Hot Point (26 page)

Vern listened for the signal, unsure what it would be.

He pulled up the collective until the chopper was practically dancing on her wheels.

The signal was a hard punch on his arm from behind, which worked fine. With the escalating gunfire—the bright flashes of rounds pinging off the military-grade laminate windows—he couldn't be sure of hearing a hand slap on the hull.

He was so tensed for flight that the punch made him jerk up on the collective. They practically bounced five feet straight up. He had planned on easing upward inch by careful inch to get clear of the courtyard.

Through the chopper's foot-well windows he could see people spilling into the courtyard, bearing machine guns and pistols that flashed with fire. A few in military uniforms, others in ragged street clothes.

So, he went with it and kept the collective pulled up for a fast rise.

He slewed the cyclic to shift a few feet to the left as he rose.

He felt a slight jar that he hoped was running into the top of the fountain and not gunfire striking some critical system.

An alarm buzzer went off, but he didn't have time to deal with it.

“Denise!”

On his second shout she responded.

“The alarm. Deal with it.”

The alarm stopped. “We're okay.”

That's what he wanted to hear.

Whether by skill, chance, or blind luck, he cleared the roof edge without catching a rotor blade. He'd been afraid that with the rotor turbulence in the confined space, he wouldn't be able to maintain the needed amount of lift. Probably just as well he'd climbed fast.

The problem was—now that he was in the clear—he had flown out of one level of hell and into another.

He could go straight up, but that would make him a sitting duck for everyone in both the courtyard and the cars and military vehicles that had been in the large parking lot of the compound.

So, he twisted east and dove down into the city streets.

The rebels had the streets covered, of course. A big military truck was parked a few hundred meters up the main avenue.

He was committed now, but this wasn't going to be good.

As the troops around the truck were raising their rifles, a rain of gunfire drove down on them from the left, sending them diving for cover. The truck exploded upward in a brilliant fireball. A tiny MD500 chopper whipped by not two rotors ahead of him.

He punched through the flames and kept going.

The attack helicopter's model was the only thing it had in common with the MD500 he'd flown to fire for MHA. This tiny machine was flat black with no markings. It carried machine guns and rocket pods mounted on small winglet extensions to either side, rather than a bright orange Bambi bucket dangling beneath.

As Vern drove his Firehawk down the Boulevard Juan Pablo II, the small chopper danced around him for a moment and then disappeared. Whoever the pilot was, he was damn good.

“You still with me, Denise?” Vern called over the intercom.

“I think so.” Her voice was giddy with nerves.

“What was the alarm?”

“Don't try to use the brakes when you land. You don't have any.”

“Oh. Okay.” At least she was still with him. He'd worried when she went shocky in the courtyard. “Check yourself for injuries. Your adrenaline is probably so high that you won't feel them.”

“Not even a gunshot?”

“Probably not.”

He could detect frantic motion off to his side, but he was too busy staying low and fast. A mile out, he eased up into the air, finally clear of the wild ride down between the buildings.

No one shooting at him.

No more firing from the big guns mounted in the back.

Winding back the moment in his mind, he had heard them pounding away at the soldiers who had bailed out of the shot-up truck.

A quick scan of the display. The feed from Steve's drone and his own radar showed nothing else airborne but the one other chopper and a big passenger jet climbing out of Toncontín International on the south side of the city. How normal it looked climbing out.

“What next?” Denise must be thinking again. As usual, she arrived at the question before he did.

“Damned if I know.”

Denise jumped when the blond man jammed a piece of paper into her palm without speaking.

By the time she turned to look, he was gone again back into the cargo bay. She had an impression of red blood and immediately turned back to the forward console. There was a bloody thumbprint on the scrap of paper she was clutching.

As before, she keyed the coordinates into the nav system. Then she looked up and saw Vern.

He sat at the controls as if nothing unusual was happening.

“How can you be so calm?”

He shrugged, checked his screens, and began turning the chopper to take them where she'd keyed in. “I think the Coast Guard trained panic out of me.”

“What about before? I thought you were going to strangle the cyclic.”

