by L. T. Ryan
“Five minutes out,” Griff said.
Blake pointed to his headset, extended his thumb, and nodded at Haeli to confirm that she heard the message. The fuselage rocked, causing her knees to knock against his.
She nodded as her oversized earphones remained fixed in space, the same way a firefighter’s helmet bobbled around on an excited kid’s head.
The fifty-two minutes that had elapsed since the Palazzo tower disappeared in the rear-view was sufficient time for Blake’s adrenaline level to even out. By the pace of Haeli’s breathing, he guessed it was the same for her.
At an hour each way, thanks to the extra distance required to avoid the restricted airspace of Nellis Bombing Range Test Site to the east, fuel consumption would be pushed toward the top end of a comfortable level. Griff cited this as the reason for rejecting Haeli’s tongue-in-cheek request for a slight diversion over the Area 51 Air Force installation. Blake figured not wanting to get shot down was a more convincing reason.
The ride had been comfortable. The clear and calm Nevada skies saw to that. And with the doors closed, the rotor noise had subsided enough that they could carry on a normal conversation, despite having to do so by electronic means.
“The tourists got more excitement than they bargained for,” Haeli mused. “Probably thought they were watching a stunt show, marveling at how the resorts spare no expense to provide the highest level of entertainment.”
“Too bad we missed the rest of the show,” Blake added. “I’m sure the cops are swarming the place. Feds, too.” Blake turned to look out the window. “How much you want to bet that the casino prevented an evacuation? Wouldn’t want to scare anyone away from the card table.”
The sun-bleached faces of the scraggy mountains filled the windows on either side. Blake pushed his forehead against the clear acrylic. Sagebrush and cacti spotted the desert below. He abandoned the aerial view for one of Haeli, which was twice as pleasing and a hundred times more interesting.
Griff keyed in. “I’m happy Grant had enough sense to not have Spirit of the West painted on this bird. If he hadn’t been able to remove the logo and tail number decals, the sightseeing business would have gotten more than a little unwanted attention.”
“Nah,” Blake said. “Any press is good press. That’s what I heard. Anyway, I think Haeli was the big attraction. And you got to see it firsthand this time.”
Griff twisted his body to look over his shoulder toward Haeli and Blake. “Wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t.” He turned back to the controls.
“Are you impressed?” Haeli directed a coy grin at Blake.
“Hell yes, I’m impressed,” Griff said.
Blake waited for Griff’s transmission to complete before keying up his own mic. “Impressed is not the word.”
There was a bucket full of words that could describe what Blake was. Impressed was the least of them.
“If I didn’t know any better,” Haeli said, “I’d say Levi recognized you.”
Blake winced.
Not a single trick.
“I told you I was familiar with him,” he said with a shrug.
“You said you were familiar with him, not that he was familiar with you,” Haeli replied.
“We have a bit of a history. It’s a long story.”
“Longer than… how much time, Griff?”
“Three minutes.”
“Fine, I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes,” Blake said. “Levi and I worked a mission together years ago. He had already left the Army and gone into business for himself by that point. The guy was capable, but more arrogant than Griff. A lot of the contractors were, but Levi was in a class of his own. Bottom line, he made poor decisions. In particular, a unilateral decision to deviate from the plan because he didn’t agree with the rest of us. It cost a few great men their lives.”
“That sounds like Levi.” Haeli sighed.
“The worst of it was that he ended up saving my life that day. And took a bullet doing it. You know what the bastard said to me when we finally got back to base?”
Haeli shook her head.
“He said I owed him one.” Blake made a sound that, in his own muffled ears, was halfway between a cynical laugh and a snarl. “I buried three of my friends and I owe him? I owe him nothing.”
“I’m sorry.” The compulsory words felt sincere coming from Haeli. She leaned forward, put her forehead on his, and closed her eyes.
Blake closed his eyes as well. Maybe it was the close call, or the inevitable drain that came after an endorphin dump. But he felt tired. Or content. It had been so long since he felt that way, he could have mistaken it for something else.
