“I knew the peace and quiet was too good to last,” Joe shouted, firing back.
Kurt surveyed the battlefield. With the chopper hovering overhead and the rescue basket nearing the ground, Kappa and his men had dropped into protected positions and were firing downhill at them. Kurt chose to look on the bright side. “The good news is, they can’t load up without taking their eyes off us.”
Morgan saw it the other way. “The bad news is, we can’t move anywhere until they do just that.”
“I’ve got worse news for the both of you,” Joe said. “There are four of them. They can divide and conquer, with two of them pinning us down and two of them loading the stones into the basket.”
“Pessimists,” Kurt said. “I’m working with pessimists.”
Kurt moved from one covered spot to another in order to get a better view of the terrain. He saw Kappa reaching for the swaying stretcher while his men poured on the fire.
From the tiny explosions of dirt kicked up by the flying bullets, Kurt could tell that Joe and Morgan had been targeted. Taking advantage of that, he moved into a firing position, sighted the most lethally armed of Kappa’s men and pulled the trigger on his .45 caliber Colt 1911.
The man jerked to the side as Kurt’s shot hit home. He fell, losing his grip on his rifle as he hit the ground.
Kurt ducked back behind a pile of rocks as the gunfire swung in his direction. Several near misses whistled past, others skipped off the granite around them.
Needing a new position, Kurt dropped flat to the ground and army-crawled to where Joe and Morgan had taken cover. They were near the center of the gorge with their backs to a fallen tree that stretched across the dry riverbed. Its bark was long gone, its trunk bleached white from the sun, but it was thick enough and solid enough to keep the bullets away.
Morgan glanced at the helicopter. “We’ll be in real trouble if someone starts shooting from the door of that thing. It’s not a great angle, but I’d be happier if that helicopter was out of the fight.”
Joe shook his head. “If we bring that thing down in this small of a space, we’ll end up doused with burning jet fuel and riddled with shrapnel.”
“Forget about the helicopter,” Kurt said. “If they had a sniper, he’d be firing at us already. Considering they’re planning to fly four men and several hundred pounds of rock out of here, they wouldn’t come in with extra men on board. Two pilots and one crewman—tops. That means they have their hands full working the basket and keeping the chopper in place. Our best bet is to take out Kappa and the rest of the ground crew. If we do that, the pilot of that bird will turn tail and run.”
Morgan pulled a small disk from her pocket.
“Top secret spy gadget?” Joe asked hopefully.
“Not exactly.” With a flip of her thumb, Morgan opened the disk, revealing a reservoir of makeup in the bottom section and a circular mirror in the top.
“This is no time for a touch-up,” Kurt joked.
“A woman has to look her best,” Morgan said, “and see her best.”
She held the compact up, using the mirror like a periscope, studying their foes without exposing herself to gunfire. “They’re still up on the flat area. Kappa’s in the middle. He’s got one guy on either side of him. Looks like he’s going for the duffel bag.”
Before she could confirm that, a well-aimed shot took the compact out of her grasp. She shook her hand and rubbed her fingers. “That cost fifty pounds at Marks & Spencer.”
“We need to move,” Kurt said.
“Considering one of them just shot a three-inch disk out of my hand, I vote against a frontal assault,” Morgan said.
“I second that,” Joe said.
Kurt’s vote made it unanimous, but he had another plan. “You ever get hit with a ricocheting bullet?”
“Yes,” Joe said. “Hurts bad enough. But it’s not going to put anyone out of action.”
“Turns you around, though.” The gleam in Kurt’s eye was unmistakable. He pointed to the canyon walls. They were flat, smooth granite, with no more than a foot of debris piled in a slope at the bottom.
“That it does,” Joe agreed.
“Are you two trying to hit these men with bank shots?” Morgan asked.
Kurt nodded. “And when we do, they’ll think we’ve flanked them. They’ll adjust their aim to either side, leaving you open to fire right down the middle.”
Morgan marveled at how casually Kurt threw out the idea. “Tell me you have another idea.”
