As Manny Jackson grappled for the collective, blinded by the intense
monochromatic light engulfing him, a clap of thunder sounded about his
ears, deafening him to the roar of the Apache's turboshafts.
What in hell! Had one of the nuclear devices been detonated? No, his
instincts lectured, he was still alive. If it had been a nuke, he would
be atoms by now, sprayed into space. This had to be something else.
Now his vision was returning, the blue receding into quick flashes, and
the chopper seemed to be stabilizing. Maybe, he thought, I'm not going
to be permanently blind. But I've got to get this bird on the ground.
We'll just have to take our chances. Then the realization of what had
happened finally sank in. The damned Cyclops laser had switched on.
They had arrived too late. . . .
He was thrown against the windscreen as the Apache slammed into the
asphalt and collapsed the starboard leg of the retractable gear.
"Jesus!" He turned back to the cabin, forehead bleeding, and yelled,
"Everybody okay?"
The assault team was still strapped in, and nobody seemed the worse for
the bumpy landing. The Apache was a tough bird, hero of tank battles in
Iraq.
"No problem," came back a chorus of yells. They were already
unfastening their straps and readying their weapons.
"All right," he bellowed, killing the power. "Everybody out. Let's take
cover and kick ass."