The co-pilot spied the incoming RPG and shouted a warning. The warrant officer at the controls immediately banked the helicopter. It was a blind throw. If the projectile was aimed accurately then the maneuver would likely save them, but there was an equal chance that by moving, he was putting the aircraft directly in the path of what would otherwise have been a near miss.
While the hapless youth’s inexperience with the weapon had cost him dearly, his marksmanship was intuitive. Had the Black Hawk remained at station, the grenade would have entered the open hatch and detonated inside the armored craft, killing everyone inside and probably dozens more on the ground. The flight officer’s desperate move saved countless lives. The grenade missed the body of the helicopter by scant inches, but the yawing maneuver left the rotor blades completely vulnerable. The white plume of exhaust shot by the fuselage and up into the circle described by the airfoil-shaped vanes. A loud clank filled the cockpit as one of the rotor blades struck the grenade.
Miraculously, the detonator tip of the grenade failed to make contact. The edge of the rotor struck the rocket body scant millimeters from the high-explosive payload, shattering the fuze mechanism and rendering the device impotent. As the broken pieces fell back to earth, the crew of the Black Hawk exchanged incredulous glances. Then the pilot put some more air between them and the ground.
Kismet was unaware of the helicopter’s brush with disaster, but there was no mistaking the sound of its retreat. A grimace crossed his lips as he threaded into an alley, then crossed a through street and continued on in a straight line. He had lost sight of his reference point — the skyscraper — but he had not deviated from his course.
The commercial area gave way to another open field, through which cut Dimashq Street, part of the route leading from the airport into city. Kismet charged headlong toward the lanes without checking for oncoming vehicles.
He made furtive glance to his rear. At least a score of men continued to dog his heels, and behind them perhaps a hundred more spilling from the city blocks. He couldn’t fathom why the Black Hawk crew had not chosen to set down in the open area he had just crossed. He could not imagine a better LZ. But stopping and waiting for them to arrive was not an option.
There was a shriek of rubber on macadam and a strident horn blast as oncoming vehicles, unaware of his life and death crisis, vented their irritation as they swerved past. The mob swarmed over the barrier a moment later.
Beyond the highway lay a stand of trees — some kind of urban park — through which he dared only navigate the straightest possible course. The terrain was irregular, demanding greater exertions and more attention to every step. He stumbled mechanically through the forested area, beyond exhaustion now, beyond awareness of the pain and fatigue. His flight from the mosque had taken him across nearly three kilometers of the city. Nearly fifteen minutes of non-stop effort, while blood seeped from dozens of scrapes, lacerations and contusions; and the desert sun stripped away vital moisture, leaving him dehydrated and feverish.
He had no doubt that, one way or another, it would all be over soon.
His gaze then fell on something that, for the moment at least, defied comprehension. The first thought to cross his mind was that a spaceship was taking off from a low hill a few hundred meters away. From his perspective, the smooth shape looked like an upside down spoon lifting into the sky. Spurred on by an irrational curiosity, he almost forgot about the bloodthirsty mob at his heels as he raced toward the reddish object.
He quickly saw that the curved structure was not floating free above the ground. Rather it was supported at one end by a massive column, from which the rest of the dome cantilevered at a slight angle, giving the illusion of flight. As he drew closer, he recognized it was yet another of the gaudy monuments built by the former government, and while its purpose eluded him, it now became a critical point of focus for a very different reason: the Black Hawk had returned, and was hovering near the copper-colored dome.
Like spider’s silk, a rope dropped from the underside of the helicopter and a human shape slid down onto the upraised surface where he took to one knee and readied his weapon. Kismet couldn’t tell what the man was doing, but a moment later a projectile shot over his head and fell into the midst of the swarm. A cloud of white vapor erupted from the grenade — non-lethal CS gas — which left dozens among the crowd gasping and choking, and stalled the main body of the mob. The head of the monster however — more than two dozen men who had managed to match Kismet’s pace — were already well out of the affected area.
There was an obscene noise from the helicopter, and a simultaneous eruption of stone chips in a line to Kismet’s left. A soldier aboard the Black Hawk had fired a burst from the side-mounted mini-gun. The motorized system of rotating barrels threw an astonishing number of rounds down-range, chewing through a target like a chainsaw — sounding like one too — but the gunner was still trying to minimize civilian casualties, and at some unconscious level, the crowd knew this. The pursuers simply fell into line behind Kismet without breaking stride.
The soldier on the dome now raised the butt of his carbine to his shoulder and commenced firing. Kismet could not hear the M4’s report but there was an audible cry of pain behind him. The agonized cursing continued, suggesting that the shot had wounded rather than killed. In fact, the 5.56 mm round had done nothing more than graze the man’s shin, but it was enough to take him out of the chase. More similarly well-placed shots followed, but the threat of pain was only stoking the fire of rage among the mob, some of whom were also armed with automatic weapons. Sparks began to dance on the surface of the dome as one AK-47 after another was emptied at the lone soldier. The man stood his ground. Most of the wildly aimed shots missed the monument completely and those that hit were nowhere close to his position. Nevertheless, his comrades aboard the helicopter began directing their weapons at the muzzle flashes in the crowd and this time they did not hold back.
As Kismet closed to within a hundred meters of the monument, another soldier fast-roped onto the dome surface and directed the heavy line down toward the base of the structure. The helo moved in low over the center of the broad dome, until it was hovering about ten meters from its summit. The additional slack in the rope allowed the soldier to rappel down to the bottom of the arching pedestal, where he began urging Kismet onward. His right hand however maintained a fierce grip on the lifeline.
Kismet hurdle-jumped a short wall, landing in what appeared to be the basin for a fountain — the water supply had been shut off at the onset of the war — and continued up a series of long concrete steps. The final distance was the hardest, requiring him to climb and zigzag a course of ramparts and stairs leading up to the monument. At one turn, he found himself staring out over the oncoming horde, while a glance to his left revealed that a dozen men were now only a few steps behind. Failing to find any reserves of energy in his body, he wrote a mental IOU and sprinted ahead.
A dark vise closed on his skull as a ringing nose deafened him to the sounds of battle. He could just make out the soldier, beckoning frantically only a few steps away, and before the curtain fell over his eyes, he threw out his left hand.
He wasn’t aware of the moment where the soldier’s grip closed around his wrist, nor did he feel the rope go taut as the Black Hawk ascended a few meters, drawing both men up the steep incline toward the top of the dome. The next cognizant moment found him laying supine on the crest of the curved structure, spread out like a sacrifice.