Girling brought the twin levers slowly forward until he felt it.
Ulm pointed. ‘Flick the left-hand ignition switch on.’
Girling’s finger hovered momentarily over the switch.
‘For Christ’s sake, Girling, you wanted action! Throw the switch.’
Girling pushed it forward.
‘Now the starter.’
There was a whirring sound from the roof as the left engine began to turn over.
‘Watch the RPM gauge.’
Back to the instrument panel. ‘Where is it?’
‘A little ways down and to the left of your finger.’
Girling found it.
‘Wait till that dial reads twelve per cent, then turn the fuel switch on. See it? It’s a toggle switch to the right of the others.’
The engine whine intensified. Lights all over the instrument panel were flashing.
For a second, Girling was dazzled. ‘Jesus.’
‘Don’t worry about the lights. I’ll take care of them.’ Ulm flinched as a wave of pain washed through him.
Girling’s gaze weaved a path through the lights back to the RPM gauge. ‘Eight… ten per cent,’ he called. His thumb felt the fuel toggle. ‘Twelve per cent.’
‘Give her fuel now and repeat the whole process again for the right-hand engine.’
Under Ulm’s orders, Girling threw switches and punched buttons. As he called the shots, Ulm inched his right hand down to the comms console and flicked through the frequencies, but the set was dead. Shabanov must have given orders for his men to pull all the circuit breakers in case the Pathfinders realized what was happening and began trying to warn each other.
‘Engine temperature’s coming up,’ Ulm said wearily. His head fell as drowsiness began to replace pain.
Girling roused him with a shake of the arm. Ulm winced as the pain returned.
‘Colonel, you’ve got to stay with me.’ It was then that Girling Fsaw the green flare through the window above his head. Someone was signalling them.
The American forced his eyes to focus on the instruments. ‘OK, we have ground-idle. Bring your left hand up to the overhead and prepare to release the rotor brake.’
Girling waited for Ulm’s command, then pushed the lever forward. There was a groan from the bowels of the helicopter. Girling watched one of the six main blades inch impossibly slowly past the cockpit window.
‘Advance the throttles to flight idle.’
Girling pushed the levers towards the next notch.
‘Slowly, Girling, slowly.’
The blades turned faster, making the cabin rock. Girling kept advancing the levers until they clicked into the second notch.
Ulm watched the revs, calling them out all the way. Within a minute, the rocking stopped. There was a resonant hum from the engine joined by the whoosh of the blades as they rotated above the cabin at one hundred per cent rpm.
‘On the centre console, between the seats, there’s a parking brake. Release it.’
Girling groped with his left hand. ‘Brake off.’
‘From now on, don’t think about what you’re doing, or you’ll bury us in that valley down there.’ He paused. ‘Here goes. Push the cyclic forward a fraction and keep your foot down on the right pedal. We need to be pointed away from those rocks.’
Girling inched the control column away from him and the helicopter trundled along the ground for no more than a few feet before coming to an abrupt halt.
‘Shit,’ Ulm said.
Girling could feel the helicopter’s wheels straining against the obstruction.
‘Pull up on the collective.’
Girling reached for the lever beside the seat with his left hand and lifted it towards him. It came up far too quickly. The helicopter tipped forward on its nose wheel, tail rising in the air. Girling froze as the horizon whipped away past the top of the windscreen and it seemed the Sikorsky would flip over onto its back.
Ulm fell forwards on the collective and the helicopter crashed back to the ground.
It took Girling vital seconds to heave the American off the pitch lever and back into his seat.
Ulm gritted his teeth. ‘Let’s try that again, only this time, go easy on the power.’
Girling pulled the collective towards him again and the helicopter lurched forward. He kept the cyclic column pushed fractionally away from the seat and the right rudder pedal full down until the nose of the MH-53J heaved round and away from the rocky outcrop. He held the position with a touch of brakes.
Dust and stones flew around the cockpit. It would have been impossible to make out the posse of soldiers advancing up the cliff path but for the flash of sunlight on an assault rifle. Girling saw it out of the corner of his eye just as there was a crack from the Perspex in front of him and a bullet slammed into the bulkhead behind his head.
‘No time for a dress-rehearsal,’ Ulm said. ‘Pull on the collective until she lifts off.’
Girling eased up the lever. He felt the helicopter getting light on its wheels.
‘Higher,’ Ulm said. ‘Pull it higher. And bring back the cyclic. Just a fraction.’
The Pave Low rose and teetered uncertainly six feet above the ground. Girling heard another bullet glance off some armour-plate somewhere below him.
‘Pull the cyclic into your fucking armpit, Girling, or we die. Here, now.’
Girling heaved the lever up, but the helicopter rose only another few feet and stayed there, floating from side to side like a leaf in the wind. Girling fought to hold the Sikorsky steady, but it seemed that every corrective touch on the cyclic made the helicopter veer more wildly.
Ulm checked the temperature and torque gauges. ‘No wonder. We’re at five thousand eight hundred feet. Power margins are way too low.’ He shouted over the vibration. ‘Only one thing for it, Girling. Fly it over the edge of the cliff. Let her drop and pick up air speed. Then haul back and pray.’
Girling felt the blood drain from his face.
‘Do it now, before they shoot us down,’ Ulm yelled.
Girling pressed the cyclic forward and the helicopter advanced at little more than walking pace towards the edge of the cliff. For a brief few seconds, the Perspex windscreen was filled with a view of the wadi below. It was like being poised at the highest point of a funfair switchback, in that instant before the carriage plunges to the bottom of the track. He could see the cell where he had been held, bodies littered across the open ground, wrecked gun emplacements and, finally, through the Perspex by his feet, the blazing roof and courtyard of the caravanserai.
‘Now!’ Ulm shouted. ‘Push the stick right forward.’
Girling advanced the cyclic as far as it would go and forty-five thousand pounds of helicopter tipped on its nose and plunged over the side of the cliff. Girling fell against his straps and the ground filled the windscreen.
The Pave Low dropped like a stone.
‘Don’t freeze up on me, you bastard!’ Ulm roared. ‘Pull back on the stick!’
Girling pulled for their lives.
Inside the cockpit, everything happened so slowly. Ulm jockeying the power levers, his own efforts on the cyclic, the altimeter winding down.
Outside, the ground zoomed towards them. Had it not been for his harness he would have fallen straight through the Perspex and on to the roof of the caravanserai. Fighting gravity, Girling raised his foot and pushed against the instrument coaming, while pulling on the cyclic with both hands.
The Sikorsky’s nose moved fractionally, then some more. Impossibly slowly, it began to come out of the dive.
Before he knew it, the helicopter was scudding a few feet over the battlefield. Too late, he heard Ulm’s warning and the outhouse leaped out of the smoke. Girling pulled and felt a sickening crash as the tail boom clipped the roof.
The sight of the Sikorsky advancing precariously towards the cliff top, teetering there and then diving almost vertically for the caravanserai, made Shabanov and the rest of his men freeze. Initially, the Russian thought the helicopter had taken a hit in the tail rotor. Then, when it tipped onto its nose he had a clear view into the flight deck and saw Ulm’s body, slumped and bloody in the left-hand seat.