Sanctuary

by Alan Janney

  I glanced out the window. We were gaining altitude quickly. I shrugged into my backpack and announced, “Croc, open the hatch. I’ll release the safety if they move.”

  “Right-o, love!”

  “Samantha,” Carter shouted. His voice was stern and frantic. “Don’t do this. You do this and our association is permanently over!”

  “The hell with you, Carter.”

  “You need me! And I need you.”

  “You’re fired.”

  Croc hauled up the emergency release below the rear window. The heavy door pried open at the bottom, and our pressurized air began howling through the thin opening. This was nuts! Deep breath. Croc kicked the door. Hard.

  The door popped into the atmosphere like a champagne cork. Croc and I were sucked out.

  We spun far from the thundering jet, which would have to make an emergency landing somewhere south. I was disoriented and sick immediately. Why did Chase enjoy this??

  I threw the grenade into the brilliant blue sky. No idea where, and I barely heard it pop. The wind was too loud.

  I spread my arms wide, maximizing surface area and slowing as much as possible. Croc pinned his arms back, like a rocket, and sped up. He put a shoulder into my stomach and I wrapped arms around his neck.

  “Most fun I ever had!” he called into my ear.

  “Release the chute, you stupid Aussie!”

  His pack sprang open and the chute deployed. I clung tight and we dangled over Beverly Hills, fifteen hundred yards high.

  “Where’d you get a parachute??” Our faces were pressed together, my mouth practically in his ear.

  “That little black fella! The Shadow. Pushed it into me hands when nobody saw.”

  “Where’d he come from?!”

  “Dunno. Slippery bloke. Must be an Outlaw fan, like me.”

  I stared at the dizzy ground below us. “Find the phone in my backpack. I need to make a call. Now.”

  As we drifted softly back to earth, two F/A-18 Fighters screamed by, too close for comfort. We even felt vague heat waves thrown by their after-burn.

  Special Agent Isaac Anderson finally answered his phone and informed me the FBI had only two remaining helicopters, and neither was equipped with an armament.

  I had to shout over a nearby squadron of Pave Hawks churning towards Downtown. Los Angeles was preparing for war. “Get me one! I need to be airborne now!”

  Before he could reply, an unbelievably large salvo of anti-aircraft rockets launched from the downtown spires.

  Croc mumbled, “Bloody hell. There’s trouble.”

  The Hornets scrambled, barrel-rolling and accelerating, but the sudden artillery overwhelmed them. One of the Hornets erupted in our vicinity, an ear-splitting pandemonium. The radiating heat caught and violently jostled our canopy.

  “You watching this, Anderson??”

  “I am. We’re being crushed.”

  “Get me a helicopter!”

  “What else do you need?”

  “Parachutes. And rifles. All of them.”

  Four minutes later, Croc landed us on the swanky Los Angeles Country Club, hole sixteen near an astonished foursome. They were watching the fleet of Pave Hawks get ambushed by mutants.

  My god, what a nightmare.

  Was Chase up there somewhere?

  My phone was full of recent text messages from Puck.

  >> attack beginning

  >> u probably wont get this message

  >> ur plane is taking off

  >> u guys r assholes 4 leaving chase alone

  >> hes going up the towers by himself

  >> to die

  No. No no no no no.

  This was all happening too fast. Just the way the Chemist planned it. Anderson called me again.

  “Your chopper is inbound,” he shouted into the receiver. “Figure I might as well give you a chance to stop the world from ending. Give me your coordinates and I’ll pass them along!”

  After an anxious five minutes, the FBI’s Little Bird landed on the fairway. It was a tiny, bug-like helicopter used primarily to shuttle VIPs.

  “Special delivery from Agent Anderson!” the pilot cried.

  Croc hauled the surprised kid out of the cockpit. “Sorry mate! You want no part of this biff! This is a one-way trip! No coming back!” He climbed into the pilot’s seat and strapped in. I did the same in the small passenger bay. Croc threw us into the sky and aimed toward the city skyline.

  I busily checked the ordnance provided by Anderson. A Remington sniper rifle and two M4 carbines. Boxes of ammunitions and empty cartridges. It’d have to suffice. I pounded rounds into magazines, fingers flying.

