At 2 a.m. the roads were empty. Sam flew along the road; the helicopter’s skids were no more than a foot off the ground.
Up ahead, the three-lane highway lit up with the powerful lights of an oncoming Mac truck.
Ben shouted, “Truck! Truck!”
Sam remained silent. His gaze fixed straight ahead, controlling the helicopter with infinitesimal precision movements as they raced toward certain death. Ben noticed with abject horror that the man’s face was still plastered with unshakable insouciance.
Did the man want to die?
Ben felt the thump of his heart pounding in his chest, as he realized the greater possibility that the man had mentally snapped.
Was he trying to kill them?
“For God’s sake!” Ben shouted. “The truck’s going to hit us!”
The truck jammed on its brakes, sending a bluish rubber filled smoke from its tires.
Ben’s eyes darted between the truck and the ornamental arbor of maple trees that enveloped the roadway.
Was there even enough room to ascend, or would the rotor blades hit the branches? Which way would Sam go? Ben gritted his teeth.
The maple trees disappeared as the road approached the Williamsport Bridge crossing the Potomac.
Sam threw the controls hard to the left. The helicopter banked along an invisible razorblade sharp bend as though it were on rails, going over the edge of the bridge, before dropping down sharply over the guardrails.
Ben felt his head snap round with the sudden, jarring movement.
An instant later, Sam brought the helicopter back to straight and level — no more than a foot off the river.
Behind them, the prolonged honk of the truck disappeared with the Doppler effect.
Sam turned his head to meet his eye. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
Ben expelled a deep breath and forced his clenched hands to open. “You want to tell me why you felt the need to nearly get us killed?”
Sam shrugged. “We’re still alive, aren’t we?”
“All the same, I’d like to know why you felt the need to try and kill us.”
“To confuse the professional guys and gals at Potomac TRACON.”
Ben stared at him, his face vacant. “What?”
Sam closed his eyes for a split second, his jaw set in a half-lipped smile, as though he was trying to decide where to start. “What do you think of when you think of air traffic control?”
“The little glass tower at the end of the runway.”
“Right. Most people do. Those people in the tower, they’re called tower controllers. They guide an aircraft from the terminal to the runway, and manage their take-offs and descent approaches up until about five miles from the airport.”
“Okay,” Ben said, impatient for him to get to the point. “So what?”
“So, the rest of the time, which happens to be the majority of it, the aircraft is tracked by a dedicated team of men and women from the Terminal Radar Approach Controllers. Although they don’t know it yet, we’re currently being tracked by TRACON at Potomac.”
“They don’t know they’re tracking us?”
Sam shook his head. “They know we’re here, but they don’t care. They’re more concerned with aircraft flying at high altitude. They’re not interested in a helicopter flying less than a hundred feet off the ground.”
“But they’re tracking us anyway?”
Sam dipped the helicopter, following the Potomac River due south, keeping the helicopter’s skids just above the water, like a pair of water skis.
He exhaled a deep breath of air, his eyes set on the horizon ahead. “Any minute now, those highway patrol officers are going to report the theft of the helicopter and TRACON will be tasked with the job of locating us. They’ll go through their data recordings to follow us from our very takeoff at Tripton Airport to our GPS location near Hagerstown.”
“So, there’s nothing we can do about it?”
The edges of Sam cheeks were lined with the evidence of a prominent grin. It imbued confidence, like a man used to winning. “Sure, there is. We just crossed the border.”
Ben let the words hang there for a moment in silence. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“The Williamsport Bridge is the edge of the Potomac TRACON’s region. After that the area blends with Cleveland, Ohio’s TRACON. But Cleveland’s TRACON haven’t been tasked to look for a helicopter.”
“Which means… what? They’ve lost us?”
Sam nodded. “At that point, I dropped our altitude low enough that neither TRACON could have followed our movements.”
Ben grinned. “Last they will see we’re flying south out of Hagerstown and now we’re racing along the Potomac.”
“That’s the idea.”
“How long will the ruse last?”
Sam said, “Both TRACONs will assume we were being watched by the other. When someone eventually tracks back, they’ll discover we disappeared off the radar and presumably crashed. Or landed.”
“How long will that last?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never tried to deceive our own dedicated men and women before.”
Despite the tension in the air, Sam wore a carefree grin and his piercing blue eyes were wide with pleasure as he raced along the surface of the river.
Ben stared at him through slightly raised eyebrows. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Sam shrugged without turning his head. “It’s okay. I didn’t set out to be taken hostage today, but hey, as far as abductors go, you seem like a pretty good guy.”
Ben laughed. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t set out to take any hostages today, but as far as prisoner’s go, you seem like a pretty decent guy yourself.”
Sam nodded, but remained silent.
Up ahead a large concrete bridge crossed the river. Sam increased their altitude, before banking right, and settling the JetRanger into straight and level just above the blacktop on I-81 south. Once there, Sam increased the speed, racing along the highway at 110 miles per hour.
Ben asked, “What are you doing?”
“Radar won’t follow us along the highway. Even if they could spot us, their computers would assume we’re a small truck, not a helicopter.”
“Obviously the people driving here are going to take notice.”
“Sure, they will, but that won’t matter. They’ll tune into their radios to see if there’s an accident up ahead or something, but it’s unlikely they’re going to call 911 over it. Eventually, someone will post it to their social media feeds, and the game’s up, but by then, hopefully we’ll be long gone.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Sam nodded. “Sure, why not?”
Ben curled his lips upward into a grin. “You’re crazy.”
Chapter Thirteen
The JetRanger raced south along I-81.
After the helicopter’s swift movements, it now felt almost stationary as it hovered above the highway at more than a hundred miles an hour. Even the best cars allowed some small bumps, sudden movements, into the cabin on the highway, but as the helicopter hovered, it was perfectly smooth.
Ben listened to the constant drone of the rotor blades above; his eyes followed the yellow broken lines that marked the edge of the road, as they appeared to blend into one constant unbroken line, with speed.
He closed his eyes. Resting, but not sleeping.
Drifting in and out of focus, in a transient state — not really awake — he opened his eyes and looked at Sam. The man’s jaw was set, his eyes focused, but he wore the casual indifference of a driver heading out on a vacation.
Ben said, “You mentioned before that you had a theory why the FBI thinks I’m a terrorist?”
Sam nodded. “I do, but they’re not really worried about you being a terrorist.”
“That’s great to know,” Ben said drily. “What do they think I am then, a Girl Scout?”