The Line

CHAPTER 19

Pain from the left leg was the first thing Trace felt. It was a dull, deep throbbing midway up her thigh. She said a brief prayer of thanks for the feeling because it let her know she was still alive. She blinked, clearing her eyes. It was dark out, and there was no sound, not even the usual noises of the forest. The interior of the cockpit was deathly quiet, and she could barely make out the shapes of objects inside and nothing outside.

Trace forced herself to keep still as she did an internal inventory of her body, gently flexing various muscles, working top to bottom. She almost fainted from the explosion of agony when she got to her left leg and attempted to flex her quadracep. Broken at the very least. She looked down, but it was too dark to tell. She knew something was across the top of the legs, as she could feel a straight pressure across both.

Other than the leg, though, she felt reasonably OK, considering the state the helicopter was in. A few bruises and bumps, but nothing major. She reached out with her right hand and flicked on the overhead cabin light. At least there was still some juice in the battery.

In the dim glow of the overhead she tried to see what her situation was. Still in the pilot’s seat on the right side, Trace’s body hung in the harness. But it wasn’t just the harness that held her in place.

The control panel had buckled and the metal edge above where the various gauges had once been was now pressed down against her legs. A red seepage on both legs showed where the metal had cut into flesh.

The helicopter lay against the side of the mountain, a pile of torn and shattered metal and Plexiglas. The main rotor had twisted on impact and sliced through the rear half of the bird, separating the tail boom from the main cabin.

Trace knew if it had come down in the opposite direction it would have bisected the cabin up front and her body in the process. The steel support cable that had hooked under the right skid had snapped and now lay coiled underneath the aircraft, pointing back toward the still-standing power lines.

The left windshield had shattered upon impact with a boulder on the ground, spraying the inside of the cockpit with shards of clear plastic, flecks of which had cut Trace’s hands and face. The gaping hole also allowed in the chill night air and the hint of moisture.

Trace again tried moving and a low moan escaped her lips — no way she was using her left leg. She grabbed the edge of the control panel with both hands and pressed. It ignored her attempt. She tried again.

Nothing.

She checked her legs as best as she could. The bleeding appeared to have stopped, for which she was thankful; the specter of bleeding to death was all too real under these circumstances.

Trace then reached up and switched the radio frequency to the emergency band. She pushed the send trigger on the collective but there was no rewarding hiss of broken static indicating she was transmitting. She tried again. Silence.

Trace switched frequencies. Still nothing. After five minutes, she finally gave up. The impact must have broken the radio. At the very least she knew the condition of the helicopter meant the antenna had been sliced when the tail boom was cut off.

She cast her mind about, searching for a way out of her situation, but the options were not just limited, they were nonexistent. She would have to wait and hope.

“What now, recondo?” Trace asked herself out loud.

These very hills on the military reservation were where she had earned her “Recondo” badge her second summer at West Point. Billed as a mini-Ranger school, the eight-daylong Recondo training was designed to introduce “yearlings’ ‘ to the basics of patrolling but, more fundamentally, was designed to introduce cadets to the military practice of being forced to perform difficult mental and physical tasks while under the influence of stress, and sleep and food deprivation.

“Good training” Boomer would call it, and Trace knew he was right.

Combat was one of the highest stressors a human could go through and it was almost always under the worst possible conditions.

Despite her predicament. Trace had to grimly smile as a freezing rain began to fall outside. It seemed things were getting even worse.

Trace leaned back in the pilot’s seat, as comfortable as she could be with immobile legs. She forced her mind away from her pain and discomfort and traveled back. She remembered Camp Buckner and the time her patrol of twenty-six cadets had charged a small hill defended by a squad of 82nd Airborne soldiers. They’d run screaming at the top of their lungs up the grass-covered slope to be met by a barrage of smoke’ and CS grenades. Hacking and coughing from the tear gas, they’d turned and run back downhill as swiftly as they had advanced. All except one classmate. Trace’s bunkmate, Linda Greenberg, who’d simply frozen, standing still among the stinging gas.