He managed a weak laugh. “That wasn't panic. I was so goddamn pissed at myself for forcing
el
jefe
to bring you along. I nearly got you killed.”

“You'd have gotten yourself killed if I hadn't been with you.”

He nodded a little. “You are good, Wrench. So damn good.”

“Until I panicked.” Denise held her own hands out in front of her to inspect them. They weren't shaking either. There'd been gunfire and terror. Her mouth had a bitter taste in it that might be adrenal letdown and of blood-copper from where she'd bitten the inside of her cheek. But her nerves were steady. For the moment.

“For your first firefight, you did great.”

“Can I never do that again?”

Vern kept silent, and she had to think about it. Firehawk Oh-Two had been downed. Firehawk Oh-Three probably had a lot more than thirty-four holes in it now. She'd think about the future…in the future.

“Where are we headed?” Denise looked out and saw that they had passed out of the city and were climbing up the hills.

“We'll know when we get there.”

She was going to make some joke about how that would be a good description of their relationship at the moment as well, but Vern sounded suddenly exhausted.

Digging around in the small day bag they'd taken to keeping in the cockpit, she found an energy bar and held it out for him to bite off a chunk. She took her own bite right over his, and they both chewed for a moment in silence.

“We appear to be going way up.”

That worked for her in both ways. Up was always a good direction in a relationship as well.

The coordinates were leading them up a mountain to the east of the city. Tegucigalpa sat in a bowl of mountains. To the east, high up, was perched a group of tall transmitting towers.

Denise looked back and was glad to see less red. One of the soldiers had a white bandage wound around his leg, but he also had a gun in his hands and was watching out the door. The President and his family were huddled in the rear.

“President. Transmitting towers,” she said over the intercom.

“Television station,” Vern finished. “We're not only a rescue mission. We're supposed to be stopping the coup as well.”

The blond man was back. Denise pulled back the earpiece so that she could hear his conversation with Vern.

“Get on the radio, the encrypted one, not the cross-feed you set for Mark.”

Well, Denise thought, so much for being sneaky and subtle.

“The message is: ‘Trish? We set?' Send it.”

Vern transmitted the question.

A bright, cheery woman's voice came back. “My man is inside and in control. He reports he has a small studio set up and ready to splice into the main feed. LZ is cold and solid,
jefe.
” The last word was dripping with humor and sarcasm.

Denise would bet the woman was a handful. Then she spotted the source. One chopper had been circling around behind them, some kind of rearguard action. A new one was hovering low in a hole among the trees not far from the transmitting towers. Invisible to radar or anything but a close inspection from above, but ready for immediate action.

A woman who flew attack helicopters. Denise wasn't sure why she found it surprising, but it was.

“And your wife is circling around somewhere nearby,” Trish continued.

Two women pilots. Wait!

“Your wife?” Denise spun to face the cruel-looking blond man who'd made their last hours hell. Someone had married this man?

His expression softened, making him seem only dangerous but no longer scary. He had a smile that tugged up one corner of his unruly mustache. “Best pilot there is other than Emily.”

A mercenary leader who knew Mark and Emily. That meant…

“Get us down there,” he ordered before withdrawing.

As Vern settled down in front of the transmitting towers, they whispered to each other over the intercom. “SOAR. Special operations.”

This was a U.S. Army operation. Then why were they in the middle of it?

And how would they get out back out?

* * *

Vern dropped them at the transmitter. There was nowhere big enough to land, but he managed to hover close enough to a small, rocky bluff that everyone could jump out.

The blond
jefe
, who still hadn't given his name, hesitated a moment before jumping. “Now get the hell out of here. And thanks.”

Once he was gone, Vern pulled back aloft.

Denise leaned over to inspect the back. “Hey, they took their machine guns and ammo as well. That's what we get? A near-death experience, a shot-up helicopter, and ‘Thanks, little lady,' as if he were John bloody Wayne?”

Vern had never heard Denise so worked up. It was as if she'd come to life somehow. Comfortable enough with herself to let that deep brilliance of hers slide out into public.

