"How does it look?" Peretz was asking. He and Bill Bates had just
climbed aboard the Sikorsky, cold and gray in the light fog.
Bates had already checked it over from the outside. It was military,
and it appeared to be on loan from the Pakistani Air Force, with the
markings clumsily painted over. But it appeared to be in pristine
shape. Good maintenance.
"Let me see." He walked to the cockpit and looked over the rows of
instruments. Nothing obvious seemed amiss. "If there's fuel, it should
be able to fly. After all, it got in here from somewhere."
Peretz nodded with satisfaction, then clicked on his walkie-talkie.
"Firebird One, Bates says there may be some problems with the nav gear.
He wants to start it up and give it an instrument check. Probably just
feeding me some kind of bullshit, so why don't you send out Helling for
a minute? He should be in on this."
"What?" Bates mumbled. "I didn't--"
"I copy you," came back Ramirez's voice. "What seems to be the
problem?"
"Probably no big deal. Claims it's the in-flight computer. Something to
do with flight control."
"All right," Ramirez replied. "I'll send Wolf out if you think you need
him." The walkie-talkie clicked off, to the accompaniment of static.
"What are you talking about?" Bates looked up, feeling a chill. "I
don't see anything here that looks like a problem. Who the hell knows
if the in-flight computer is--"
"Just shut up," Peretz barked. "Now, start the engines."
"But--"
"Just do what I tell you." He was now grasping a Walther 9mm with what
appeared to be boundless self-assurance.
"You're the boss." Bates nodded, settling into the cockpit. He suddenly
realized that something not on the schedule was about to go down. All
along he'd had a feeling Peretz was up to something. Now it was more
than a feeling.
With a tremble of apprehension he hit the ignition button, then started
spooling up the power on the main rotor. Everything seemed to be
working normally, just as it should. This old crate, he figured, had a
lot of hours on the engines, but there was nothing to suggest any kind
of problem.
Coming toward them now, across the tarmac, was the famous German
terrorist, Wolf Helling. Bates glanced through the windscreen and
looked him over, thinking he looked annoyed. He had the hard face and
eyes of a killer, the kind of face you could only earn the hard way.
Suddenly the whole scenario clicked into place. This Israeli character
was about to try and pull a fast one on everybody. He had set the
vehicle to launch and now he was getting out. But what about the
German? Was he in on the scam?
Probably not, from the disgruntled look he had. Besides, this guy
Peretz was the quintessential loner. He had his marbles and the hell
with everybody else.
"What's the problem?" Helling asked as he stepped lightly up the metal
steps of the Sikorsky. "Is something--?"
He never had a chance to finish the sentence, as a dull thunk
punctuated the placement of a 9mm round directly between his eyes. The
half-bald leader of Germany's notorious Revolutionare Zellen pitched
into the chopper, dead before he reached the floor pallet.
"Fucking Nazi," Peretz said to no one in particular. "I've been waiting
a long time." Then he stepped over the body and headed for the cockpit.
"Okay, it's about to be post time, baby."
"You're going to bug out, aren't you?" Bates had turned around and was
staring at him. "You son of a bitch, you've got VX-1 set to launch and
now you're leaving while the leaving's good."
"It's not going to be that simple," he responded calmly. "But we are
about to make an unscheduled departure. You will be flying."
"And get shot down?" Bates said, rising and walking back from the
cockpit. "Come on, this place has got to be surrounded." He had hoped,
now feared, it was so. Surely the word on these terrorists was all over
the world by now. "You have got to be kidding. No way am I taking this
bird up. You're on your own, pal. I refuse."
"That would be a serious mistake, health-wise." Peretz smiled back.
"Because if you give me the slightest hint of trouble, you're going to
enjoy the same fate as this Nazi klutz, starting with your kneecaps. I
would advise you to be cooperative." He smiled again.
"Do what you want," Bates said, not quite feeling his own bravado. "But
you'll be flying it yourself."
"Don't press me, asshole," Peretz said. "Besides, there's a
nuclear weapon in that crate there." He pointed. "Nobody's going to lay
a finger on us."