throttle back to idle, and the thing began dropping like a rock. He added power, but he was still high and hot. He chopped the throttle again and yanked back on the stick. The sky filled the windshield, and with his peripheral vision he could see the ground coming up fast. He passed over the runway, losing altitude, in a nose-up position.
The helicopter struck tail first, and still Stone held the stick back. Then it slammed into the ground, and strangely, there was water everywhere. Stone, who was not wearing a seat belt, was thrown forward, striking his head on the windshield. The last thing he heard was the noise of the rotor chewing up the ground, then everything went quiet. THE VOICE came from a distance: “Stone?” A small voice. “Stone?” Somebody shook him and pulled him back into his seat. Stone opened his eyes and looked around.
“Peter?”
“Here I am, Stone.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, and I did what you said.”
“What?”
“I got behind the seat and stayed there. It was sort of like a ride at the carnival in Charlottesville, but not as much fun.”
The air was filled with approaching sirens, and Stone was aware that a helicopter was landing a few yards away. He looked out the window and saw that they had come to rest in shallow water, a swampy area between a runway and a taxiway. Twenty yards away he saw his own airplane, parked with others in the infield. Then he passed out.
HIS DREAMS were not good: They were a montage of Billy Bob, Arrington, Peter and Tiffany Baldwin, who always seemed to be screaming at him. Then, slowly, they faded and he found himself in a darkened room. Sunlight peeked from behind venetian blinds. Someone was holding his hand.
“Stone?” A woman’s voice.
“Go away, Tiff,” he said wearily. He had had enough of her.
“It’s Arrington.”
Stone turned his head and looked at her. “It is, isn’t it?” he said, relieved.
“You’re all right; you just had a couple of bumps on the head. You lost a little hair, and you have a few stitches, and your head is sort of swollen, but you’ll be just fine. All you have to do is rest.”
“I’m hungry,” Stone said. “Am I on drugs?”
“The doctor gave you something when they stitched your head up yesterday. He wanted you to rest.”
“Yesterday? And now it’s today?”
“That’s how it works, Stone: yesterday, then today.”
“Can I have a bacon cheeseburger?”
“I’m not sure that’s on the menu, but I’ll get you something.” She picked up the call buzzer and pressed it. A moment later a nurse came in, followed by Dino and Lance.
“Okay, Lance,” he said. “Now you can court-martial me.”
Everybody began laughing.
59
LANCE AND DINO took him home that afternoon, in Arrington’s chauffeured Bentley.
“Where’s Arrington?” Stone asked, as they got into the car.
“She and Peter had something to do,” Dino said. “She didn’t say what.”
“Let me tell you where we are,” Lance said. “We recovered thirty-five grenades from the helicopter you crashed.”
“Crashed? I thought that was a pretty good landing, considering.”
“Controlled crash was how the FAA described it,” Dino said. “The helicopter is a total loss.”
“That’s what insurance is for.”
“Billy Bob managed to fire one grenade while he was fall
ing from the helicopter,” Lance said.
“Nearly blew the police chopper I was riding in out of the sky,” Dino said.
“The explosion broke a lot of windows along the New York bank of the Hudson, but nobody was seriously injured,” Lance said. “We rolled up Martin Block’s operation in Queens, and he’s singing like a bird. The feds have put a stop to three or four cons Billy Bob was running out of Block’s building, and they found all his bank records there, so they’re going after his offshore cash as we speak.”
“Where did he get all the two-dollar bills?” Stone asked.
“Billy Bob bought them at a sharp discount from the grandson of one of the robbers,” Lance said. “He met the kid at Sing-Sing, where he did a five-year stretch for financial fraud. Got out a couple of years ago. That’s also where he met your old friend Mitteldorfer, who asked Billy Bob, as a favor, to first ruin you, then kill you, after he got out. Mitteldorfer made him a lot of money with investment advice while he was inside, so he was happy to oblige.”
“Mitteldorfer sure knows how to hold a grudge,” Dino said, shaking his head. “I’ve asked the people up there to put him in solitary for as close to forever as the rules will allow.”
“Mitteldorfer will think the company is good,” Stone said.
“Tiffany Baldwin is annoyed with you for killing Billy Bob,” Lance said.
“The ungrateful bitch,” Dino muttered.
“She was so looking forward to prosecuting him,” Lance said. “At least she’ll have the pleasure of announcing all his operations that she’s rolling up. The Attorney General will like that.”