Two miles from where the land met the sea, the Israeli renegades banked north to meet up with the jet fighters, skirting the outer reach of Saudi Arabia’s coastal defenses. There was no chance the lumbering Super Stallion could outrun the Blackhawk, but they certainly were trying. It took only three more minutes for the American helicopter to take up a position above the Israeli’s huge rotor.
“You’d better have a damn good idea,” the copilot shouted. “Radar has those jets down our throats in four minutes.”
Mercer worked furiously. “When I shout, break left as hard as you can, then land this pig. Fast. Those jets may take a shot even after I destroy the Stallion.” He keyed his mike to speak to Yosef. “Listen up, you son of a bitch, and listen good.”
“Ah, the good doctor is back,” Yosef replied mockingly. “I thought you’d already left us.”
“I’ve always preferred roulette, but I know enough about poker to know that when your bluff gets called, the game’s over.”
Yosef’s voice was strained and his reply took just a fraction too long. “And you think I’m bluffing? Remember, it’s not your life you are gambling with but that of your friend, Harry White.”
“Asshole, I know you’re bluffing.” Mercer estimated how long it would take a two-pound object to fall from the door of his helicopter and land on top of the other. Gauging as best he could, he cut ten seconds’ worth of fuse from the coil in his kit bag and seated it into his last stick of dynamite. “And in about a minute you’re going to pay the highest stakes of all.”
“Bravado, Dr. Mercer,” Yosef replied. “In one minute, if I’m not given free passage, two F-16s are going to blow you from the sky. I may die, yes, but so will Harry White. Your revenge may be gratifying, but it will also be short-lived.”
“You should have known when to fold ’em, partner,” Mercer drawled. It took a few tries to light the fuse in the air whipping around the cabin, but once it was burning evenly, he shouted, “Now!”
The Blackhawk pilot had anticipated Mercer by a crucial half second, and when he released the explosive, he realized it would miss the upperworks of the Israeli helicopter. While an explosion near the hull of the Sikorsky would be damaging, it was doubtful it would cripple the huge cargo chopper.
Mercer’s mouth opened for a scream of frustration even as the Blackhawk twisted and fell from the sky so fast that he became momentarily weightless. Yet his gaze never left the Israeli helo or the little package tumbling torward it.
A helicopter’s rotor produces lift by creating a pocket of high pressure below the blades and low pressure above. For a chopper the size of the CH-53, tons of air rush into the vortex around the rotor, centering the craft like the eye of a hurricane. Into this maelstrom fell the dynamite. The little bomb would have fallen harmlessly past a conventional aircraft, but when it felt the relentless draw of the turbine-powered blades, it changed direction in midair. The millisecond before the packet was shredded by the rotor, the fuse touched the chemical explosives.
The helicopter vanished behind an expanding blossom of fire, and when it finally reemerged, the six rotor blades and the top third of the aircraft were gone. The Super Stallion was dead in the air, only its forward momentum carrying it in a flagging parabola. Mercer didn’t blink until it slammed into the cobalt-blue sea, fire from its ruptured tanks washing away on the waves spawned by the impact. In a second it was gone.
“Get us to the Arabian coast and under their radar umbrella,” Mercer shouted to the pilot, but the veteran was way ahead of him. The chopper settled into a flight path scant feet above the sea, the engines torqued for maximum speed.
“Those jets are breaking off and returning north,” the copilot yelled a minute later.
Mercer was too tired to care, but he gave a weak cheer for the crew’s benefit. “Let’s get back to the mine. We’re not done yet.”
It took forty minutes, and on the inbound flight they heard radio chatter from other Blackhawks ferrying the injured to the amphibious assault ship.
Habte was the first to greet Mercer on the ground, shaking his hand solemnly, then enfolding him in a brotherly hug that would add another day or two to the recovery time for Mercer’s broken ribs.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again.” Habte tried to keep the emotion out of his voice but failed.
“Came damn close.”
Selome was next to reach the little group huddled near the Blackhawk. She too hugged Mercer, much more gently, but her kiss was consuming — as if she was trying to fit every possible emotion into that one gesture. Mercer’s response was no less enthusiastic.
“I’m fine, don’t worry.” She preempted his question.
“The Marines have already freed the miners, and they’ve been sent with the worst of the injured to their base ship.”
Mercer was still on an adrenaline high. Everything felt otherworldly. An hour ago he had been fighting for his life, and now he was holding hands with a beautiful woman, surrounded by grimy but satisfied soldiers. It would take a long time for everything to soak in, the horror and the pain, but for just a few minutes he felt like he was invincible, and the thought made him grin.
“That’s great, but I was about to ask if you are ready for that vacation yet?”
A Marine approached, extending his hand to Mercer. Behind him, two guards held Giancarlo Gianelli and Joppi Hofmyer. The smile vanished from Mercer’s face, his gray eyes going deadly flat.
“Captain James Saunders, USMC,” the redheaded Marine introduced. “It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Mercer.”
“Honor’s mine, Captain.” Mercer grasped the outstretched hand. “On behalf of all of us, thank you.”
“Just doing our job, sir,” the Marine demurred. “I thought you might want to see these two characters before I shipped them out of here. The FBI already has agents in Asmara to escort them to Europe, where they’re going to stand trial.”
“I’ve seen enough ugliness in the past weeks to want to pass up this last opportunity. Thanks anyway.”
“Fair enough.” Saunders gestured for the guards to take the two to a waiting helicopter, but when they were just a couple of steps away, Mercer reconsidered. “One second, Captain.”
Both captives were filthy and looked ravaged by their attempt to flee the battle, yet both were also uninjured. Mercer addressed Hofmyer first. “I’ve already kicked your ass once, so I’m not even going to bother with you.” Then he directed his hatred at Gianelli. The Italian yelped when Mercer’s murderous eyes fell on him.
“You, on the other hand, well, this I’m going to enjoy.” Mercer cocked his fist, centering Gianelli’s face perfectly, but he stayed his hand. “Screw it. You’re not worth the effort.”
Gianelli sagged with relief and stared goggle-eyed when Mercer turned away.
“Like hell you’re not.” Mercer twisted back and slammed Gianelli, the punch rolling the industrialist’s eyes into his skull and laying him flat in the dirt. “Thank you, Captain Saunders. I think I needed that.”
Selome ducked under one of Mercer’s arms and Habte braced up the other, so he walked between the two of them, using them for support. Then he straightened, the old fire returning, his face lit with a devilish thought. “What do you say we go find Gianelli’s safe and see what all this fuss has been about?”
Masada, Israel
In a land where nearly every building and hillock and cave has significance, few sites are as awe-inspiring or sacred as King Herod’s fortress at Masada. It sits atop a diamond-shaped mountain, commanding a view unlike any other in the world. The Dead Sea — earth’s deepest spot — lies in its shadow, over a thousand feet below sea level, the salty haze reflecting off the lifeless waters making it impossible to distinguish the Jordanian coast just seven miles away.