“We could let them get away.”
She laughed at that. “Frontal assault it is. Just say when.”
Knowing the helicopter was directly above the men, Kurt gauged their position by its shadow. Easing back from the fallen tree and sliding over to get the proper angle, he raised his Colt and took aim.
At the other end of the tree, Joe was easing into his own firing position. A nod from him told Kurt he was ready.
Leaning out to the side, Kurt opened fire, watching sparks light up the canyon wall as the shells caromed off it and toward the men beneath the helicopter.
He could hear Joe’s 9mm being discharged in the opposite direction. When a barrage of return fire lit into either side of the canyon, well wide of Kurt’s current position, he knew they’d pulled it off. “Now!”
Morgan popped up, steadying her arms on the fallen tree and sighting Kappa’s men. In cold repose, she pulled the trigger rapidly. Three quick shots felled the mercenary on Kappa’s left, four more discharged the man on Kappa’s right. They went down—and stayed down—but by the time she zeroed in on Kappa, he’d jumped onto the rescue basket and was lying flat behind the duffel bag, using it as a shield.
She fired at him anyway, but the stone-filled bag acted like a wall of armor. The bullets pinged off it.
“They’ve loaded the stones on the stretcher,” she called out. “Kappa’s riding up with it.”
Not only were Kappa and the duffel riding up, the helicopter was moving. It had quit its hovering position and was accelerating down the throat of the canyon and out toward the main branch of the river.
Kurt saw this getaway attempt unfolding. Helpless to stop the helicopter, he did the only thing he could do, rational or otherwise. He holstered his gun, took off running and leapt toward the stretcher as it passed by.
He caught the edge of it with both hands, hanging on as it swung wildly.
The impact was so unexpected, it threw Kappa off balance. He almost rolled off the side of the gurney. Grasping for a handhold to prevent his falling, he dropped his pistol. It hit the duffel, tumbled over Kurt’s side and slid past.
For a brief moment, Kurt wished he was an octopus. Extra hands would have helped him to climb up and catch Kappa’s gun as it fell. Or at least retrieve his own pistol. Instead, all he could do was hold on with his legs swinging beneath him as Kappa’s pistol dropped to the ground.
The rescue basket stabilized as the helicopter moved down the narrow gap and out into the wider area of the riverbed. But it swung around like a carnival ride when the chopper swerved south and began to pick up speed.
As the helicopter straightened out, Kurt pulled himself up and threw one hand forward, reaching for the corner of the duffel bag. His plan was to pull it free and toss it down, then jump to safety when the helicopter inevitably slowed and turned back, searching for its lost payload. He tugged on the duffel, but it wouldn’t budge. Kappa had secured it to the stretcher with three nylon straps, each pulled taut and locked in place with a metal tension buckle.
Still dangling from the basket—and painfully aware of the speed picking up—Kurt reached for the first buckle, dug his fingers under its lip and lifted. It came loose. But before he could slide the strap free, Kappa crawled up over the top of the treasure-filled bag and swung at Kurt.
The punch was an awkward lunging hook. Kurt dropped backward to avoid the blow, but that left him hanging beneath the basket once again.
Executing another textbook pull-up, h
e reached for the bag a second time. This time Kappa lunged toward him with a knife in his hand.
Kurt pulled his arm back, but the blade caught him anyway, slicing through his field jacket and into flesh. The pain was searing. But the bigger problem was, pulling his arm back so quickly had left him hanging from the basket by only one hand. Between the force of the helicopter and force of the wind, he wouldn’t remain there long.
Instead of grabbing the stretcher again with his free hand, Kurt reached into his jacket and found the Colt in his shoulder holster. He pulled the trusty weapon free, aiming it upward, as Kappa lunged toward the hand gripping the frame of the stretcher with his knife.
Firing a single shot, Kurt hit Kappa in the shoulder.
The force of the bullet spun Kappa around and threw him off balance. He reached for the secondary guideline as he fell backward, but it was just beyond his grasp. With a strange look on his face, Kappa tumbled off the stretcher and vanished.
