The chopper was now directly over the bow of the ship and, with the wind pushing it, was closing in on the smokestack at a murderous speed. There was no more time for caution. He had to make a jump for the handle, which meant he had to get his feet on the skid.
At that point, he’d essentially have nothing to hang on to. He could lean a little into the side of the chopper, but was mostly relying on his balance. This was like urban surfing, only it was at a difficulty level even a reckless suburban Washington, D.C., kid had never attempted.
Gripping the skid with both hands, Storm placed his feet behind him somehow, then underneath him, before standing fully. He braced himself against the helicopter’s fuselage, for what little help that was. If Ingrid had chosen that moment to roll right, Storm would have plunged to his death on the deck below.
But, with her aim set on the smokestack, she flew straight. She was now mere yards away from it.
At the last possible second, Storm jumped for the handle. He felt its rounded metal and closed both hands around it, using it to hoist himself off the skid just as Ingrid rammed it into the smokestack.
The air was filled by the shrieking of metal hitting metal, then of the skid being ripped away. The helicopter spun crazily, rotating 480 degrees and nearly losing control. Storm was now hanging on by the door handle alone.
And the handle was no longer stationary. The door to the chopper had swung open. Storm’s head, outstretched arms, and shoulders were slammed against the side of the helicopter. Storm reacted the only way he could: by gripping tighter as he absorbed the impact, like a wide receiver who is about to be mashed by an onrushing strong safety but somehow hangs on to the ball.
Ingrid was again gaining altitude. The door started swinging closed. Storm shook off the effects of what was likely a minor concussion, and unhooked his right hand from the door handle. He used it to grab whatever he could on the inside of the helicopter before the door slammed shut.
His hand hit what felt like netting of some kind. Storm grasped it. His right arm was now keeping the door open. He stayed like that for a few seconds — half in the helicopter, half outside it — until, to his horror, the door started coming off its hinge. The joint was not designed to hold the weight of a fully grown man, swinging around on it like a jungle orangutan.
As the screws popped out one by one, Storm lunged desperately into the bay of the helicopter. He gripped the leg of a passenger seat against the back wall of the chopper and placed his legs inside as well.
The door was still swinging back and forth, banging around until it sheared off for good. Storm did not bother to watch it fall into the sea below. He was panting hard, grateful for the solid floor of the helicopter.
He did not stay there long. He had just gotten to his hands and knees when Ingrid, having set the chopper on hover and activated the autopilot, emerged from pilot’s chair.
She had an ugly sneer on her face. In her left hand was a dagger. It had a blade ten inches long that was curved and cruel and lethal.
CONVENTIONAL FIGHTING WISDOM says it is actually quite difficult to kill someone with a knife. It requires the ability to overpower one’s opponent, and even then it’s hard work. Stabbing victims will often have dozens of knife wounds, and what kills them is not any one of them — it’s the blood loss.
Then again, conventional fighting wisdom didn’t have to face an enraged Swedish woman of Amazonian proportions in a hurricane-tossed helicopter.
Ingrid did not hesitate to begin her attack. She slashed at Storm’s head, missing only because Storm rolled out of the way at the last nanosecond.
He hopped to his feet and immediately assumed a crouch, both hands out in front of him. Ingrid was no idiot. Yes, the knife gave her an edge — as it were — but Storm had advantages in size, strength, and speed. She had to stay out of his grasp.
Storm feinted to his right, seeing if Ingrid would go after him in that direction and get herself off balance; but she didn’t go for the fake. He lunged for the knife, but she stepped back, then countered by stabbing toward his belly. Storm narrowly dodged it.
She brought the dagger high and chopped downward. Storm tried to step back but ran into the far side of the helicopter. He brought his arms up to shield himself. Ingrid’s knife opened a gash in his right forearm. She slashed again. Another wound, this time near his elbow.
Storm planted his left leg and kicked with his right, catching Ingrid in the solar plexus and propelling her backward into the other side of the narrow chopper, the side closest to the door. From that distance, about ten feet, they considered each other for a brief moment.
“Jones and I had a deal,” Ingrid said through ragged breath.
“I’m sure you did,” Storm said. “It doesn’t apply to me.”
“You’re a fool. Don’t you see that by trying to stop me you’re standing in the way of history? Nations and the lines they scrawl across the globe are going by the wayside. The governments of the world are impediments to a better way of life for all humanity.”
“Why don’t you let humanity decide that for itself?”
“Because most people are too stupid to know what’s good for them,” she snarled. “They need a real leader who can show them the way. I’m that leader.”
“You’re deranged.”
“What? You think your American president is really someone who can make the planet a better place the way I can? You think your vice president or your secretary of state can do it? I was thinking about it when I ordered Air Force One to be shot down, how very un-tragic that crash would be. A plane full of the world’s most powerful leaders, and yet there wasn’t one person who could really make progress happen the way I can. It’s just a shame that turned out to be a fake. You Americans would have eventually seen I was doing you a big favor.”
“Don’t you see the fallacy of your approach? Revolutions don’t happen because one person believes something. That’s how you get despots. Revolutions happen because thousands and millions of people come to believe something. You can’t force your version of the future on people.”
“You just don’t get it,” she said. “Your vision is clouded.”
“No, it’s actually working perfectly. And where I see you heading next is jail.”
“That will never happen,” she said, before following her assertion by charging at Storm, who deftly eluded her.
The result was nothing more than a switching of sides. From behind him, he could feel the rush of air from the opening where the cargo door had once been.
He crouched again, ready for Ingrid’s next charge, which came quickly. But this time, Storm held his ground. As she closed in on him, he grabbed the blade of the knife with his left hand, roaring as it sliced his palm. But the pain had a gain: he managed to grab her left wrist with his right hand.
From there, it was just a question of using her momentum against her. Like a seasoned bullfighter, he shuffled his body to the side at the last possible second.
Suddenly, there was nothing separating Ingrid from the outside of the helicopter but moist tropical air. She hurtled into the space behind Storm and began the sickening drop into the sea hundreds of feet below.
All that saved her was that Storm had not relinquished his grip on her wrist. As she fell, he dropped to his belly, spreading his legs out wide to give him some purchase on the floor of the chopper and not get carried out the door himself.
For a few seconds, Ingrid just dangled high above the waves, her legs kicking pointlessly. The skid on that side of the helicopter had been shorn off by the earlier collision with the ship’s smokestack. There was nothing for her feet to find. She soon stopped struggling and hung there, with Storm keeping a tight grasp on her.
She still had the knife in her right hand. The way Storm was gripping her, the interior of his right wrist was fully exposed. The ulnar and radial arteries on his wrists — the one suicidal people will try to sever — bulged.