  “Christ almighty,” Croc said. His voice came into my headset. “A chopper just crashed. Not far from the basketball stadium.”

  “Go go GO! Get me closer!”

  “Moving faster than a ‘roo crossing hot sand, love!”

  “Scan those rooftops! I need to take out any launchers!”

  “I bet Chase already has, the rascal!”

  I finished loading magazines. Hopefully I had enough. I tore my eyes away and finally looked out into the Los Angeles sky. There was a squadron of attack helicopters moving in from the south, half a mile from the towers, each fully armed.

  I called PuckDaddy.

  “Samantha!” Puck cried into my earpiece. “Where are you?”

  “Coming in fast! Is he alive??”

  “For a few more seconds!”

  “WHAT?!” I roared. “Put us through to Chase! We’re in a small chopper heading his way, just west of Downtown! Where is he?”

  “South of the towers! He’s flying straight at that strike force!”

  “NO! Why?? Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

  “I see him,” Croc groaned. “Kid’s a maniac!”

  Our transport screeched and shook. I raised the sniper rifle’s powerful scope. The distant speck leapt closer. Chase, waffling and alone on the bright blue horizon, was braving a murderous hail of bullets.

  I leaned way out into space, trusting the harness not to snap and drop me five hundred feet. I pushed the safety free on the rifle. This was not ideal; I’d need to fire four times to hit a target once.

  “Keep us level, Croc!”

  “No promises!”

  “Okay,” Puck said, “I’m connecting you to Chase.”

  The line clicked. A new static greeted my ears.

  “CHASE!” I yelled. “Bank hard to the right! NOW!”

  I squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Thirty

  Monday, November 1. 2018.

  The Chemist had stolen three different types of helicopters, I noted.

  The smallest was a McDonald Douglass 500 Defender. Looks kind of like a gnat. With guns.

  He also got his hands on some heavy Black Hawks, the same helicopter Samantha and I fly into Compton. Elite and state-of-the-art.

  Perhaps most significantly, he captured multiple Apaches. Apaches are black and green and menacing, dragonfly in appearance. They were built for one purpose: destruction.

  The strike force wasn’t flying in formation. In fact, it was a mess. The Chemist’s pilots were clearly not military trained. Otherwise I’d be dead already.

  I couldn’t hear them yet. Other than the wind, everything was quiet. And bright. And calm.

  Maybe I am dead?

  One of the incoming bullets got so close it actually nicked my shoulder.

  Nope. Not dead. Yet.

  My earpiece burst to life. “Chase! Bank hard to the right! Now!”

  What??! Samantha??

  I twisted my shoulders and curled off to the north, presenting a full-body target to the gunners. But I trusted her. Turning at this speed was a harrowing punishment that compressed my lungs.

  A starburst splintered the windshield of the nearest Apache. An armor-piercing round had punched clean through! The sinister helicopter pitched up and began cork-screwing, out of control. The pilot had been shot! The Apache slammed into a small
er, gnat-like Defender. Blades gouged great holes into both aircraft and deafening explosions sent the attack force scattering, like a swarm of fireflies.

  “Nice shot!” I called.

  Debris and bright trails of fire arced across the cathedral of infinite blue. I twisted away from the radiating junkyard and glanced over my shoulder. Samantha was behind me, hovering near the massive cluster of Downtown towers and shooting over my shoulder at the oncoming attack squadron.

  A Black Hawk ahead, just off my flight path. He rotated enough to allow the gunner a firing angle, and the enemy released the awesome power of a .50 caliber machine gun, heavy devastating rounds. But he wasn’t firing at me. He was firing at Croc and Samantha!

  I minutely altered course. This Black Hawk had all doors removed, even the cockpit’s. I howled straight for it, moving so quickly the air stung my eyes, tearing blurring my vision.

  At the last second, I snapped my arms back and streaked through the cockpit, like an arrow threading a needle. I entered through the port hatch and exited the starboard at a hundred miles per hour, my rock-hard shoulder clipping the pilot’s exposed skull. Instant death.

