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“Don’t worry, sir,” Simpson called. “We just hit the fall line.”
And out the window Gideon could see it. They were thundering down the face of the cliff, the entire airframe pitched over at what felt like an aerodynamically impossible angle. Just when Gideon was sure they would slam into the ground, the chopper steadied, pulled its nose up, and began barreling cross-country again.
Below them was an entirely new terrain, the thick rolling jungle uplands replaced by flat rice paddies and small villages.
Gideon waited for his equilibrium to return before he spoke again. “Simpson, you need to get me onto that rig.”
“Sir, there’s a jet waiting to fly you home.”
“I’m not going back to Washington.”
“And I’m under orders from Langley. The uplands are a no-fly zone now. We have to get out—”
Before he could finish his sentence the pilot called from the cockpit with a calm but urgent voice. “We’ve got a bird in the air.”
“Flares away!” the copilot said, as the chopper banked into a harp hÑ€†d turn. Through the window, Gideon could see the airport several miles in the distance, the blue sea glinting just beyond it.
The chopper continued its turn, tipping over sideways. The airport disappeared until all Gideon could see was a rice paddy below them. Snaking up through the air with frightening speed was a flaming object trailing white smoke.
Then it was out of view again.
A sudden thud came from the back of the chopper. Gideon felt the impact in his chest.
“We’re hit,” the pilot yelled.
The helicopter began to make a terrible rattling sound, like a pair of bowling balls in an oil drum.
“Brace for impact,” the copilot yelled. “We’re going down!”
The chopper may have been going down, but it wasn’t quite the crash that Gideon had anticipated. Instead the chopper bounced up and down and continued to fly. It was losing airspeed and slowly rotating. But the pilot was obviously extraordinarily skilled: he managed to keep the aircraft limping onward.
“Just get us to the airport!” Simpson shouted. “The Sultan’s got two regiments stationed there.”
The pilot nodded curtly.
The ground below them rotated, like the view from a slow merry-go-round. They were away from the rice paddy now, moving over a commercial district of warehouses and industrial buildings. Each time they rotated so that Gideon could see in the direction they’d come, he could see a jeep full of jihadis driving after them. It had a large Soviet-era machine gun mounted on the back.
When the chopper’s rotation showed the view of their intended destination, Gideon could tell they weren’t going to make it to the airport. The corkscrewing of the copter was forcing them relentlessly northeast. The airport was due north, still a good five miles away.
Now they were facing the jihadis again, who were driving at a breakneck pace through the deserted streets below. They were getting closer.
The airport appeared again, then the sea, then the jihadis again. Now the insurgents were firing the machine gun.
Bullets thudded into the helicopter.
The jihadis disappeared. Airport, ocean, commercial buildings, jihadis. Closer still.
“You gotta go faster!” the CIA man shouted.
“I can’t,” the pilot shouted. “The hydraulics are leaking. We won’t make it much farther!”
And indeed the chopper was spi
The jihadis were still firing.
Gideon saw the gu
As the jihadis disappeared from view, Gideon braced himself,v hÑ€† then he felt a huge thud. Gideon’s first thought was that the machine gu
This time, though, the view of the jihadis had changed. Smoke spewed from the hood of their jeep, which swerved sideways and slammed into a wall.
“The Sultan’s troops!” Simpson shouted, pointing out the window as their view scrolled past an eight-wheeled armored perso
Simpson allowed himself a tight smile reflecting his relief and satisfaction. We’re going to make it, he thought.
And with that, the chopper hit something—a palm tree? A billboard? Gideon was never quite sure, as the chopper nosed over and dropped like a giant brick, fifty feet to the ground.
For a moment there was no sound at all. Gideon sat, stu
Finally he regained enough presence of mind to unstrap himself. Next to him, Simpson was unstrapping, too.
“You all right, Mr. Davis?”
“Fine, fine.”
“We need to get out of here.”
Gideon thought that was a somewhat u
There was no answer. He leaned in through what had been the cockpit door and saw that neither the pilot nor the copilot had survived.
Gideon looked at Simpson and shook his head.
“Shit,” Simpson said. Then, apparently thinking he might have offended Gideon, he quickly added, “Sorry, sir.”
“Hey, the same word crossed my mind,” Gideon said drily.
Simpson freed himself from the seat, dropped down next to Gideon. He grimaced as he landed.
“Let’s go,” Gideon said.
“I think I caught one in the leg,” the CIA man said. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“No more apologizing,” Gideon said. “Lean on me and let’s get out of here.”
They struggled out of the cabin and surveyed the wreckage. No longer recognizable as an aircraft, the helicopter was teetering on the edge of a road ru
Gideon looked at Simpson, clearly sharing the same thought.
“We need to get to the airport,” Simpson said.
“Yeah. Except it’outÑ€†;s over there,” Gideon said, pointing across the unbroken strip of brown water, which fed out into the bay, and beyond it, the ocean.
“The good news is we didn’t fall into the canal, but the bad news is, we landed on the wrong side.” The armored SMDF vehicle was grinding toward them, from about half a mile away.
“How’s your swimming, sir?”
“Probably better than yours right now,” Gideon said.
“Then you need to get across. If the jihadis send reinforcements, I’ll hold them off till you make it over to the SMDF.” Simpson pulled forward the MP5, which was still strapped around him in a tactical sling.
“We’re both getting over there.”
“No, Mr. Davis, you need to go. Please.”
Gideon pointed toward the bay, which was only a few hundred yards away. “There’s a dock down there. We’ll take a boat across.”
“Our plan was to exfil you and your brother by boat and take you to a naval vessel. The boat’s still on standby.” Simpson pulled out a satellite phone and punched in a number. “I’m calling him so he can meet you there. I’ll follow in a bit.”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the wall in Langley that has a star for every agent who’s sacrificed his life serving this country—”
“Of course, Mr. Davis, but—”
“News flash, Simpson. Your star is not going up on that wall.”