“Oh my God! They made a total mess of our helicopter. There are holes and bullet casings everywhere.” She was on a roll, and he didn't try to stop her as they flew north along the face of the ridge, headed back toward their base. “Who the hell were those people? I need to know who to send the bill to because—”

Vern was on the verge of laughing—

A rattle of gunfire struck his bird.

“Shit!” He slammed to the right, turning the chopper almost on edge as it carved a turn. That got Denise above him, another layer of protection as he then dove for the hills. “Trish? Desert Girl?” he called over the radio, but there was no response. “Mark?”

Silence.

“Denise. Get me back some radios.”

He'd only managed a glimpse as he'd maneuvered. Their passage up the mountain hadn't gone unnoticed. A line of military vehicles were racing up the narrow road that threaded its way back and forth across the mountain's face as it climbed.

This was a whole world of hurt headed for the mountaintop.

“Radios are dead. I think they cut the antenna lines, of all unlikely things.”

Not what he needed to hear right at the moment.

“Water!” Denise shouted at him.

“Water?”

* * *

“Get a load of water, Vern. Fast.” Denise figured she was either about to be brilliant or remarkably stupid.

But Vern didn't question her. He'd slammed over the controls and was diving down into the outer reaches of the city. The only river was too far away. She looked right and left. No cattle ponds here. Just endless rows of hovels.

Vern slowed so abruptly that she slammed against the safety harness.

He was descending down and backwards even as he unreeled the siphon hose.

Only when she stuck her head into the bubble in the door's window did she see what Vern had spotted. “A swimming pool?”

“Water is water, with or without chlorine.”

“But it's full of people!” It was a community swimming pool, and it was packed solid with Hondurans both in and around the water.

“They'll move.” He backed right over it without even leaning out to check.

Well, Mr. Hotshot Special Forces
jefe
wasn't the only one married to an amazing pilot.

Married? She laughed aloud, and it was a wonderful feeling. Even if they weren't married, hadn't said the words, it felt as if they were. There was no longer any doubt about their future. Whatever it might be, it would be together.

“What?”

“Nothing. I'll tell you later, you amazing hunk of a man.”

Vern had been absolutely right. The swimming pool had cleared rapidly as the large helicopter came to a stable hover eighteen feet over the water.

He fired the pumps. They both took turns making sure no one got pulled toward the siphon hose and desperately willed the load gauge to hit a thousand gallons faster.

“The pump is reading okay, but it's slow. I bet the tank is full of bullet holes and we're leaking like a sieve. I'm going to take an extra hundred gallons because I'm sure we'll shed at least that much in flight.”

The moment it registered eleven hundred gallons, Vern simultaneously shut down the pumps and began reeling in the hose as he shot for the skies. He pounded upward so fast she could feel the G-force driving her into her seat despite the heavy load.

“Where are we going?” Vern had them right up to the edge of the never-exceed speed and climbing fast. “If we try to drop right on the military column, they're going to shoot us again.”

“Better than that. Take us a couple hundred yards below the transmitter.”

It took him a moment, but then Vern laughed and they continued to climb.

“It was a thing of beauty,” Vern admitted.

Victorious, they'd flown back to the Finca Río Negro. No one had shot at them. Vern had deemed it inadvisable to land a shot-up, blue-and-white-painted Firehawk Oh-Three right in front of the Joint Task Force 1-228th. Reaching the same conclusion, the rest of the crew had come up in Firehawk Oh-One without needing to be called. They brought along selected items from Denise's tool kit, service supplies, and ten gallons of gloss black paint. Again.

Once night had settled, the two tiny Night Stalker helicopters joined them, landing around the other side of the house and again upsetting the cows.

Introductions had gone around: Trisha—a red-haired fireball even smaller than Denise; her husband—a really big guy named Billy who was clearly a patient man; “Desert Girl,” who was named Claudia—a very striking brunette; and her husband, Michael—the heretofore nameless
jefe
. No last names. No ranks.

Under the shadow of darkness and a small campfire, David and his wife had set them up with meat-stuffed masa tamales steamed in banana leaves and deep cups of decaf coffee heavily laced with guaro—a local cane-sugar liquor that was clear, sweet, and lethal. Exactly what Vern needed.

