“I could use them right now. I need a lift home for me and a friend.”
“A friend?” Batman felt the beginning of a smile start across his face. If Stony meant what he thought he meant, then that was the only piece of decent news Batman had heard in the last couple of days.
“Yeah. Pilot by the name of Lobo needs a lift, too.”
Hot damn! Lobo was alive. “Hold on, Stony. Where are you?”
As Tombstone started filling him in, Batman began issuing his own set of orders. A few moments later, the commander of the SEAL team, Lieutenant Commander Brandon Sykes, was standing tall in front of him. “Hold on, Tombstone. I’m going to put you on the speakerphone.”
After listening for a few moments, the SEAL officer started nodding. “Yes, sir. No problem with that. Easy to do. See you in about an hour.”
After Batman punched the telephone off, he turned back to the SEAL officer. “I assume you know what the weather’s like. It’s not going to be pretty.”
The SEAL officer regarded him with the grim smile. “It never is, sir. I figure we go in, extract our two people, then do some damage to McIntyre’s facility. Getting back’s going to be the problem — we may have to find somewhere to lay low until this blows over.”
Batman nodded. “I can find a helo to get you in, but it’s going to be risky.”
“You get us anywhere near the coast, and we’ll make it.”
Tombstone replaced the receiver, never taking his eyes off McIntyre. “You mind serving as my hostage for about an hour, Uncle Philip? No, I don’t think you do. After all, we’re like family, aren’t we?”
“Tombstone, as I told you, I never meant to — ”
Tombstone crossed the room in three strides. “Never meant what, Uncle Philip?” He grabbed McIntyre by the hair and yanked him up. “Come on. I’ve got to collect the rest of my team, and you’re going to make sure that everything goes smoothly.”
“Like you said, we’re family.” McIntyre’s voice was finally taking on an edge of fear. “For the sake of your father, your uncle — Tombstone, don’t do this. There’s a place for you in my organization. Have you ever wanted to be rich? Rich beyond your wildest dreams? I can make that happen, Stony. You know I can.”
Tombstone’s grip on McIntyre’s hair tightened. “I’m already richer than you’ll ever be, Uncle Philip. My wife, my friends, my career — there’s nothing you can offer me.”
“I could give you command of your own private squadron,” McIntyre said persuasively. “Think of it, Stony. What future have you got left in the Navy now? A series of desk jobs, that’s all. Join me, and you’ll command the most advanced fighting aircraft in the world. And fly every day if you want. I’ll even get that Pitts shipped over here if you want.”
Tombstone pulled him close and locked his forearm across McIntyre’s windpipe. He squeezed until he felt the men start to sag against him. “I’ve already got my own squadron, asshole. It’s called the United States Navy.”
Sykes fought his way across the flight deck to the CH-46 helicopter waiting there. While he had managed to sound fairly confident in Admiral Wayne’s office, he was now beginning to realize the true insanity of his plan.
Take off in this weather? What was I thinking? There’s no way, not a chance in hell.
“Sir? If you’ll get your men on board, we’ll get going.” Sykes stared in awe at the cool, confident pilot who turned around to look at him.
“You really think you can do this?” Sikes asked, choking slightly as the wind drove rain down his throat.
The pilot shrugged. “Only one way to find out, isn’t there? Now if you and the rest of the gentleman will strap in, we’ll find out.”
Ten minutes later, Sykes, along with most of his crew, was puking violently. They were airborne — at least he thought they were. They weren’t in the water at least. But it would be hard to characterized the wildy gyrating motion of the helicopter as controlled flight.
“Sir? You see anything that looks familiar?” The pilot’s voice came over the ICS. “Because according to the GPS, we’re there.”
Sykes unstrapped, dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled forward to the cockpit. Bracing himself between the two seats, he rose unsteadily to his feet. “There,” he managed to say, before another wave of nausea swept over him. “That clearing spot.”
The pilot nodded agreement. “That’s what I thought. Strap back in, sir. This might be a little rough.”
Rough. Just before he threw up again, Sykes wondered how the helo pilot would have characterized the last ten minutes.
Batman watched as the helicopter pitched violently, then let the wind sweep it away from the flight deck. Up foward, Tomcats and Hornets were already turning, but the normal noise and vibration associated with flight ops was completely indistinguishable from the sound and fury of the storm.
“I hope to God that pilot knows what he’s doing,” Batman muttered to himself. “Hang on, Stony. We’re coming for you.”
The walls around the compound blocked the wind only slightly. The helo smacked down onto ground so hard it felt like a fixed wing aircraft trapping on the deck of the carrier. The SEALs were thrown violently forward against their restraining harnesses. The wind caught the tail of the helicopter and spun it in a circle.
Before the last motion dampened out, Sykes was up and moving, his men crowding up behind him. They were green, stumbling slightly, but as they’d all learned during BUDS training, the mind could overcome almost any perceived physical limitation. The last time he remembered feeling like this was during hell week.
“Come on,” Sykes said, pleased to note that his voice sounded almost steady. “We’ve got a job to do.”
Sykes led the charge into the mansion, as his men fanned out to secure his ingress route. As soon as they saw him, Tombstone and a female pilot with ragged shorn hair stepped out to meet them.
“Good to see you,” the admiral said, his voice flat. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
Sykes whispered into his microphone, recalling the rest of his men. Within seconds, they had formed up again.
“Admiral? I’m not sure we can make it back to the carrier,” Sykes said. “This place is relatively defensible — maybe we should hole up and wait for the weather to pass.”
The admiral fixed him with a steely glare. “You got in — we can get out.” He took the other officer by the elbow, his grip surprisingly light. “What about it, Lobo?”
The other pilot was shivering violently. “Let me talk to that helo jockey. If he won’t fly us out of here, I will.”
They ran back out to the helo, fighting the wind and the rain, and Sykes was almost glad to be back inside the metal fuselage. At least it was dry. “The admiral would like to return to the carrier,” he said formally.
The pilot nodded. “Why not? Can’t be any worse than the ride in, now, can it?”
Five minutes later, Sykes knew the pilot had lied. The noise from the explosion that destroyed the McIntyre compound was lost in the storm.
“Yep, this is it,” Dr. George said. “Welcome to the eye of the storm.”
Batman stared in awe through the starboard windows. The ship was still very unsteady under his feet, plunging and twisting through seas that rose as high as the flight deck on all sides; but the seas were noticeably less regular and aligned than they had been before. Their shape and direction was now chaotic and aimless, so that in some places several seas converged into a single mountainous one; while in another location they canceled one another out, creating a smooth flat area that soon heaved up again.