“This is it,” Griff said. “Coming up below us.”
Blake slid the doors open and poked his head over the side. Still nothing but the brutal desert landscape.
“Take a pass,” Blake said, “then swing back for a second one. Make like we’re just passing through until I’m set up.”
Blake popped open the case and pulled out the thermal imaging device and a large gun with a camera on the front and a screen on the back. When pointed at a target, the colorful image on the screen would represent the temperatures of the various subjects in the frame. Reds, oranges, and yellows where there was excessive heat, and purples, blues, and blacks for lower temperatures. It was a common tool for firefighters, as it allowed them to find sources of heat invisible to the naked eye, such as a fire burning behind a wall or a faulty electrical connection. Law enforcement employed it too. The lights used in illegal grow houses, for example, would cause a residence to stand out from neighboring homes.
Griff pressed the left foot pedal to kick the tail of the aircraft to the right. He completed the one hundred and eighty degree turn and headed back over the valley.
Blake aimed the thermal imager at the ground. The desert floor glowed in reds and oranges; an expected result due to the hundred-degree ambient temperature in the valley. Accompanied by blue squares littering the desert floor.
Blake tilted the screen toward Haeli. She used her hand as a visor to shield the glare of the sun as she leaned in.
“Air vents,” Haeli said.
“Air vents,” Blake agreed.
It was what Blake expected if an underground facility lay hidden beneath the sand. The exchange of fresh air and means of egress would be imperative in the event of an emergency, and the climate-controlled air of the interior would escape.
“No doubt there’s some structure under there,” Blake said. “Can’t say for sure it’s Techyon.”
“You saw Farr. In Las Vegas,” Haeli said. “Which, let me add, is a hell of a long way from Tel Aviv.”
“I know. But in order to do what I think you want to do, we need to be one-hundred percent positive.”
“Can you save the images?” Haeli asked.
Blake examined the rubber buttons on the back of the device. He pushed the one printed with a small picture of a camera. The screen froze for a moment before white titling appeared, super-imposed on the live image. It said 178deg_0000001.jpg.
“Affirmative,” Blake answered.
“Good,” Haeli said. “We’ll compare the layout of these vents to the blueprints we have. If it matches, will you concede?”
Blake would have, but he planned to give Haeli a hard time by mentioning the blueprints themselves were unverified. He didn’t get the chance.
“We’ve got company,” Griff said.
Blake felt the centrifugal force of the hard turn. He steadied himself to avoid slipping out of the open door. His stiff arm reflexively swung to prevent Haeli from falling out. He dropped it after realizing that she hadn’t budged.
“It’s a goddamn Little Bird,” Griff said. “Comin’ in fast.”
The G-force came again.
Blake’s stomach fluttered. Not at the force, but at the words. Little Bird.
The United States Army had used versions of the Boeing MH-6 since the early 1980s. It had become an invaluable tool for s
pecial operations over the years. Small, light, and fast, the Little Bird was perfect for insertion, extraction, and assault. The attack variant, the AH-6, was often outfitted with a devastating array of weapons, including M134 Miniguns, Hydra 70 Rockets, and four Hellfire or Air-to-Air Stinger missiles.
On several occasions, Blake had witnessed the destructive power of the “Killer Egg,” a nickname earned by the bulbous shape of its fuselage.
Blake’s team, accompanied by several Navy Seals and Army Rangers, had used two MH-6J and two AH-6J helicopters to assault the compound of a high-level terrorist in Baidoa, Somalia. Little of the stone building remained at the successful conclusion of the mission. Nothing discernable remained of the eight souls who attempted to defend it.
Blake understood their Eurocopter stood little chance and based on Haeli’s wide eyes and death grip on his triceps, Haeli also understood.
“I’m not going down without a fight.” Haeli grabbed the rifle that rested against the edge of Blake’s seat. She dropped the magazine, inserted a full one, and smacked the bottom to make sure it seated properly. She opened the door on the right side of the aircraft and scooted toward the edge, letting her feet rest on the skid step.
