Hover (36 page)

Lego is about to protest.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Jonas says, wagging a finger. “You
will
do this, unless of course…” and he points to Animal, who has now rolled over onto his back, blood seeping through his flight suit.

Jonas eyes Lego carefully.

“I already see the wheels turning, Mr. Legossi,” Jonas says. “Not only will you fix it, but you will fix it
right,
because you and the pretty lieutenant here are going to fly us out. So fix it as if your own life and the lieutenant's depend on it. Because they do.”

Lego switches his gaze to me and we share a long look. He's silently asking me for approval to finish the repair.

“Why do you need this aircraft?” I ask.

“We need transport to complete our mission,” he says proudly.

“What mission? What are you doing?”

“Ensuring my retirement, love. Some mighty powerful people would like to see the demise of a certain former U.S. president, and they've paid handsomely to ensure it happens. They know we can get it done.”

“What? The assassination … it's … it's you?”

He smiles wickedly, but the sick grin quickly disappears.

“Well, no, love, originally it was not me.” He waves his hands at the men loading crates. “It was our Iraqi friends here. But the Aussie intel analysts are rather pesky and discovered their plan.”

“But why are you—”

“I suppose you could call me a hired hand, which is unfortunate, really. Someone coming to a job like this with my qualifications should carry a far more elegant moniker.”

This can't be happening. This can't—

Stop it, Sara! Think!

But I don't know what to do—

Well, keep him talking until you figure something out!

“But who … hired you?” I stutter.

“Ultimately, the Iraqis, and for a handsome sum, I might add.”

“Ultimately…?”

“Ah, you would be interested to know this,” he says. “You have a high-ranking U.S. intelligence officer under the employ of the Iraqis. We go back a long way, he and I, so when he needed someone to disrupt this joint Australian-U.S. intervention and ensure the boats made it to harbor, he contacted me. Brilliant choice, wouldn't you say, mates?” he says, looking up to Collin and Bartholomew, who meet his gaze only momentarily before returning their focus to Lego and Messy.

I, too, glance at my aircrewmen, guns pointed at the backs of their heads, and my legs quaver, weakened when I think of Lego's kids and their artwork tacked around his bunk. And Messy's wife, Leah, and their baby, due just after we return.

You're responsible for them, Sara.

But I still don't know what to do—

Keep stalling! He likes to talk. He's arrogant. Use it!

“You said you needed our aircraft to complete the mission. Why would you need it if the plan was to take the ship to port?” I ask.

“A recent development, that. The Kuwaitis went and closed their ports and secured their borders. The airspace is restricted, too—that is, unless you're a U.S. Navy helicopter,” he says, clearly proud of himself. “I came up with the solution—entering the country with our men, weapons, and equipment via this aircraft right here,” he says, slapping the bulkhead.

“What about your squad? The other men on your team?” I say.

“Uh … tied up at the moment,” Jonas says with an altogether unmirthful laugh. “Easy when you have a rookie crew, selected by myself, of course.”

So it's just Jonas, Collin, and Bartholomew. I wonder fleetingly if he meant exactly what he just said—that he's tied up his teammates and left them somewhere on the ship.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Ah, that you don't need to know, because you won't be with us at that point.”

“What do you mean?”

“We just need you to fly long enough to know that the engine has been repaired properly and then, how shall I say this? Well, you're expendable at that point. So the four of you will be going for a swim.”

I look up to Lego and Messy and our eyes share the same anger.

“But who's going to fly then?”

“That, my dear, is why I'm receiving a kingly sum for this. Your Romeo isn't the only one with a dual designation.”

The military rolodex file I carry in my head starts spinning. Australian Navy. Australian Navy aircraft. Australian Navy helicopters. They fly tail-rotor aircraft, not tandem-rotor. He hasn't flown a tandem-rotor aircraft.

“You can't fly an H-46,” I say.

“Hey, if I can fly a tail-rotor bird, I can certainly handle this thing.”