Since the powers-that-be had not thought to issue the cadets gas masks — and the 82tei was not supposed to be using the gas — the cadets could only stand at the bottom of the hill and watch as Linda gagged and vomited all over herself, until finally the gas dissipated. At which point, not to Trace’s surprise — she’d already seen enough in her first year at West Point — her male classmates had gathered around Linda and ridiculed her for embarrassing them in front of the enlisted men of the 82nd squad who were laughing from on top the hill at the spectacle of the female cadet covered in puke. They were especially thrilled when it was discovered that Linda had also lost control of her bladder under the effects of the tear gas.

Trace had taken Linda away from the jeers of their classmates and cleaned her up as best as she could in a nearby stream, giving her the extra set of fatigues from her rucksack to wear. A week later, just after the formal graduation from Recondo training where the cloth patches denoting successful completion of the training were given out by the cadre from the 10th Special Forces Group, the cadets of Trace’s company had held their own ceremony where they gave out their own awards. Linda was issued a pair of rubber panties and a vomit bag.

Trace was given a Recondo patch made of moleskin — the medic’s tool to treat blisters — a reflection on the six runs she’d missed with foot problems during the summer training.

It was sexist and it was brutal and most certainly “politically insensitive” in modern jargon, but as Trace sat there pinned in the pilot’s seat, she also knew it was reality.

The Academy had not been designed to prepare cadets to enter the normal world. It had been designed to prepare them to lead in combat and that in itself was the most brutal of all man’s endeavors, despite such trappings as glory and honor. That cadets could be so nasty to those who failed to live up to their own standards was not surprising.

A moan escaped Trace’s lips. Her leg was throbbing again, even stronger than before. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Trace suddenly remembered the plastic case. She twisted her head and looked between the seats where she had jammed it on takeoff. It was still there.

That was all that mattered right now. Trace reached for the case, but the pain that jolted out of her right leg was enough to blanket her mntitin darkness.

Trace hacked and coughed her way awake. Her chest felt terrible and she had a pounding headache. She blearily opened her eyes and quickly closed them. In the pale gray daylight, her current predicament was all too real. She could see the rock wall just in front of the cockpit and the tangle of metal.

She opened her eyes again and looked down at her legs.

There was a dull throbbing pain coming from her left leg and although it was much less than it had been last night she knew if she didn’t get help soon, that the situation was going to be very serious. She tried the radio again, on that faint optimism people in grim situations have that something might have changed for the better. It hadn’t.

She glanced around, inventorying everything within reach. The survival vest with its knife. The plastic box. The crushed instrument panel.

The overhead controls.

Very carefully. Trace reached down with her left hand and picked up the box. She drew the knife from the survival vest hooked to the right wall behind her and slit the layers of duct tape around the seam. It took her a while and she was glad to have something to keep her mind off her situation although it took an inordinate amount of attention for her to do this simple task. With the tape gone, she found that a small clasp kept the two sides closed. She unfastened it and opened the box.

Inside, an object wrapped in black plastic awaited her gaze. She drew out the object and slowly began peeling away the inside layers of protection. Whoever had hidden this had certainly wanted to make sure that it was protected from moisture. With her fingernails. Trace tore open the last thin sheaf of plastic’ and touched leather. She completely uncovered the object, and a leather-bound diary rested in her hands. On the cover, embossed in gold, were the initials: BRH.

With grimy fingers. Trace flipped open the cover. There was an inscription in large, flowing script on the inside:

“Hooker, you asshole,” Trace muttered. The effort it had taken to open up the case had exhausted her. She put the diary back inside and slumped back against the seat.

After a few minutes she passed into an uneasy slumber.

Trace started awake. For a few brief seconds her mind consoled her with the illusion that she was someplace else.

Then she saw the crumpled cockpit surrounding her and felt the throb of pain from her legs and she returned to reality.

She knew she was close to hypothermia. The lower half of her body was in especially bad shape. Besides the broken leg, she was damp, having been forced to urinate where she sat.

Trace wrapped her arms tighter around herself and tried to keep her teeth from chattering so loudly. This time of year the training area was deserted and Trace knew the odds of someone stumbling across her location were slim. Looking at the grim side of the equation, she also knew that if no one came before nightfall, she didn’t think she could make it through another night.

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.

“This is Four. Go ahead. Over.”