A black nylon strap with a carabiner sewn to the end hung from a steel rail above the door. Although meant to attach to a body harness, Haeli spun her arm in a small spiral, wrapping the strap around her right arm several times. She shouldered the rifle and leaned against the strap, using the tension to steady her aim.
Blake leaned over Griff’s shoulder and retrieved the second M4 rifle from the empty front seat. Through the front windows he glimpsed the Little Bird bearing down on them. It was headed straight at them, or rather Griff was headed straight at it. Both locked into a catastrophic game of chicken.
Griff didn’t have the time or the obligation to explain what he was thinking, but it made no difference. Blake understood the tactic. By turning and running, they would be at a disadvantage. Griff would need to close the gap for evasive maneuvering to be effective.
The good news was the guns and rocket pods that normally bristled from the attack variant of the Little Bird were absent. In their place were exterior bench seats and overhanging anchors, a typical setup for personnel transport and fast rope insertions. Without ordinance or heavy munitions, they at least stood a chance.
Blake took his position at the unoccupied door. He wrapped one of the nylon straps around his own arm and pulled the rifle’s charging handle. A live round ejected, bounced off the deck, and careened toward the desert floor.
Better safe than sorry.
“Hold on.” Griff was calmer and more collected than while he slept.
The floor dropped out from under them as Griff dipped hard and banked to the left. For a moment, the open air of the left door switched places with the floor. The effect was such that Blake experienced near weightlessness; an illusion dispelled by the angry nylon boa constrictor that bit into his arm.
Blake craned his neck to see Haeli leaning backward, her legs still extending up and over the edge of the door opening. Above her, the underbelly of the Little Bird eclipsed the blue sky like the shutter of a high-speed camera. It’s rotor-wash tore through the cabin as it passed.
The floor tilted back to meet the horizon. The tail kicked to the right. Blake got the first closeup look at their adversary as the Little Bird spun around in an equal but opposite maneuver. The gold foil of the Techyon logo against the matte black paint glinted in the sun. Blake felt a flood of relief. Not only because they had been right. They were in the right place. But also because they hadn’t stumbled upon another United States military installation.
A thousand scenarios had run through Blake’s mind. And his conscience. The most concerning would have pitted him against his own. Using deadly force against U.S. servicemen and women would not have been an option and would have severely undermined their chances of surviving the encounter. It was a moral standard that he was sure Griff shared, and more certain Haeli didn’t.
Fortunately, Blake held no such loyalty toward Techyon or the people who would seek to harm Haeli. He had already chosen a side. Blood had been shed. For Blake, the wisdom he acquired in the schoolyard would ring true throughout his entire life.
Once the teams are selected, the only thing left to do is win.
The Little Bird rotated until it faced the broad side of the EC130. Blake could see the pilot’s neutral expression. The mirrored surfaces of the man’s sunglasses appeared as though sunlight streamed from two huge, empty eye sockets. Both aircrafts hovered, each pilot waiting for the other to make the first move.
“Hold it steady, Griff.” Blake lifted his rifle and trained the sights on the pilot. The man’s face showed no reaction. Not at first. Then, Blake noticed the edges of his horizontal mouth turn upward as the helicopter began to slowly rotate to the left. Blake kept the rifle levelled until the left side of the helicopter came to view.
Blake pulled the trigger of his rifle at the first glimpse of the man perched on the exterior bench. A reflex provoked by the sight of a tableau he had seen many times, in many variations. The hunched posture, the arms bent upward grasping the tube resting upon his right shoulder, the iconic shape of the rocket-propelled grenade at its end.
The rifle rocked against Blake’s shoulder. The vibration of the bolt being slapped backward by the pressure of built-up gases and then slammed forward by the tension of the spring travelled from his orbital bone to his inner ear. The metallic clank overshadowed the report.
A comet of flame, followed by a white smoke trail, streamed high over the tail of the EC130. Blake lost sight of the projectile but assumed it would find a target in the empty expanse of desert.
