Even though it was only three in the afternoon according to the clock on the dashboard, the sun was already low in the western sky. The temperature was also dropping in preparation for nightfall. Trace coughed, trying to clear her throat, but it was no use. The chill had settled into her lungs and the coughing only made it worse.
There was no feeling in her left leg now, and that worried Trace more than the pain she had felt the past twenty-four hours. Whatever was happening in her lower limbs was bad. She was parched but didn’t feel hungry. She leaned her head back against the hard metal of the seat and wished for unconsciousness, but even that desire worried her because she was concerned about waking up in the middle of the coming night. She just wanted it to pass, so that she would be able to wake and see the sun come up the next morning, but the logical, trained part of her mind told her she might not see the next morning.
Trace frowned through the negative thoughts swirling in her mind.
Something was different. She froze, turning her head from side to side and peering about, listening carefully.
Trace cocked her head. There was no doubt about it now, as the sound grew stronger. A helicopter was heading this way.
In the cockpit of the OH-58 observation helicopter Captain Isaac had the controls while Major Quincy was scanning the terrain below with binoculars. They’d waited all night, checking in with local airports and the state police, waiting for a report of the stolen helicopter, but nothing had come in.
“She could have gone anywhere,” Isaac said, keeping Route 293 directly below.
“She had to land somewhere,” Quincy said.
“You can’t hide the helicopter on the ground.”
Isaac shook his head.
“We’re looking for a needle in a haystack. She could have gone anywhere,” he repeated.
Quincy pulled away from the rubber eyepiece.
“You want to tell the general that?”
“No, sir.”
“Then fly.”
Trace reached into the shoulder pocket of the survival vest and pulled out the small pen flare that was standard equipment. She leaned over as far as she could, gritting her teeth as pain exploded anew in her left leg, and pointed the end of the flare up and out the hole in the windshield. She popped it and watched it arc up through the trees.
“There!” Quincy yelled over the intercom.
“To the right. See it?”
Isaac looked in the indicated direction and caught the tail end of the small flare as it went back down among the trees.
“I got it.” He banked hard right.
Quincy pressed the send button for the radio.
“Gray Six, this is Gray Four. Over.”
Inside Building 600—the Academy Administration Building — the radio call was picked up by a hastily rigged antenna on the roof of the 160-foot tower — the tallest all-stone-masonry building in the world. On the floor just below the roof. General Hooker grabbed the handset.
“This is Gray Six. Go ahead. Over.”
“We’ve spotted a flare. Going to investigate. Vicinity south end of Bull Pond. Over.”
“Roger,” Hooker responded.
“I’ll have a ground unit en route. Out.” He put down the handset and turned to two young captains dressed in fatigues and wearing 9mm pistols on their hips. They had flown up with him from Alexandria.
“You heard. Get going.”
“Yes, sir.”
At the MP station. Sergeant Taylor smiled as the radio went dead.
Stupid sons of a bitches were using the frequency listed as reserved for the superintendent in the West Point CEOI — communications electronics operating instructions.
Taylor had been asked to monitor both that frequency and the phone lines, and it sounded like he had hit paydirt. He grabbed the phone and dialed the number of a local motel he’d been given.
“Harry! Things are moving.”
Major Quincy looked down through the Plexiglas pedals at the wreckage below.
“Surprised she’s still alive,” he commented.
“How are they going to account for the chopper?” Isaac asked as he held the OH-58 in a hover.
Quincy laughed.
“Shit, captain, you haven’t seen anything yet. I remember back in’ eighty-eight we took out a Blackhawk full of Rangers just to get rid of the 1st Ranger battalion commander because he was making waves. One fucking Huey isn’t going to be missed.”
Captain Isaac’s knuckles were white on the controls as he maintained a hover. Eight years ago when he’d been approached by The Line it had seemed a golden career opportunity. Now though, after seeing it in action, he was starting to question his decision. Unfortunately, it was too late for questioning. He was in.
“You might as well call Gray Six and tell them there’s no rush. She must be trapped in the cockpit.”
Isaac could see part of an arm moving about inside the wreckage. She was damn lucky to be alive, he thought as he took in the entire scene and the steel cable from the power lines. A pilot himself, he could well imagine what had happened: she’d been flying the lake surface, pinned down below the clouds when she hit the lines, always a pilot’s nightmare.
“Maybe she’ll die of natural causes,” Quincy joked as he keyed the mike.
Trace peered up. An Army OH-58 was hovering about 100 feet up. They’d obviously seen her. She assumed they were radioing for help.
“Thank God,” she said out loud, leaning back in the pilot’s seat to wait.
She thought of Boomer. First thing she would do when they got her to a hospital was call him. Her head snapped forward. How the hell did she know those people in the helicopter above were friendly? Boomer would tell her to assume they weren’t.
Trace gathered up the diary. She opened it and randomly tore out some pages, stuffing them inside her jacket, pushing them through a hole she tore in the bottom of the inside pocket, then smoothing them out, hidden inside the liner.
Then she began to look for a place within arm’s reach to hide the book.
The white military van with the two captains rolled out Washington Gate and turned left onto 293.
A battered El Camino turned right out of the Mountain View Motel on Route 9W and headed north. Harry Franks checked the topographic map of the West Point Military Reservation laid out on the passenger seat. The map was held in place by the weight of a 9mm Heckler & Koch MP5SD5 submachine gun with silencer. His finger traced the route he needed to take. In three miles 9W intersected with 93. Turn left there and head west.
“Gray Four, this is Gray Five. Over.”
Quincy keyed the mike.
“This is Four. Go ahead. Over.”
“We’re passing Camp Natural Bridge. Over.”
“Take a right onto Bull Pond road. You should be able to see us when you get up near the pond. Over.”
“Roger. Out.”
The helicopter was still up there, which left no doubt in Trace’s mind that she had been spotted. Nothing to do now but wait. She’d jammed the diary up underneath the pilot’s seat. Although she wasn’t sure that was the greatest idea in the world, it was all she could think of.
The white van climbed up the steep incline as Bull Pond road went up the side of Blackcap Mountain. It hit a split-to the right to Bull Hill and the fire tower to the left the sign indicated Proctoria Road.
Both captains had spent summers out here in training when they were cadets and knew where to go. They turned left, looping around the south end of Bull Pond. They could now see the helicopter above.
“Gray Four, this is Five. Over.”
The captain in the passenger seat answered.