He pushed his face against the window, so hard that his forehead began to hurt. Images of Tony Morgan flashed through his mind. Traces of survivor’s guilt began to creep through his veins all over again.
“Hold on,” Caplan whispered as he stared at the flames. “Just hold on.”
Chapter 17
Metal squealed loudly as the landing skids touched the ground. A harsh snapping noise filled the air.
“Shit,” Perkins shouted. “Just… shit!”
Corbotch looked over his shoulder. “What now?”
Perkins fiddled with the controls. The rotors slowed to a halt. “It’s fine, sir. I’m sure it’s fine.” He took a deep breath. “I just need to check something.”
“What… was… that?” Pearson’s voice, formerly solid as steel, wavered like thin leaves in a gust of wind.
Try as he might, Caplan couldn’t think of a single rational explanation for all that had happened. “When that Blare hit—”
“Blare?” Corbotch asked, interrupting him.
“You’ve got a better name?”
“No…”
“Good.” Caplan ran a hand through his hair. “When the Blare hit, the air changed. It got real hot, real thick. And I kept feeling these pricks, like someone was stabbing me with little icicles. Everything started to glow. And then…”
Pearson leaned forward. “Yeah?”
“I passed out.”
Pearson gaped at him. “You too?”
“You lost consciousness?”
“Sure as hell did.”
Caplan’s brow scrunched up in thought. “I saw my watch before and after it happened. I was out for a minute and fifty-two seconds.”
“Same here,” Perkins called out. “Last thing I recall, the dashboard clock read 1:27 p.m. When I opened my eyes, it was 1:29 p.m.”
“How about you?” Caplan asked Corbotch. “How long were you out?”
“I don’t know.” Corbotch checked his limbs for injuries. “But it could’ve been two minutes.”
“Did anyone else see that fire?” Perkins winced. “I mean the real one.”
“Hopefully, the others got out before the flames started.” Caplan stared into Perkins’ eyes and felt a sudden kinship with the man. Any enmity between them was — at least for the moment — gone, erased by their shared predicament. “Doesn’t this bird have a voice?”
“Sure does.” Perkins reached for the radio.
“Stop,” Corbotch said.
Pearson shot him an uncertain look. “Sir?”
“No radio.”
“Are you crazy?” Caplan’s eyes bulged. “The Blaze needs help.”
Corbotch stared into Caplan’s eyes. “What if the terrorists pick up the radio traffic? We’ll lose the element of surprise.”
“What surprise?”
Corbotch hesitated. Then he nodded at Perkins.
Turning around, Perkins reached for the radio. Quickly, he fiddled with some dials.
Static.
Frowning, he fiddled some more. But the radio just spat more static into the helicopter.
Caplan massaged his temples. “Does anyone have a phone?”
No one replied.
“Anyone?”
“No,” Corbotch said at last. “And you know why.”
Caplan cursed under his breath. Corbotch had insisted on leaving all electronic equipment, including phones, back in New York. It was a necessary precaution, he’d said, since even a single call could give away their presence in the Vallerio.
“Where’s my gear?” Caplan asked.
“I stowed it behind your seat,” Perkins said. “Next to the HA-78 antibiotics.”
Leaning over his seat, Caplan opened a small cargo bin. Then he took out his backpack and a small flexible cooler full of syringes and sealed vials. Carefully, he placed the cooler into his backpack.
Perkins looked out the front window. “As near as I can tell, we’re about seven miles from Hatcher, sir.”
Corbotch glanced at Caplan. “Got a compass in there?”
“Don’t need one.”
“Good, because time is short.” Exhaling, he checked his watch. “I need you and Julius to head to Hatcher. You’ll pass by that fire on the way. Hopefully, it’s burnt itself out by now. If you can, look for the Blaze. But don’t take long. I need you to secure entry into Hatcher and find a way to distribute those antibiotics to station personnel as soon as possible.”
Caplan frowned. If the Blaze had indeed crashed, then he and Pearson were on their own. “What about the terrorists?” he asked.
Corbotch looked at Pearson. “Think you can handle this?”
Pearson’s gaze tightened. Then he nodded and made a move toward the cabin door.
“Wait.” Caplan searched his pack. Pulled out a can of insect repellant. Closing his eyes, he aimed the nozzle at his body. One second later, the cool spray hit his exposed face and cheeks.
Caplan tossed the can to Perkins. Perkins doused his body and passed it on to Corbotch. Then he opened his door and climbed out of the chopper.
Corbotch and Pearson covered themselves liberally with the repellant. Then Caplan returned the can to his pack. Shouldering the heavy bag, he opened the cabin door. A breath of fresh forest air, stuffed with flies, wafted into his mouth. He nearly choked on it.
He jumped to the ground. The soil was muddy, a direct result of a recent storm. Wet grass, standing tall, reached his waist. The cabin light shone on it, causing the stalks to shine brighter than Christmas lights.
He trudged away from the helicopter, his shoes squelching in and out of the dark muck. His eyes searched the nearby trees for cameras, but saw nothing.
Holy shit, he thought. I think… yes, this is 48A.
He tensed up as horrible memories rushed through him. Then he shot a glance at Corbotch, who was still situated in the cabin. Did the old man know about Sector 48A and the electric fence surrounding it? Unfortunately, there was no way to be certain.
Looking around, he saw the chopper had landed in a small clearing, one ringed by towering trees. The trunks, thanks in part to the growing cloud cover, looked like dark columns. The spaces between them, pitch black, looked like long-forgotten corridors. His spine tingled. He’d forgotten how much the Vallerio reminded him of an ancient city, full of lost ruins and mystical, evil energy.
Soft curse words filled the air. Ignoring them, Caplan turned his attention to the north. He heard plenty of sounds — rustling branches and wet leaves, dripping water, buzzing flies — but nothing unsettling. No snarling, no frenzied movements.
He took a deep breath, forced himself to listen for other sounds. Fortunately, he heard no crackling flames, no distant cries for help. Peering hard, he looked for signs of the fire. But the Vallerio hid its secrets well.
More curse words rang out. Spinning around, Caplan spotted a section of bent grass near the chopper. “What’s wrong?” he called out.
“We hit a rock.” The grass rustled and Perkins’ head and shoulders appeared above the tall stalks. The man’s face, illuminated by the cabin light, appeared red. “I couldn’t see it in all this damn grass.”
“What’s the damage?” Corbotch asked as he climbed out of the cabin.
Perkins scowled. “A busted landing skid.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Hell yeah, it’s a problem.”
“We can still fly, right?”
Perkins’ head bobbed. “Sure, but we can’t take-off or land. At least not safely.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I think so. But it’ll take time.”
Caplan inhaled a long breath through his nostrils. He could scarcely believe how much had transpired in such a short time. The fake mugging. Learning about the terrorists, about HA-78. Flying to the Vallerio. The Blare. The Blaze crashing into the forest. Their helicopter landing safely, only to be rendered useless. No radio, no phones, no working communications. And now, Sector 48A.