“We’ve got you in sight. There’s a small knoll off to your right. The crash site is on the other side of that knoll. Over.”

“Roger.” The van pulled to a halt and the two men got out. They circled to the left of the knoll. As they crested the shoulder of it, they could see the wreckage about 200 meters ahead on the bottom side of the high ground there.

They dipped down as they continued and immediately struck swamp. They cursed as cold, mucky water seeped into their jungle boots and they had to beat their way through the thick, dead vegetation. The outlet for Bull Pond ran this way and meandered a bit, causing the swamp they were negotiating.

Back at the intersection of Bull Pond and Proctoria Road, the El Camino cruised to a halt. Harry could hear the helicopter ahead. He edged off under the thick cover of some pine trees and parked the car. He checked his map one last time, folded it and tucked it into the cargo pocket of his camouflage fatigue pants. Harry slipped on a combat vest bristling with killing tools and picked up the MP5. Keeping off the road, he began making his way to the west at a slow Jog.

He hit the swamp closer to Bull Pond than the two officers.

There the vegetation was thicker, but he had less trouble with it, slipping through the growth, rather than fighting it, years of hard-earned combat experience in a distant jungle coming back easily.

“Shit,” the captain in the lead muttered as he splashed through the creek in the center of the swamp and started up the other side. He drew his 9mm Beretta Model 92 and chambered a round, his partner doing likewise.

Overhead, Isaac’s concentration was focused on keeping his present position. Major Quincy was following the two officer’s progress through the swamp and relaying that information back to Building 600.

“What a fucking mess,” were the first words Trace heard. She watched the two men in fatigues come up out of the swamp, their boots layered in mud and their exposed skin covered with red scratches.

She didn’t say anything, her attention focused on the pistols in their hands, the rank on their collar and the large rings glittering on each man’s left hand. She felt her small reservoir of energy empty; the hope of rescue that had kept her going for over thirty hours snuffed out.

“Well, looks like you’ve got yourself in a pretty mess here,” the lead officer said as he leaned into the hole in the front windshield. The nametag on his uniform identified him as Karien. The second officer joined him — his nametag said Marks — and the two stared at her like she was an animal in the zoo.

“Hurt bad?” Karien asked with a grin.

Trace tried to speak, but her mouth was bone dry. She worked around a little saliva and tried again.

“My legs are pinned,” she rasped.

“Hmm, too bad,” Karien said. He looked around, taking in the attitude of the crashed helicopter and the wreckage.

“Seems like she should have at least broken her neck on impact, don’t you think?” he said to Marks.

“At the very least. Maybe some internal damage also,” Marks said as he clambered in the left cargo door and removed an emergency ax from its mooring on the left rear firewall. He climbed over the co-pilot’s seat and squatted down next to Trace.

“What did you take from the cemetery?”

“What are you talking about?” Trace said.

“What did you take from the cemetery?” Marks repeated.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Trace said.

“I was doing a test flight and hit those wires and crashed.

I’ve been trapped here and—”

“You stole this helicopter from Target Hill Field after digging up something at Custer’s grave,” Marks said.

“What did you dig up?”

“I don’t know—” Trace finished the sentence with a scream as Marks slammed the blunt end of the ax into her ribcage. She tried to control her breathing with short gasps, as each breath caused the broken ribs to discharge mini explosions of pain.

“What did you take from the cemetery?” Marks continued, the ax poised.

“I didn’t take anything,” Trace gasped.

Marks pulled back the ax for another blow. The left side of his head disintegrated as two 9mm rounds ripped through it, and his body was flung into the back cargo compartment.

Karlen whirled, bringing his pistol up to bear.. He was still searching for a target as a line of 9mm subsonic rounds stitched a tight and neat pattern from his lower right stomach and up across his chest. The impact of the bullets slammed him against the Plexiglas in front of Trace, his blood forming a grotesque pattern as he slid down to ground, a look of surprise still on his face.

Trace watched, still trying to breath shallowly, as a large figure materialized out of the edge of the swamp like a ghost, his black skin glistening from the sweat of his efforts running here, after hearing the scream.

“You all right, missy?”

“Harry,” Trace whispered.

