John held on to the end of the streamer and tossed the weighted head out the side window. Another shot fired from below hit the wing just a few feet from his face. He let the end of the now extended message streamer go and saw it flutter down to land by the edge of the woods.
“Okay, Billy, get us the hell out of here!”
John suppressed a yelp of fear as Billy stood the plane on its starboard wing and pivoted sharply, dropping the nose and then leveling out and skimming low over the trees, turning back toward Craggy Gap. One of the helicopters was again beside them, the pilot looking toward them, pointing at them, then to the southwest, back toward Asheville.
John shook his head in reply, pointing due south. There was a tense moment, the gunner looking at them again, chin turret swiveled. John kept pointing south. The helicopter sped up a bit and then swung in front of them, Billy cursing loudly, swerving to the west as they were hit by the turbulence it kicked up. For several minutes, it was a game of cat and mouse, the helicopter repeatedly trying to force them to follow its lead.
“Okay, Billy, act like we’re going along!” John shouted. “We’re too low yet to climb over the mountain anyhow.”
“Thank God you finally got some sense, John,” Billy replied as he turned on a heading toward Asheville, pointing straight ahead to the watching gunner, who nodded a reply and repeated the gesture that they were to follow him back. The two helicopters backed off slightly to a hundred yards out, the three aircraft beginning to climb to clear Bull Gap, which was half the altitude of Mount Mitchell and an easy enough ascent for the L-3. The turbulence picked up severely as they cleared over the south side of the mountain and began to descend into the Swannanoa Valley. John could see home eight miles or so to the east, Asheville looming up straight ahead.
As they reached the eastern end of town, one of the choppers edged back alongside the L-3, the pilot pointing toward the parking lot of the long-abandoned and burned-out mall. Their operational base was apparently set up there; both of the Black Hawks were on the ground there. Parked nearby were half a dozen trucks and an equal number of Humvees. A couple of military fuel bladders, each capable of holding a thousand gallons, were deployed out, the Black Hawks apparently being loaded up again.
One of the helicopters edged in closer, the pilot motioning down to the parking lot. Billy vehemently shook his head. “That guy’s an idiot if he thinks I’ll put this girl in there. I might be able to land, but there’s not enough room to take off again.”
Billy pointed to I-240, motioning again and again, circling the road at five hundred feet until the helicopter pilot finally relented and nodded in agreement.
“Billy, you know what to do. If we land there, this plane, all your hard work, belongs to them forever after. Act like you’re setting up to land. How good are you at tree hopping?”
“Used to love it, but then again, no one was shooting at me for real.”
“Your call. You’re the pilot in command.”
“Well, damn glad you finally realize that, John. Make sure you’re buckled in tight and hang on. You still feel like puking?”
John chuckled. “Been there, done that. Then I was so terrified back there I forgot about puking again.”
“Just don’t mess the plane up now.”
Billy turned the plane where Interstate 40 merged with 240 and started to drop as if setting up to land. Just as he passed the abandoned Walmart to his right, he shouted for John to hang on. He slammed up to full throttle, pushed the nose forward, and dived, skimming over the store’s parking lot and going under a power line, a move that left John speechless.
“Always wanted to do that—no FAA now to take away my license!” Billy laughed.
It was eight air miles back to Black Mountain, but it turned into nearly fifteen as they played cat and mouse with one of the Apaches that took off in pursuit after them. The helicopter was just as maneuverable as they were with the added advantage that it could come to a complete stop and hover if necessary. It was up to Billy to outnerve that Apache’s pilot, and John wondered if the pilot of the helicopter pursuing them was just being an annoying bastard or if maybe he was actually having a bit of fun with this game of who could outfly whom.
By the time they reached Swannanoa proper, John knew that it was turning into something more than just a game. The Apache pilot was getting increasingly aggressive, with Billy pushing the edge of sane piloting in response. He started to line up to go underneath a highway overpass, John finally asserting himself and shouting for Billy to break it off.
Skimming only half a dozen feet above Interstate 40 for the last few miles, the helicopter circled wide and came across their front, the pilot half saluting them, but Billy returned the gesture with finger extended as he instantly pulled full back on the joystick and clawed for altitude, the plane shaking violently from the rotor downwash that would have slammed them into the pavement if he had not reacted.
“I think that bastard was trying to crash us at the end!” Billy shouted.
John did not reply. With the tension of the last hour at an end, he finally relaxed enough to reopen the barf bag and let go for a second time. There was a crosswind as they came in to touch down, Billy tensing up as much as when dodging the helicopters, landing with portside wing down low and rudder in the opposite direction, the plane coming down a bit hard and then rolling out. A couple of cars were parked on the westbound side of the highway, one of them Ed’s much-battered patrol car, the other Maury’s Jeep.
They rolled to a stop while still on the highway, Billy popping the door, staggering out, and walking around the plane to look at the bullet hole in the wing and the one through the cab farther aft, which had shattered the overhead window. Then, like John, he just leaned over and vomited. “Damned if I ever fly you again, John,” he gasped.
Leaping the highway crash barriers, Ed, Danny, and Maury approached the two, all three shouting questions as Ed grabbed hold of John, who was definitely shaking from the experience. He well understood now a conversation shared long ago with a general who had been a veteran, first wave in on Omaha Beach, and from there led his battalion all the way to the Elbe in 1945. He had once asked his elderly friend what was the most frightening moment of the war, and the general laughed, saying he was trained for Omaha and too busy on the beach that day trying to bring order out of chaos to be scared, but the time he had gone up with his recon pilot, the experience had scared him half to death. Though frightened by the game of chicken with the helicopter pilots, John was now furious, as well.
Ed was still holding him by the arm. After all the noise, shouting, and confusion, it was hard to sort out what the police chief was saying, and then he caught it. “Fredericks wants to see you now, John.”
John nodded. “You’re damn straight he does, and I want to see him now!”
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the parking area in front of the courthouse, John having quickly briefed Ed on what he had seen and what happened afterward.
They got out of the car and headed for the courthouse entrance. The same sergeant who had hassled John on an earlier visit was out front and came toward him as if waiting to strike. John slowed and glared at him coldly. “Son, either you get the hell out of my way or you’re going to quickly find out if that gun of yours is for show or not.”