  The Black Hawk and I plummeted. I snapped wings out and curved back towards the city, smoldering hulk dropping in my wake. Now I was traveling behind the Chemist’s strike force, pursuing them, all of us aimed downtown. I’d never seen Los Angeles from this southern angle during the day. The mammoth San Gabriel mountain dominated the eastern horizon, already tipped with snow.

  “Chase, I saw that! Holy SMOKES dude!” Puck cried.

  Samantha landed a second miraculous sniper shot, lancing the pilot of another MD 500 Defender, but now she and Croc had to fly for their lives. Two deadly Apaches broke away from the group and attacked them, both with infinitely superior firepower. Croc led them on a wild chase though, and I doubted the Apaches would ever get clean shots. He flew like a professional stunt pilot compared to amateurs.

  “The Chemist is up here somewhere!” I shouted. “In a news chopper!”

  “Roger that.” Samantha’s voice.

  Puck alerted us, “Warning! Enemies have begun assault on city!”

  The remaining attack helicopters quickly and efficiently demolished the stately 777 Tower, the southernmost high-rise located on the fringe of the tower cluster. All six unleashed anti-armor Hellfire missiles at close range, hammering the south face. The attack was so powerful it hurt my eyes.

  The tower’s inner structure only withstood three salvos. The gunners concentrated their attack, pounding marks until steel relented, essentially cutting out two of the tower’s legs. Seven hundred feet tall, weighing two hundred thousand tons, the majestic skyscraper began a slow collapse. The helicopters scattered before rising dust clouds.

  It was an awful sight. Monstrous and impossible, like a mountain decaying in seconds.

  “Oh my gooooooooosh,” Puck groaned.

  I asked, “Was everyone out?” My voice sounded hollow and small, like my heart was in my throat.

  “No idea. I doubt it. Also be advised, it’s about to get worse. Three enemy Harriers inbound.”

  Samantha shouted, “I’m abandoning ship! Croc, fly over the new Wilshire and I’ll jump.”

  “Negative, my love.” His grin came clearly over the headset. “Wilshire is not on our bloody flight pattern. Can I talk you into the City National?”

  “Whatever, Croc! Just put me over a stable firing surface. You can’t fly straight and I can’t hit these jackasses chasing us!”

  Attack choppers were now inside Downtown proper, still on the fringe of the tower cluster. They reformed near the Aon Center, a building resembling a tall dark mirror. I aimed straight for them.

  Our adversaries could probably knock down two or three more towers. Their aircraft was outfitted with stub-wings to hold extra ammunition. But then the Chemist’s Harrier Jump Jets would arrive, bearing more rockets. We couldn’t stop them all.

  Something caught my eye. The world was caving in! The street below disappeared, followed by an eruption of fire.

  “The roads are collapsing!” I yelped. “How?? What??”

  “Yeah. Chemist is destroying the red and purple underground metro lines.” Puck sounded sad and exhausted. “He has suicide bombers carrying explosives through the tunnels. National Guard and Army forces are on their way. I didn’t tell you because there’s nothing you can do.”

  More and more streets buckled and collapsed, releasing plumes of airborne dirt. The luxurious and beautiful City of Angels was devolving into hell.

  Samantha called, “Great. Just frickin’ great. Anything else you’re not telling us, Puck?”

  “Just one more thing.

  “Which is?”

  “Tigers. At least four tigers spotted prowling the Skid Row area.”

  Samantha said, “This is a nightmare.”

  I agreed. “I hate those things.”

  Puck said, “We can’t stop him. We’ve lost.”

  “We can try!” I shouted. I was still playing catch-up, trailing the faster helicopters, streaking towards Downtown. “He brought enough firepower to take down almost every tower. We can limit him to one or two. We’ve already destroyed four helicopters-”

  “Six,” Puck interrupted. “Don’t forget the two Pave Hawks you dropped.”

  “Whatever! Point is, we’ve already reduced the destruction, and we’re not done. He wants to level the city. We’re not going to let him!”

  “Outlaw, MOVE!” Samantha screamed.

  One of her pursuing Apaches broke off and came at me, guns blazing.

  No time! I unfettered the wings, which zipped back into my pant-legs, and I dropped like a stone underneath shredding gunfire.

