“It’s not supposed to stop that overgrown dragonfly,” Hickok stated. He looked at Geronimo. “Would you drive the buggy on over here, pard?”
“No problem.”
The gunman motioned at Marcus. “Give me a hand with these boards and the rest.”
Working rapidly under Hickok’s guidance, the two Warriors placed the metal stands six feet from the wall of gray drums, positioning the stands about ten feet apart. Then they aligned three cinder blocks in a row behind each of the stands, leaving a foot of space between each block.
Marcus studied the arrangement and snickered. “What in the world are you doing?”
“I’m not done yet,” Hickok said, and picked up the first board. He carefully set the end of the board on top of the left metal stand and positioned the full length over the cinder blocks, then set the board down.
He repeated the procedure on the right side.
Perplexed, Marcus scratched his head. They had fabricated a crude ramp with the high end near the makeshift wall of drums. He could see that much. But he still didn’t comprehend how the wall and the ramp would enable them to defeat the last helicopter. “Care to explain what you intend to do?”
“In a bit,” Hickok replied. He stood next to the metal drums and watched the SEAL approach at a crawl. Motioning with his arms, he directed Geronimo, insuring the transport’s tires were perfectly in line with the board.
Marcus glanced from the board to the SEAL and back again. His eyes widened and he looked at the gunman. “I get it! But those boards will never support the entire weight of the SEAL.”
“They only have to support the front end,” Hickok said, crossing his fingers. He beckoned Geronimo onward.
The van crept forward until the tires touched the lower edges of the boards.
Geronimo poked his head out of the SEAL. “How am I doing?”
“Just fine,” Hickok said. “Take it real slow and easy. I’ll let you know when to stop. And hurry. That chopper will return soon.” He riveted his gaze on the boards as the transport crawled onto the ramp. Please hold! he prayed. The boards creaked and sagged, but they didn’t break. He measured the progress mentally, scarcely breathing, anxious to dispose of the Russians so they could go to the aid of Blade.
One inch.
Two.
Four.
At five inches the boards sagged even more, but they still held.
Six.
Seven.
Nine.
Hickok gestured for Geronimo to stop, then walked around to the driver’s side. “Nice job.”
“As a certain friend of mine is so fond of saying, it was a piece of cake,” Geronimo said.
“Sit tight and wait for Marcus to give you the signal to fire the rocket.”
Geronimo stared at the wall of metal drums. “But those things are blocking my view. How can I fire the rocket if I can’t see the target?”
“You let me worry about that,” Hickok replied. “Just be ready.”
“What are you going to do?”
Hickok ignored the question and stepped to the drum wall. He looked at the SEAL, at the middle of the front grill where the secret compartment housing the rocket was located, then envisioned the trajectory the rocket would need. He removed two of the drums from the center and pulled them aside. Now the SEAL had a clear shot at the airspace just outside the warehouse. “Marcus.”
“Yeah?”
“Stand here and keep a watch. When the chopper gets within thirty feet of the front of this building, when you think the angle is right, signal Geronimo to fire.”
The gladiator came over. “I doubt the pilot will fly the helicopter so close.”
“You let me worry about that,” Hickok said, and stepped to the left of his improvised wall.
“What are you planning to do?” Marcus said, echoing Geronimo’s question.
Again the gunfighter ignored the query. “Be ready,” he ordered, and darted into the open, making for the middle of the highway. He looked back at the warehouse, assessing the trap. The drum wall effectively screened the SEAL from any casual scrutiny, although the grill was visible where he had removed the two drums. Now everything depended on him luring the whirlybird into position. The ramp had elevated the transport enough so the rocket would speed on a slight trajectory. Not much of a trajectory, granted, but it would have to do the job.
Now where the blazes were the Russians?
Hickok slowed and strolled to the faded yellow center line. He surveyed the horizon in every direction. If the pilot had flown to the east after the SEAL, then the helicopter should return shortly. He unslung the Henry and walked eastward, his nerves on edge, feeling exposed and terribly vulnerable. A rifle and a pair of revolvers were no match for the flying arsenal.
Several minutes elapsed.
The Warrior halted and gazed at the warehouse, deciding he’d gone far enough. All he could do was wait.
And wait.
Hickok began to wonder if the Russians had called it quits and flown toward their lines. Why else would they be taking so long? He sighed and stared to the south.
The helicopter came at him from the north.
One moment he was alone, the breeze on his cheeks, the sun warming his skin, and the next an aerial demon rushed out of the blue, zeroing in on him, its machine guns blazing.
To Hickok the sound of the machine guns resembled the din of thunder.
He inadvertently flinched and crouched, shielding his face with his arms as the highway was stitched to the right and the left by the powerful rounds, the shots missing him by inches. In the space of seconds the chopper was past him and flying to the south. He spun and raced for the warehouse, following the copter with his eyes, watching the pilot execute a wide loop and swing back toward the town.
Toward him.
He covered ten yards and saw the familiar puffs of smoke under the fuselage. His arms outflung, he dived for the ground. A volcano seemed to flare into life at the very spot he’d vacated, and he was pelted with bruising fragments of the road.
The helicopter arced overhead.
Hickok pushed himself up and ran for his life, his moccasins pounding hard on the asphalt, his heart pounding even harder, his ears ringing from the explosions.
This time the chopper swung to the west and banked, zooming at him once more, soaring over the warehouse. The pilot tilted the craft for a better view.
In desperation Hickok threw the Henry to his shoulder and banged off three shots, working the lever as fast as he could, aiming at the cockpit.
He must have struck it too, because the helicopter slanted to the south a few dozen feet, which wasn’t enough to interfere with the pilot’s aim.
The nose cannons boomed.
The Warrior flattened and hugged the roadway, his left cheek scraping on the rough surface, and he thought of his wife and son as an earthquake caused the earth around him to buck and heave. Dirt and dust cascaded upon him. He heard the copter fly to the east.
Go! Go! Go!
The word screamed over and over again in his mind as he rose and sprinted toward those inviting double doors, toward the makeshift wall, toward the friends he might never see again. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled and he imagined the Russian pilot closing the distance swiftly, the machine guns set to fire. He zigzagged, expecting bursts that never came. Confused, he glanced over his right shoulder and nearly tripped over his own feet.
A ten-ton arrow whizzed at him, the chopper almost skimming the highway. In clear sight in the cockpit, beaming maliciously, sat the enemy pilot. His intent was obvious.
Hickok stopped, stunned. The prick was going to ram him, to bowl him over and reduce him to so much crimson-soaked pulp! Enraged, he managed to squeeze off a single shot and dropped prone for a third time.
A vortex of wind pummeled his back, causing the fringe of his buckskins to flap wildly. He peered skyward and saw the underbelly of the craft streak by within two feet of his head. Every nut and bolt was visible. He could have sworn he heard mocking laughter. But that was impossible.