“Denise was the one who spotted it.” And was currently curled up against him in a chair not really made for two and therefore about perfect, to his way of thinking.

“The bridge supports over that highest canyon leading up to the transmitters were probably laid down by the conquistadors in the 1500s. They certainly looked that way.” She joined her own story despite the size of the group listening.

“We arrived at the bridge over the ravine about two hundred meters ahead of the attack group. Denise showed me where to hit it. A thousand gallons as a single fist-punch almost took the bridge out. No time for a second load or to find a way to rally support from your choppers, but it wasn't needed.”

Denise turned her face into his chest at the memory as he described the next part.

The first truck—with the coup's leader, the head of the opposition party—rolled onto the bridge and then tumbled over five hundred meters down the hillside when the weakened span collapsed.

An armored personnel carrier transporting the general who supported the coup attempt had followed too close on his leader's heels and also gone down.

With the head of the coup and the military leader dead, and the President broadcasting with his family on national television, the bid for power had rapidly collapsed.

“Why us?” Vern asked the
jefe.
He couldn't quite imagine such a dangerous man being named Michael. Such a common, normal name.

The man studied the fire for a few moments before speaking. “It wasn't supposed to be you. Our best intelligence said we had a week before they took action. We had assets inbound, but when it went down, I needed a heavy transport bird in a big hurry. We couldn't exactly call up the Joint Task Force and ask to borrow one; there couldn't be a hint of U.S. involvement in this. That's why we painted you with presidential colors. They may not have a Black Hawk, but no one will be able to unravel that as soon as you repaint this bird.”

Michael tossed a branch on the fire. “We considered stealing one, but the 1-228th would notice and they'd be plenty efficient about hunting us down.” He shrugged. “We were going to approach MHA, knew you guys did some specialty work, but didn't know if your Honduran team was a part of the covert ops group. I guess someone who knew about the op had your team placed down here but forgot to tell us.”

“That doesn't add up.” Denise was back in the conversation. “Why us, Vern and me?”

Vern liked the way that sounded. “Vern and me.” His mind was drifting. Despite how casual he'd tried to sound for Denise's sake, the day had really taken it out of him.

Michael's voice was gentle now that there was no military action under way. He had the casual non-accent of the Pacific Northwest.

Vern also noticed that he sat very close to his quiet wife. He'd bet that they had the type of conversations where neither of them ever spoke.

“One of my assistants,” Michael continued, “received a tip that you were parked here off base. He caught you here flat-footed. He didn't think he had the forces to control two choppers, so he grabbed one and called me in. I had to find out if you were part of MHA's covert arm, so that's why I asked for your boss's name.”

“Then what was that cave and Silver Star stuff?”

Vern had thought Denise past speaking, but maybe she'd drunk less than he had. The guaro was definitely working its magic on his system.

“Past mission. And, no”—Michael held up a hand before she could ask—“I can't tell you about it. But it did include me taking a jump. A leap of faith.” He nodded toward Emily with great respect.

The scene slowly shifted before Vern's eyes. Mark and Emily had fought wars with these folks. They'd trusted each other with their very lives. He'd hate to leave their company. They weren't only the best firefighters he knew, they were also the best people.

The talk drifted late into the night. Mark, Michael, and Carly were soon deeply involved in discussions of fishing, of all odd topics. Claudia and Trisha joined Emily and were talking helicopter formation tactics at a level even Vern couldn't follow.

He suspected that even if the guaro hadn't done its work, he probably couldn't follow where they went. As it was, Vern wasn't sure he'd ever move again.

At some point past midnight, the military types took their leave and went aloft. “Have to be offshore before first light.”

Before he left, Michael came up and shook Vern's hand. “That was one of the top ten piloting jobs I've ever seen. Well done.” Then he was gone before Vern could respond.

By the startled look Mark turned on him, Vern got the idea that Michael didn't give compliments lightly. Added to the glow of the guaro and the woman beside him, he'd found a seriously happy-Vern place.

The night was quiet for a long time after they'd gone. Geckos creaked, frogs peeped, and somewhere far off a monkey screamed out a call, moved, and called again into the darkness.