  Wings re-engaged! They caught the air with a Snap and thrust me forward. The Apache and I crossed paths, me twenty feet under, slashing through rotor wash.

  At my initial jump, I was nine hundred feet high. Now I was at four hundred. Running out of sky!

  I flew serpentine patterns, desperate turns, toward the Aon tower. The Apache pursued, firing wildly, the lion chasing a gazelle.

  “There he is!” I cried. “The Chemist’s helicopter, next to Aon! He’s watching the attack.”

  Samantha replied, “I’m dropping now! He’s my primary target!” Her chute opened directly above the nearby City National tower, the same building I’d been on when I first jumped after the Chemist’s helicopter. From there she’d be able to fire directly at the other attackers.

  “Geronimo, Samy-girl!” Croc laughed.

  Bullets ripped through my leg webbing. The Apache was too close behind me! I immediately lost stability.

  “This is a bad idea,” I mumbled, but I did it anyway.

  Zip! I released the wings.

  Pop! I launched the parachute and was jerked to a painful and jarring stand-still, swinging crazily in the sky, earth off its axis.

  The Apache bore down at a trillion miles per hour. He was going to slice my canopy lines with his blades.

  “Whoa!” Puck cried. “What??! What are-”

  At the very last instant, I hauled the chute back in with a mighty yank. It disappeared into my vest with a hiss.

  The Apache crushed me. I hit his windshield like a bug on a semi-truck, just like the Grumman Greyhound cargo plane so long ago. Shoulders, hips and ribs all popped.

  But I held on. My face was twelve inches from the astonished gunner’s. I saw him through my reflection in the glass.

  I shoved the canopy assembly upwards. Metal locks and clasps squealed, bent, and broke. That wasn’t humanly possible but I was mad.

  “I’m NOT happy with you!” I yelled. The gunner squawked as I stepped onto his lap, reached over the tandem cockpit bulkhead, and ripped out the pilot’s control stick. “Have fun with that.”

  I abandoned ship as the Apache began plunging.

  “Well,” Puck mumbled, “more than one way to skin a cat, I guess.”

  I opened the wing-suit, which caught air with a
sharp crack, and I darted toward the Aon Center, the nearest and southernmost tower in the cluster. I was sailing two hundred feet in the air.

  The attack choppers released their first bombardment on the Aon. The western glass face shattered, filling the skyline with deadly confetti.

  “I don’t have a shot on the Chemist,” Samantha snarled.

  “Take out those choppers!” I yelled. “They’ll have that tower down in less than a minute!”

  No time! They were ready to fire again.

  I remember the next fifteen seconds only through a series of mental snapshots.

  The attack choppers were gathered at the tower base like yellow jackets fighting for pollen.

  I rocketed into the cloud of fragmented glass at a hundred miles per hour.

  The airborne glass cut my wings to ribbons.

  I flew at the tower without control.

  Out of options, I threw the Rod like a hatchet into the nearest chopper, a heavy Black Hawk.

  The Rod entered the Black Hawk’s cockpit like a wrecking ball.

  I entered the Aon Tower’s seventeenth floor like…well, a wrecking ball.

  Samantha told me later what happened. The Black Hawk’s pilot was either killed or injured by the Rod. The Black Hawk reeled sharply to the left and banked into the next helicopter. The two aircraft ruined each other and erupted, slamming the third chopper into the fourth, a deadly domino effect. Another thunderous detonation, and the entire sky was set on fire. The fifth chopper corkscrewed away from the high-rise, smoking and whining. The brilliant red billows of flame and fury stormed against the teetering tower, but the steel held.

  Samantha disintegrated the sixth and final attack chopper’s windshield with multiple rifle rounds as it fled the mushroom blast, forcing it to spin aground in a shower of sparks, near the Dignity Health Hospital.

  Echoes of eruptions. A ceiling of rising filth and particles. But the heavens were temporarily clear of aircraft. For the moment, the Aon and all persons inside were safe.

  Samantha radioed, “Where?? Where is the Chemist?”

  “Dunno, love,” Croc called. “I’ve lost the bloody Apache that was chasing me, too. That rascal’s ‘round here somewhere.”

  PuckDaddy said, “Too much smoke, too many hiding places. I’m scanning.”