Harry came up, letting the MP5 hang on its sling. He took the ax out of Mark’s dead hand.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

Overhead Major Quincy was still stunned at the rapid death of his two comrades. Isaac turned the helicopter, putting some distance between themselves and the large black madman with the submachine gun.

Quincy finally reacted, keying the mike.

“Gray Six, this is Five. Over.”

“This is Six. Go ahead. Over.”

“They’re dead. Gray Four is dead. There’s some man down there, working in the wreckage. She’s still alive.

Over.”

There was a long pause.

“Keep them in sight. I’ll get help to you ASAP. Out.”

Harry ignored the helicopter. It was an unarmed OH-58, and there was no place close around to land. They could fly around up there all day and beat their meat as far as he was concerned. He figured he had about thirty minutes before they got someone new out here on the ground and whoever it was wouldn’t be as cocky as these two assholes had been.

He levered the ax handle between the edge of the seat just to the left of Trace’s leg and the panel. Leaning back he strained, watching the wood carefully, hoping the metal would move before the wood broke. With a slight noise, the panel moved a quarter of an inch. He heard Trace suck in her breath.

“Sorry, miss, but it’s going to hurt getting this off you.”

“Shit,” Trace said.

“Only hurts when I laugh.”

Harry smiled. Biceps bulging, he exerted pressure and now the panel moved back, until a good four inches of space appeared above her legs.

Harry did a quick primary medical survey of Trace, making sure that he wouldn’t do any permanent or fatal damage by moving her.

“We need the diary,” Trace said when he was done. She pointed out its hiding place and Harry tucked it into the back of his pants.

Tenderly, he scooped her up in his arms. Trying to be as smooth as possible her carried her out of the helicopter and headed back for his car, the helicopter buzzing overhead like an annoying mosquito.

Harry’s internal clock was working, judging reaction times versus road distances. It was going to be close.

“Can you take a bit more pain?” he asked.

“Do whatever it takes,” Trace replied.

Harry carefully shifted her to an over-the-shoulder carry, then he began to jog. Despite his best efforts, every footfall was agony to Trace, jarring the broken bones in her leg and ribcage. She squeezed her eyes closed and went into the suspended time mode she had learned as a plebe at West Point — you were somewhere you didn’t want to be, doing something you didn’t want to do, but sihce you had no choice, you learned to zone out from reality. Trace tried as best she could but she’d never experienced pain like this and was very grateful when Harry halted at the car and lowered her into the passenger seat. She wanted to lean over to ease the pain in her ribs, but Harry insisted on buckling the shoulder belt on her. He got in and briefly consulted the map.

“Gray Six, this is Four. Subjects are in a black El Camino open-bed wagon. Over.”

“Stay with them. Four. Let me know which way they go. Out.”

Spitting gravel, the tires of the El Camino spun onto the road. Harry turned the hood west along Proctoria Road.

Trace watched the scenario and realized they were following the route used for the Recondo Run — a two and half mile run in full gear with rucksack that occurred at the end of Recondo training, the last hurdle to getting the Recondo patch. Trace remembered finishing the run with blood oozing through the socks inside her boots, barely able to stand for the entire following week, but she’d finished it. She knew now some of the reason for such brutal training-because there would be times when you would have to ask your body to do things it normally did not want to do and the more you stressed-it, the more you found out you could do so much more than you ever thought possible.

Harry stayed with Proctoria Road, passing the turnoff for OP Charlie and splitting the gap between the ridgelines.

Central Valley was spread out below them with the New York Thruway bisecting it a mile and a half away. The ground dropped off, losing 500 feet of altitude down to the valley floor.

The helicopter was above, having an easy time tracking them. Harry roared past the open field next to Lake Frederic whej-e Plebes camped out every year at the end of Beast Barracks and exited the military reservation onto Mineral Springs Road. He spun a right and drove through the small township of Woodbury, the helicopter gaining altitude but still following.

Clearing the built-up area. Harry floored it, knowing he couldn’t beat the aircraft but hoping to put distance between himself and whatever ground elements the aircraft was directing.

He knew there would be no local law enforcement officials. This was a private war.