Kurt didn’t bother to watch him hit the ground. He shoved the Colt back in its holster and grabbed the edge of the basket. With both hands, his grip was now firm, but by no means unbreakable. His left arm ached from holding on so long. His right arm bled through the gash in his jacket.
With maximum effort, he pulled himself up and rolled onto the rescue basket. Secure and stable, Kurt took a second to savor the victory before wondering what on earth he was going to do now.
CHAPTER 37
As the helicopter cruised down the canyon, Robson crouched in the back. He had one hand on the winch control and the other firmly gripping a handhold. He gazed through the cargo door at the fiasco going on down below.
The gurney dangled sixty feet beneath them, swinging wildly from side to side like a five-hundred-pound pendulum. With each swing, the cable strained and the fulcrum of the winch it was connected to groaned, the momentum so great that it was causing the helicopter to yaw and roll.
Trying to raise the basket proved impossible. “What’s wrong with this thing?” he shouted, flipping the switch back and forth.
“Too much weight,” the pilot shouted back. “When that guy jumped on board, it overloaded the winch. Something must have burned out.”
Robson looked down once again just in time to see Kappa tumble off the stretcher. Much as he disliked Kappa, Robson knew it was not good news. He gave up on the winch and pulled out his pistol. “Hold us steady.”
“I’m trying,” the pilot shouted.
Despite the pilot’s effort, the chopper continued to slew around as if pulled by some invisible force. Straining to keep his balance, Robson aimed down with one hand while holding on with the other. The gurney swung beneath them, disappearing from view. He timed its return and fired the second it reappeared.
Austin did the same.
Lead bullets punched through the thin aluminum floor of the helicopter. One of them nicked the toe of Robson’s boot. Another ricocheted to one side. A third went all the way through and punched a hole in the roof above him.
Robson dove toward the cockpit. While he assumed correctly that Kurt had no desire to bring the helicopter down, he sensed Austin wouldn’t hesitate to do so if he felt it was his only option.
“Now what?” the pilot asked.
“Shake him off.”
“What about the cargo?”
“The bag is strapped down and Austin isn’t,” Robson explained. “Shake him off.”
“If he thinks he’s going to die, he’ll shoot us down before he goes.”
“Not if he’s low enough to jump,” Robson said.
The pilot said nothing more. He poured on more power and aimed for the center of the ever-widening river valley. The helicopter descended, accelerating as it went. It was soon traveling at an altitude of less than a hundred feet, with the gurney beneath them only thirty feet above the ground.
Risking a glance, Robson saw Kurt bracing himself. “Turn,” Robson ordered.
The pilot began a turn and then straightened up. Robson looked down and saw that Kurt was still in the basket.
“Harder,” Robson ordered. “Circles. He can’t hang on forever.”
Kurt had wedged himself into the rescue basket. He had one hand on its frame and the other holding his Colt. His feet were jammed into the corners of the stretcher. He knew what the pilot was trying to do. But aside from shooting at the pilot’s seat and trying to kill him or putting a few bullets into the engine or fuel tank, there was little Kurt could do to stop it.
He held tight as the helicopter sharply banked into a turn. The basket swung wide and then swung back. When that maneuver didn’t shake Kurt, the pilot transitioned to a circular pattern. This had two advantages, neither one in Kurt’s favor.
First, by flying in circles the swaying that threatened to pull the helicopter off course was eliminated. Once it began moving in a circle, it felt like nothing more than a merry-go-round, the stretcher acting as a counterweight. The ride was surprisingly smooth, the sensation of speed shockingly apparent.
The second issue—and the more disastrous one from Kurt’s point of view—was that the circular pattern created an ever-increasing level of centrifugal force, one that would soon fling him off the gurney. Not only was there a limit to human strength countering such a force, the circling was also causing the blood to drain from Kurt’s head, arms and hands. Even if he held on, he would eventually black out, like a fighter pilot pulling too many g’s. At that point, he’d go over the edge like a rag doll, never even see the end coming.