Interesting. Something in his voice … He said he needed us to fly to ensure the engine was repaired correctly, but I wonder if it's more than that. I wonder if he's worried about his own ability to execute the takeoff. The initial lift to a hover would be the most dangerous moment, when the aircraft is the most difficult to control. But once in level flight with eighty or ninety knots of airspeed, taking the controls and maintaining a somewhat smooth flight wouldn't be too difficult. And if he's flying to a runway somewhere, he can land at speed, just like an airplane would, avoiding the hover altogether. But I caught something in his voice—the worry. Worry he was trying to cover up with a bluster of bravado. To negotiate his price with the Iraqis, no doubt he played up his abilities as a pilot. But I think he needs us. He needs us to make this work.

My eyes shift to Animal. He's fumbling with his hands, trying to find the zipper of his survival vest. Oh god, this is ripping my heart out to watch him.

I make the boldest decision I've ever made in my life.

Turning to Jonas, I breathe in deeply, steeling my nerve, because I'm scared out of my mind. “We're not repairing anything until I can stop the bleeding on Commander Amicus.”

“Excuse me?” Jonas says with a mixture of shock and anger. “You're not exactly in a position to be making demands.”

“You need these two to repair the engine and you need me to fly. We're not going to do either until I can tend to him.”

“Hey, I don't need you to fly,” he says.

“Then just shoot me and get it over with.” The words are out before I can stop them. But I can't bear to watch Animal struggling another second.

If he really needs me to fly, I should be okay. If not …

Jonas looks at Lego and Messy and then down to Animal. He hesitates before speaking again, and in that moment, I know I'm right. He does need us.

“No shooting in the aircraft now, love. Not with the explosives we've loaded.” He points to the crates in the cabin. “No, I'm afraid your end will not be so tidy. Once we kick you out, it will be the sharks, I think. That is, if the sea snakes don't get you first.”

I think back to Mike's comment about a wolf in sheep's clothing. But it's so much worse than that.

“But for the sake of speeding things along, since you're in a bit of a state over the condition of Mr. Amicus, you may tend to your leader and your boys can return to the business of repairing.”

I nod slightly to Lego and he does the same in acknowledgment.

As he and Messy turn to go, Jonas adds, “And here.” He walks forward and reaches into Collin's rucksack, pulling out a canister. “More oil.”

“Thorough,” I say disgustedly.

He pushes me forward. “Make it quick. You've got five minutes.”

I grab the med bag and kneel next to Animal, who immediately tries to talk.

“Shhh,” I whisper. “I'm going to stop the bleeding, okay?”

My hands are shaking as I undo the fasteners to the medical kit. I look at my right glove, the one hiding the push-to-talk switch. I hadn't considered using it earlier, when I was talking with Jonas. Maybe if I'd pushed it, Eric could have heard something, realized something was wrong. But I
can't
stop to press it now. Not with what I'm doing. Not if I want any chance of stanching the bleeding.

What else? I have a gun—Captain Plank's 9mm Beretta—tucked in the pocket of my survival vest. But as soon as the thought enters my head, I know it's a non-starter. Jonas has a gun aimed at my back and even if I could manage to unzip my vest, pull the gun out, turn, aim, and fire before he pulled the trigger, Bartholomew would probably just laugh as he watched the attempt. He stands now on the ship's deck just beyond the aft ramp of the helicopter, overseeing the loading operations, with a clear line of sight to me and all that I'm doing.

Stop it with the gun and radio, Sara! You need your mind on what you're doing!

I finally get the straps undone, laying the kit open, and turn to Animal. I unzip his survival vest, pulling his arms through the sleeves, which reveals a flight suit saturated in blood.
Okay.

I pull on the zipper to his flight suit, opening it until I see the wound in his side, or maybe it's two. God, there's so much blood. Reaching for the ample supply of dressings from the med bag, I apply them directly over the site, holding them down to keep the pressure on.

“Three minutes!” Jonas announces.

