Hunter heard bullets pinging against the hull. Only a dozen feet off the ground, the helicopter immediately yawed to the right, turning clockwise along with the rotors. None of the warning lights on the dashboard had gone off and he knew the bullets weren’t his problem-he was. He stomped the left pedal and the helicopter spun the other direction and didn’t seem to want to stop. His heart pounded as he hit the right pedal and it whirled again the other way. Saddam’s Presidential Palace blurred past him, then Stella’s trailer. A hundred feet off the ground, he danced on the pedals as he struggled to compensate for the gyrations while the helicopter spun around out of control.
Camille stopped firing, stood and watched as the helicopter twirled around like a Tilt-A-Whirl, all the while gaining altitude.
“That was a damn good shot.” Pete stood beside her and watched it spiral upwards.
“I don’t think so,” Camille said. “If I hit it, it would behave that way, but he wouldn’t be climbing. Without the tail rotor he should enter auto-rotation and take her down immediately. I think he’s just a really lousy helicopter pilot. That asshole better not crash my bird.”
Hunter was dizzy and his stomach felt like it had been left behind several rotations ago. He realized he was overloading the machine with inputs before it could even respond. His eyes closed and focused on finding balance. With each spin he forced himself to go easier on the pedals, overcompensating a little less as he slowly gained command.
As soon as Camille realized Hunter was getting the hang of it, she ran toward the helicopters on the ramp. “Get me a pilot, now!”
Hunter clutched the cyclic control so hard, his fingers were growing numb. The bend in the Tigris was in sight behind him, its deep green waters still a dark strip in the early morning light. He could see the famous cross sabers on Saddam’s old parade ground in front of him. More or less in control of the helicopter over Baghdad, Hunter had now executed his plan in full and didn’t know what the hell he was going to do next, other than get dressed. Flying in the nude was not what it was cracked up to be. His ass was sweaty and sticking to the NOMEX seat, but the rest of him was freezing to death. The troop doors in the back had been removed for combat and the cool air was whipping around. He pulled the shirt on, then managed to slither into the Dockers without sending the helo into a spin.
He checked the fuel indicator. There was enough to fly a little over four hours, depending on the winds, so he was in range of Iran, Saudi, Jordan, Syria, Kuwait and probably even Turkey, although the altitude would zap his fuel. All of the choices sucked. He couldn’t find any charts and the last thing he wanted was to run out of fuel in the desert, so he was limited to following the Tigris or the Euphrates. The port of Kuwait offered ships to anywhere in the world, but travel by sea took too much time and the place had too many Americans and too many bad memories. He pressed on the left pedal, shoved the cyclic forward and headed away from the rising sun into the desert. He would hit the Euphrates, hang a right and follow it north to Syria. With any luck, his old contacts in Damascus would still be alive.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Green Zone, Baghdad
The Rubicon security executive Larry Ashland had just dozed off when a phone call from the CIA case officer Joe Chronister woke him up with good news: Hunter Stone had been spotted in Baghdad. It wasn’t good news to Ashland, because it meant that he was still in danger of exposure. As long as the Force Zulu operator was alive, Ashland’s cover with Rubicon was at risk. Stone had recognized him from Afghanistan and also from the Iraqi insurgents’ safe house and the Zulu operator knew he was a spy. Judging from their middle-of-the-night encounter in the Rubicon offices at Camp Tornado Point, Stone didn’t seem to understand who Ashland was working for or what he was doing spying on Rubicon. But it didn’t matter. If the Zulu operator passed along the information about him, some analyst along the way might put the pieces together and blow his cover. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Stone had to die.
Seven hours later word came in that Stone had stolen a Black Management helicopter. Ashland immediately dialed the Rubicon Baghdad chief of operations, stepping into his pants while he waited for him to pick up.
“It’s Larry.” Ashland said into the secure phone as he zipped his fly. He gave the Rubicon ops chief a situation report. “I don’t care how much of a head start he’s got on you. Find some helicopters in the direction he’s headed, scramble them and neutralize him. I’m on my way.” He slammed down the phone, cursing his own stupidity. Ashland sensed that the blow-back was just getting started. All he’d wanted to do was keep Stone from tying him to that earlier operation in Afghanistan and blowing his cover. He should’ve taken Stone out himself instead of relying on his former assistant Kyle to do the cleanup work. At least his own tidying up with Kyle was a little more thorough.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Camp Raven, the Green Zone, Baghdad
Camille didn’t care why Beach Dog was peeling duct tape off his wrists as he hurried over to the Little Bird. All that mattered was that Pete found a pilot and he seemed to be sober. Beach Dog hopped into the aircraft, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white figurine of a cat with its paw in the air. He stuck it to a piece of Velcro that was already on the dashboard. Camille guessed it was some kind of talisman. In less than a minute, the blades were turning. Camille jumped into the copilot seat. Pete finished her phone call and started to climb in, but Camille stopped her. “I want you to find out everything you can about this Julia Lewis he was supposedly married to.”
Pete glared at Camille, irritated at having to stay behind.
“That’s an order,” Camille said, then turned to the pilot as she pulled out a Bose headset. “You understand the mission? I want my Black Hawk back in one piece and I want the pilot in as many pieces as possible.”
“Gotcha, ma’am,” Beach Dog said as the Little Bird rose into the air. “What do you want me to tell the big military?”
“He was heading toward the airport, so I’m guessing he’s flying until he hits the Euphrates, then he’ll use it to navigate visually to Syria. Tell the air traffic controllers we’re sightseeing today, heading to Camp Tornado Point via the Euphrates.”
The nose pitched up as they climbed out over Saddam’s old parade grounds, passing above the oversized crossed-swords monument.
“Ma’am,” Beach Dog said. “The Hawk’s maximum speed is about ten knots above ours. We’re not going to catch up with him.”
“Then let’s cut him off at the pass. He’s following the river and it’s not the most direct route. Take us direct to Fallujah. Contact the ground radar and see if they’re carrying his track.”
“You bet.”
“And turn off our transponder. I want to sneak up on him.”
Camille stared down at the Baghdad slums, remembering Hunter’s touch, his eyes, his smell-and her joy. The cityscape beneath them turned into desert and Camille could feel its harsh emptiness.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Anbar Province
About thirty-five minutes into the flight, Hunter decided that helicopters were pretty cool machines after all. His hand had finally released its death grip on the cyclic and he was playing around a little, zigzagging along with the river, cautiously improving his skills. Sunglasses, tunes and a mug of strong coffee would’ve made the ride a lot more fun. He started humming to himself, “Born in the USA.”
Daybreak at five thousand feet was beautiful, even near Fallujah, but since Anbar was a very active area of operation, he decided he’d better go low and fly below radar. He pushed the cyclic forward to tilt his nose and pushed down on the collective to decrease power. The bird did exactly what he wanted, descending to two hundred feet. Toys like this were reason alone to make up with Stella.