With the strain building rapidly, Kurt needed to do something and do it fast.
Tightening his grip on the Colt, he aimed upward, thinking he might hit the cable or damage the helicopter enough that they would have to land, but as he extended his arm the gun grew heavier, wavered back and forth, soon feeling like a seventy-pound weight.
As he fought to stabilize his aim, the pilot tightened the turn further. Kurt’s arm fell to the side and the g-force ripped the gun from his hand.
Kurt brought his hand back down and grabbed the frame of the stretcher.
The helicopter continued to circle, the turns getting ever tighter. Kurt began to feel dizzy. His heart was pounding, his arms shaking, his mind turning foggy.
With his vision fading, Kurt reached for the duffel bag. Feeling across its thick canvas, he found the first strap. He pulled it free from its buckle and then grabbed for the second strap.
Finding it, he tried to lift the lip of its buckle, but the thing wouldn’t budge. Either it was stuck or his arm had grown too weak. He shifted his weight and lifted harder. This second effort moved it, but Kurt was close to losing consciousness by now. Everything was turning gray and beginning to go dark.
Kurt gripped his legs together and tightened his abs, trying to force the blood back into his head. His vision briefly returned to normal. He watched the ground flying past. It was no more than twenty feet below him. Sand and rocks rushed by, then trees and greenery, then finally dark water glistening in the early evening sun as they sped over one of the small lakes.
The pattern repeated itself as the circles tightened even more. Sand, rock, trees and greenery, water—everything passing in one giant, dizzying blur.
With his vision and strength partially restored, Kurt pulled up on the second buckle again. This time it unlatched.
The strap flailed in the wind and the duffel bag slid a few inches. But with its entire weight now straining against the single third strap, the tension grew tighter.
Kurt pulled hard but found it wouldn’t budge.
The pilot banked the helicopter into a yet tighter turn.
Kurt primed himself for one last effort. He grabbed for the buckle and pulled. His hand slipped free. With the g-forces so high, he was unable to catch himself. His feet broke loose and his body came halfway out of the basket. His free hand found the duffel’s fluttering strap and gripped it. It kept him from being ejected, but he was now holding on by his hands only, his legs were over the side of the stretche
r and there was simply no way to overcome the centrifugal force and pull them back in.
His arms burned as he held on. Down below, the rocks now flew past. Now the sand. Now the trees. They were flying in one last circle and Kurt knew what came next.
He let go, flew through the air and plunged feetfirst into the center of the small lake.
CHAPTER 38
Kurt hit the lake at high speed. He plunged through the surface, spreading his arms wide, slowing his descent into the water as much as possible. He still hit the muddy bottom with enough force to embed his boots in its sediment.
Shockingly calm for someone who’d just been thrown from a moving helicopter, Kurt looked up. The murky water cut down on the light and, without a mask or goggles, the view was blurred, but the surface shimmered no more than twenty feet above him.
He saw no movement, no bubble trails announcing the presence of bullets fired into the water to finish him off. He saw only ripples from his own entry and the color of the evening sky in a circle beyond.
Reaching down, he dug the mud away from his boots, kicked free and swam for the surface. He emerged cautiously and savored exhaling and taking a breath of air.
Looking around, he spotted the helicopter disappearing to the south. Rather than come back to make sure he was dead, they’d chosen to hightail it out of the valley. Kurt wasn’t surprised. Doubling back was just asking for trouble. Their best bet was to reel in the duffel bag or land somewhere safe and haul it aboard by hand. Either way, the helicopter was gone—along with the Writings of Qsn.
At least Kurt still had his life.
He swam to shore, crawled out and found a rock to sit on. He was wringing out his socks when Gamay and Paul came along on their horses, trailing a spare along with them.
Both were obviously relieved to see him. Gamay made the first joke to lighten the mood. “An odd time to take a bath,” she said, “but I hear the waters around here are healing.”
“Lifesaving,” Kurt replied.
Journey of the Pharaohs - NUMA Files Series 17 (2020) Page 18