“So, Mark”—Denise stirred lazily in Vern's arms—“where are we going next year?”

Something pinged in Vern's brain.

“Hard to say until it gets here. Back to Oregon in another month, then hopefully a quiet season from there. Hard to say.”

The ping in Vern's head had gotten louder. It almost drifted off with the lethargy that had overcome his system—contented just to be sitting here with Denise mostly in his lap.

Then the ping stumbled on too much guaro and nearly drowned. He glared down at his coffee mug looking for the answer, but it had long since shifted from mostly coffee to mostly cane liquor, so the answer wasn't there.

“Say that again.” Vern managed to speak.

“Which part?” Mark asked.

“Not you. Her.” Denise was curled against his shoulder so he couldn't really see her and had to point to show who he meant.

“Which part?” she asked as sweetly as could be. He wasn't buying that innocent, I'm-so-helpless tone for a moment.

“The part where you asked where we're going next year.”

“Oh, that part. Why?” She was up to something.

Vern glared at Mark, the campfire, then Emily, but found no greater insight. None of the others were offering any guidance either.

“
We
.” He managed to latch on to the word. “Next year.” Two more words that somehow linked to… “Ha! Next year we're going to be in Everett, Washington, at the Boeing Museum Restoration Center.”

“What?” Mark looked perplexed. “The hell you are.”

“Yes!” Vern spoke slowly to make sure his words were clear. “We are. At least she is. No idea what I'll be doing yet.”

“You are?” Mark was now sitting up and looking at Denise intently. Everyone else, at least those still able to, had leaned forward enough to be lit by the fading fire's glow.

Vern could feel the slick slide of Denise's hair against his chin as she shook her head no.

“We aren't?” Now Vern was really lost.

“Nope.”

He tried to push her upright so that he could see her face, but the size of the chair and their positions weren't cooperating. He finally managed to wedge her free and get her perched beside him so that he could face her.

“What the hell, Wrench?”

“I'm staying with MHA.”

“Because of me. You can't. I already told you that you can't do that because I won't—”

“Shut up, Vern.”

He sputtered but stopped talking.

“I love you. And I'm going to marry you.”

That brought applause and cheers from around the circle, which he ignored.

“Hello.” He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a wise gesture. “I already knew that.”

“You did?”

“Duh!”

She laughed and gave him a quick kiss that he was moving too slow to capitalize on. “But”—she placed her hand over his heart—“you've got to stop talking nonsense.”

Now he really was lost.

“You break the birds, Slick, and I'll put 'em back together. It's what I do. Though I never want to go through”—she helplessly waved a hand at the outside world—“that again.”

He felt her shudder at the memory.

“I've been in a museum my whole life. Now I want to go places. I want to help people. Did you see the President with his family? His wife and three beautiful girls. The whole time he made sure he was between them and the danger. Every single step of the way. Even between them and the men rescuing him.”

“But—” Why the hell was he protesting? This was the woman he'd fallen in love with, suddenly aflame with the life shining from her. Not hidden behind a shield of silence, caution, and shining hair.

This was a beautiful woman facing a dangerous world. She didn't need his protection. Nor the museum's. Not anymore.

“This is what I want, Vern. All of this. Even children that I will love as much as the President loved his. Your children, Vern. Will you go there with me?”

He grinned at her. He couldn't help himself; he loved this woman past reason. He saluted and clumsily on purpose hit his forehead hard, knocking his head into the back of the wooden chair with a solid thunk.

Actually too hard.

It hurt.

“Whatever you say, ma'am, Wrench, sir.”

He considered dragging her against him and kissing the living daylights out of her. But something more was needed. Something…

He raised his hand, thumb pointing to the sky. Made the sideways “I love you sign” plus the little helicopter tail with his fingers. And he swung his hand up and out.

For the first time he'd ever seen, Denise was crying. Tears were sliding down her smiling face faster than he could brush them aside.

She nodded once, her hair swinging forward and back in a shimmering swirl. Then she fell into his arms and gave him a salty kiss to bind the promise.

Wherever they flew, they would fly there together.

He didn't feel the pain where he'd hit his head for long.

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