He cut over to the road next to the thruway, following it for several miles. First chance he got, he crossed over a bridge to the north side of the thruway. The entire western horizon was filled up with the bulk of Schunemunk Mountain, an eight-mile ridge that crested out over 1,700 feet high. The Erie Lackawanna Railroad curved around the north side of the ridge, and Harry followed the hardtop pavement that did the same loop.

“They’re going north.” Major Quincy was rumbling with the pilot chart — the only map they had.

“Toward Washington ville. Over.”

“What road? Over.”

“Shit,” Quincy muttered. It wasn’t marked on the map.

“Around to the north of this big mountain,” he replied, knowing that answer was insufficient.

“Stay with them. I’ve got a unit leaving post right now.”

The radio went silent.

“They’ll never catch them,” Isaac said to his partner.

“They’re too far behind — post is about twenty to thirty minutes back.

We’ve only got another hour’s worth of fuel, and it’s going to be dark soon.”

“Then we need to stop them,” Quincy decided.

“First open area they hit, try to get down and block the road.”

Isaac glanced at his partner to see if he was serious.

“That guy has got an automatic weapon, and he’s willing to use it.”

Quincy drew an M-16 from the backseat of the helicopter and pulled back the charging handle.

“Then I guess I’d better shoot first.”

Harry slammed on the brakes, expertly spun the steering wheel, and they were heading southeast, with the bulk of Schunemunk Mountain now off to the left.

“Where are we going?” Trace asked.

“We’re trying to lose this helicopter,” Harry replied.

“Then we get going somewhere.”

The roads had all been lined with trees, but now they suddenly burst out into an open stretch, about 800 meters long, and the helicopter swooped in. A man leaned out’ the left side, M-16 in hand.

Harry slammed on the brakes, then just as quickly punched the accelerator, causing Trace to yelp from the sudden pain of being slammed first against the seat belt, then back against the seat.

“Sorry, missy,” Harry said as they shot underneath the helicopter, the skids barely five feet over the roof of the car, the pilot reacting too late. They were back in the shelter of the trees.

“Get down, right above those fuckers,” Quincy ordered.

“I’ll stop them.” He leaned out the left door, hooking his arm through the seat belt to steady himself as he tried to get aim on the car.

Isaac brought the helicopter down as low as he could, concentrating on the trees whirring up toward them and by below.

Quincy fired a three-round burst. It was impossible to see where the bullets had gone, but he knew for sure that he had missed.

“Lower!” he ordered.

Trace looked out ahead, then twisted her head. The man was leaning out, looking like he was firing at them. She looked ahead again.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

Harry grinned, seeing what she saw.

Isaac never saw it until it was too late. He was concentrating on the immediate danger of the trees just below.

“Jesus!” Isaac screamed. He hesitated for the briefest of seconds, not sure whether to try to go over or if he could make it between two of the massive steel girder supports of the New York City Aqueduct which loomed across the valley floor, blocking the entire way up over 200 feet.

It really didn’t matter that he froze. He could have never made it over and there wasn’t room to pass between. The blades struck first, a fraction of a second before the nose of the helicopter impacted with a steel girder.

From a forward speed of over seventy miles an hour to zero, the helicopter compressed into the unyielding steel girder, the shattered pieces flying about, littering the valley floor for hundreds of feet.

“Now we go,” Harry said, not bothering to stop to admire the wreckage.

“Where?” Trace asked, no longer capable of being surprised by anything.

He drove hard.

“Colonel Rison’s place, missy.”

After putting a dozen miles between them and the crash site, he pulled over. Pulling a military-issue first aid kit from behind his seat, he quickly bandaged Trace up as best he could.

“The ribs will have to heal on their own. Try not to laugh too much, eh, missy?”

“I’ll try,” Trace said..

“We got a long ride. Let me give you a shot for the pain.”

Trace was in no mood to object.

Harry smoothly slid the needle in and pushed the plunger.

“This will help you sleep.”

Trace was too tired to ask again and too tired to be irritated at the lack of a clear answer as to the destination.

She could already feel the effects of whatever was in the needle. She leaned her head back against the headrest and was unconscious within seconds.

In the superintendent’s office back at the Academy, Hooker put down the now-silent radio. He sat still for a few moments, then looked up at his aide.

“You take charge here. Try to track them down. I need to go to Hawaii immediately.”