I clumsily roll Animal's body to wrap the bandages around his torso and secure the dressings. I finish tying the first bandages in a tight knot, but the dressings are already soaked through. Oh, no …

“Two minutes!”

“Sara,” Animal whispers with effort.

I look into his eyes. There is no fear in them whatsoever. If I had to describe the expression on his face, I'd say he looks pissed.

“What is it?”

“You're right,” he says, wheezing. “He needs you.”

I nod.

“Can't fly…” Animal's breaths are coming more rapidly and shallow now.

“I understand.”

He moves his lips like he wants to say something else, but I touch them gently.

“I'm going to get you out of here,” I whisper. “Just hang on, okay?”

The plan that's taking shape in my mind is a long shot. But Animal just reiterated what I've been thinking.
Can't fly. Can't fly …

 

44

My head snaps up when Lego and Messy arrive back in the cabin. I don't ask for permission, but set them to work. Their hands are filthy with engine oil, so I have them hold Animal in a position where I can wrap the bandages more tightly around his torso.

“One minute!”

I add layer after layer of dressings until, finally, they remain dry on top. In the background, the loading operations continue. The whole time I've been with Animal, men have walked back and forth carrying boxes and crates, strapping them to the floor.

“Okay, that's it!” Jonas says.

I place my hand over Animal's heart, giving him a small smile before rising.

His tenacious response is communicated with his eyes, which are blazing with determination. If I had to guess, he's saying,
Give 'em hell!

“Let's move him here,” I say to Lego and Messy, motioning farther inside the aircraft.

We turn him so his body is running lengthwise with the cabin, slide his legs under the troop seats, and lay him next to the bulkhead.

“You,” Jonas says, pointing at me. “Sit here and don't move.”

He directs me to the crew chief's seat next to the main cabin door. The seat itself faces aft, so I have a clear view down the entire cabin.

“You two,” he says, motioning to Lego and Messy. “I assume we're operational?”

“Yes,” Lego says curtly.

Jonas points to the cargo. “Make sure that gets strapped in.”

Lego and Messy grit their teeth and start to work. Collin has resumed guard duty, having followed Lego and Messy inside after their repairs, now standing mid-cabin with a gun trained on both of them.

When Jonas leaves my side, I finally have space to think. Okay, what next? We're going to finish loading, we'll turn up, we'll fly until he's satisfied that the engine is working, and then we're shark food.

I rub my still-gloved hands across the pant legs of my flight suit in an attempt to wipe off the blood, but snag the push-to-talk button against the pocket zipper on my thigh.

The radio. I didn't have time to use it before, but I do now … which also means I have time to retrieve the gun from my vest. But then what? Shoot Collin? Bartholomew stands just beyond him, not ten feet further. And the Middle Eastern men—I count eight—who move back and forth through the cabin all carry guns at their sides. The notion of me pulling off some gunslinging miracle surrounded by eleven armed men and who knows how many more onboard the ship is ludicrous.

So I go back to the radio. Best to let Eric know what's happening. I start to press the switch, but realize I can't do this without being overheard.
Okay, okay, okay. Think.

The idea that pops to mind … well, never in a million years did I think I'd actually need this.

When you grow up in a Denning household, you learn certain things—things most kids don't learn. The military alphabet, for one. I didn't learn A, B, C, D. I learned Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta. I also learned the Manual of Arms. I practiced with Ian in our backyard and could complete the entire sequence by the time I was ten. And to covertly communicate with Ian? Morse Code. We played games in our tree house, tapping away and communicating in silence to the befuddlement of the neighbor kids. And, of course, I had to do all these things again once I entered the Naval Academy.

And now, I'm going to use Morse Code officially for the first time ever, and I pray that among the roster of languages Eric keeps tucked in his head, Morse Code is one of them.

I move my hand discreetly behind my back and press the push-to-talk button with my thumb.

“S-O-S,” I key using dots and dashes. “S-O-S,” I repeat.

“Sara?” Eric's voice runs thick with alarm. “Sara, what is it?”