A second man pulled the launcher from the first man’s shoulder and dragged him inside the cabin of the helicopter. The jet-black battle dress uniforms that both men wore obfuscated any leakage. The 5.56 mm round had found its target, but Blake couldn’t be sure it was enough to incapacitate the man. The Little Bird rotated to face them again.
“They’re reloading.” Blake flicked his rifle’s selector switch to full automatic. He took aim at the pilot and emptied the magazine. Cloudy marks marred the thick Lexan windshield, and sparks flew from metal posts. The pilot’s smug face remained unscathed.
Griff’s voice crackled. “We’re making a run for it.”
“Roger.” Haeli dragged the heavy canvas bag from the seat. It hit the deck with a clatter. She reached in and withdrew three loaded magazines and slid the bag toward Blake. She rested the magazines by her right thigh and shifted her body aft.
Griff made a quarter turn toward the north. The nose of the helicopter dipped as the huge engine whined. The ground moved backward like a conveyor belt. Faster and faster. The Little Bird gave chase, keeping within twenty yards.
The EC130 lurched. The nose flew upward. The conveyor belt stopped and reversed direction as the rotors of the Little Bird passed only a few feet beneath their skids.
Griff banked to the south. The engine screamed.
Blake shifted his body again, putting his right knee on the deck and his left foot on the skid step. He pinned his right forearm against the outside skin of the fuselage, as far as the strap would let him, to steady the rifle.
One hundred yards past the tail rotor, the Little Bird was completing its turn and accelerating toward them.
Haeli opened fire first. The rapid burst lasted less than three seconds.
Blake tried to gauge the distance. He decided the Little Bird was getting closer.
“They’re gaining on us,” Blake said.
“I’m pushing her as hard as I can,” Griff responded. The stress now apparent in his voice. “One-hundred-seventy-six. Anymore and I’m not sure she’ll hold together.”
Blake slapped the trigger a few times, letting off several bursts until the magazine was empty. He reached back and felt for a new magazine. He estimated the distance again.
Haeli keyed the mic befo
re he could. “Fifty yards.”
The familiar silhouette of the black BDUs and rocket launcher appeared from the side of the Little Bird.
“Direct Fire, Direct Fire,” Blake said. “RPG incoming, on my mark.”
“Roger,” Griff responded.
Blake locked his mic in the on position and focused on the tip of the grenade, letting the rest of it fade in the background. There was no rattling fuselage, no buffeting of the air above their heads. There was nothing but his own heartbeat, keeping perfect time.
The orange flash came, and with it the knowledge that the explosive projectile had already set its destructive trajectory.
“Now,” Blake yelled.
Griff yanked the collective and slapped the stick in a combination that jerked the aircraft upward and to the left.
Blake braced for impact. It didn’t hit.
The helicopter leveled out and another burst of fire came from Haeli’s side. Blake’s eyes followed the man’s body as it tumbled, head over heels, arms and legs flailing, on the long journey from the sky to the inevitable shallow crater it would create on the desert floor.
Blake stuck his head back inside. “Tango down. Good shootin’ Haeli.” He released the lock on his mic.
“We are bingo fuel,” Griff reported. It meant that they couldn’t push it much longer and still have enough fuel to make it back to Henderson.
“No worries,” Haeli said, “they’re bugging out.”
Blake poked his head back out to confirm. The Little Bird had stopped all forward movement and faded back in the distance. It made sense. With no weapon systems on board, and no capable help, the remaining pilot could follow, but would have no effective way of mounting a further attack.
Blake unwrapped the strap from his arm and joined Haeli, who sat quietly. The butt of her rifle rested on the floor in front of her and she gripped the barrel with two hands.
“Everybody good?” Griff asked.
“All good,” Blake answered.
The statement was accurate in that neither he nor Haeli had been wounded. But Haeli was not all good. He reminded himself about what she had been through in the previous few days. The bombshells that had landed on her lap. He wanted to help. Give her insight. But such words didn’t exist.