flare the blades with the stick, hoping he could bring her in with the
collective. The Hind was still spinning in autorotation, but not yet
dangerously. Slowly, slowly . . .
He was about thirty feet above the trees when a splatter of automatic
fire erupted from the open doorway. He whirled around to see the
terrorist he'd bulldozed into the fence now hanging onto the metal step
and trying to pull himself in.
What now . . . !
The man--Vance guessed he was pushing forty, with a face of timeless
brutality--was covered with blood and his aim was hampered by trying to
hold the Uzi as he fired one-handed, the other hand grasping the step.
He was cursing in German. . . .
At that instant the Hind took a sickening dip, and the Uzi clattered
onto the doorway pallet as the terrorist relinquished it to try to hold
on with both hands.
But he was losing it, his hands slippery with his own blood, and all
that held him now was the torn section of his own shirt that had
somehow sleeved over the step. Then his grasp gave way entirely, and he
dangled for a moment by the shirt before it ripped through and he fell,
a trailing scream. He landed somewhere in the trees twenty feet below,
leaving only the shirt.
In the meantime the Hind continued spiraling and drifting down, and
Vance looked out to see the gray granite of the side of the mountain
moving toward him, with only a bramble of trees in between. But at
least the chopper's autorotation was bringing him in for a soft crash.
He braced himself as a clump of trees slapped against the side of the
fuselage. Then the twelve-ton helicopter plunged into them, its landing
gear collapsing as it crunched to a stop. He felt himself flung
forward, accompanied by the metallic splatter of the rotor collapsing
against the granite, shearing and knocking the fuselage sideways in a
series of jolts. As the two turboshaft engines automatically shut down,
he held onto the seat straps and reflected that this was his first and
probably last turn at the stick of a Hind. And all he'd managed to do
was total it.
Heck of a way to start a morning.
The Uzi was still lying on the floor of the cabin, while the shirt of
the man he had shot was wrapped around the metal step and lodged
beneath the crushed landing gear.
When he reached back and checked to see that the Walther 9mm was still
secured in his belt, he noticed that his arm had been lacerated by the
jagged plastic of the shattered canopy. He noticed it, but he didn't
feel it. He was feeling nothing, only a surge of adrenaline and the
certain knowledge he had to get out fast, with the Uzi.
He scooped it up and stumbled through the doorway, to the sound of
muted gunfire down the hill, as the other two hoods continued to
advance.
He had the German's automatic now, but the last thing he wanted was a
shootout. Nonetheless, rounds of fire sang around him as he ripped the
black shirt loose from the chopper's step and felt the pockets. One
contained what seemed like a small leather packet.
He yanked it out, then plunged in a direction that would bring the Hind
between him and the other two assailants. But when he tried to catch
his footing in the green bramble of brush, he fell on his shoulder and
rolled, feeling a spasm of pain. Christ, this was no longer any fun!
About twenty feet away was an even denser copse of cypress scrub than
the one he had crashed in. If he could make that, he told himself, he'd
have some cover. He just had to get there in one piece.
Half scrambling, half rolling, he headed for the thicket of trees,
occasionally loosing a round of covering fire down the hill. Then he
felt the scratchy hardness of the low brush and threw himself into the
bramble. Dirt spattered as rounds of fire--or was it flecks of granite?--
ricocheted around him, and then he felt a nick across one shoulder--he
was not sure from what. A couple more rounds cut past, but now they
were going wide.
He collapsed into the dense bramble and tried to catch his breath. What
next? The Uzi still had a half-full clip. Maybe he could hold them off.
He stilled his breathing and listened, but heard nothing. The
mountainside was deathly quiet, so much so he could almost hear the
crash of waves on the shore below. It was probably only wishful
imagination, but the quiet gave hope he might temporarily be out of
danger.
He turned and looked up the mountain, finally able to see it clearly.
The near hillside was covered with brush, the only objects visible
above the green being the tip of a high-tech jungle. SatCom had a hell
of a communications installation. Outlined against the blue sky were
huge parabolic antennas used for microwave uplinks, a phased-array
transmission system for powering the space vehicles, a myriad of dishes
for satellite uplinks and downlinks, and various other antennas used
for conventional radio. It was all set inside a high-security hurricane
fence with a gray cinderblock control hut at the near corner.
Well, he thought, with that battery of antennas, there's surely a way
to do what has to be done next. . . .
This time he wouldn't waste radio access with Maydays.