by Bob Mayer
She broke out of the trees just to the left of the sewage treatment plant and skidded to a halt, trying to catch her breath as she looked around. The Huey helicopter she had seen was parked in the middle of the nearest soccer field.
She heard a distant yell above and behind her. No time and no other options. She ran forward to the helicopter. It was open; the crew must have been over at the scout jamboree.
A sign giving the aircraft’s specifications was leaning up against the open left cargo door; obviously the aircraft was a static display for the scouts to look at later in the day.
Trace swung open the left pilot’s door and settled into the seat. There wasn’t time to do it by the book, the way she’d been trained at Fort Rucker over ten years ago. She flicked the generator switch to start and opened the fuel flow. She grabbed the throttle and rolled it to the start position while pulling the start trigger. She was rewarded with the turbine engine slowly whining to life. She breathed a short prayer of thanks that the battery had been up to power as she watched the N-l gauge — the indicator of the. engine’s RPMS — slowly rise. The engine was still warm from its recent shutdown, so the startup was much faster than starting a cold engine.
Out of the corner of her eye she spotted one of the officers emerge from the woods and look about. The I’ll gauge hit fifteen percent, and the blades overhead began to slowly turn. The officer stared at the helicopter in surprise and then began running forward. Trace increased torque on the throttle, turning on the inverter switch, going to full power. She knew she was risking overheating the engine, but the options seemed limited as the officer pointed his pistol at her from forty feet away and fired a shot. The bullet ricocheted off the Plexiglas to Trace’s right, cracking it-She pulled in the collective with her right hand, keeping the engine at full throttle. With a shudder the helicopter slowly lifted. The officer fired again, missing wildly. Trace kicked the pedals, putting the bulk of the helicopter between her and the man. She wasn’t surprised to see a van skid through the chain link fence surrounding the field and come bouncing straight toward her. She pulled further up on the collective and the gap between the skids and the ground grew. With only twenty feet of altitude, she pushed the cyclic over with her left hand and headed along the ground, away from the van.
“Come on, baby, come on, give me some power,” she pleaded as the old Huey strained under the punishment. She leveled off, still only twenty feet above the ground, with the bulk of Storm King Mountain less than 400 meters away. Trace pulled back on the cyclic, slowing her forward progress, and put everything into the cyclic, gaining altitude as quickly as possible.
She cleared the foothills of Storm King with barely five feet between the skids and the highest tree tops and was off to the west, disappearing from the sight of the two officers below.
“What do we do, sir?” Captain Isaac asked, holding his empty .45 in his hand.
“The. bitch has got to land somewhere,” Quincy said, “and when she does, she’s ours. Let’s go alert all the local airfields and the State Police.”
Trace’s options were rapidly dwindling. The thickly overcast sky was pressing down on her, forcing her to stay below 1,500 feet altitude.
With the mountainous terrain that surrounded West Point, there were only a couple of directions she could fly. Out the right window, the tree covered slopes of Crows Nest and Storm King Mountains loomed, stopping her from going north. To her rear, the low valley of the Hudson beckoned, but Trace instinctively didn’t want to go the easy way — that’s where they would look first.
South, Bear Mountain blocked the way.
In her haste to simply get away from Target Hill Field, she’d headed west and passed over Washington Gate less than a minute ago — the rear entrance to the Academy from Route 293. For the present she was following the road, fifty feet above the black ribbon. She tried to remember as best she could the surrounding terrain. Following the road was the safest route for the moment. She knew the New York State Thruway was about a dozen miles to the west and she estimated she might be able to follow that to the north and land at Stewart Airfield, a former military airbase, that had been turned over to civilian authority several years previously.
Trace figured she had a good chance of landing there and getting away in another rental before the alert went out.
At the West Point MP station. Sergeant Taylor received a call from the superintendent’s office less than two minutes after getting the radio call from two of his MPS about shots fired near the cemetery and Target Hill Field. He wasn’t surprised when the superintendent’s aide told him to ignore all reports and that nothing had happened.
Taylor instructed his MPS to stay away from whatever was going on and to forget about it. Then he picked up the phone and called the same number he had called earlier after realizing he was dealing with the supe’s office.
He started speaking as soon as the other end was picked up.
“Harry, it’s Sergeant Taylor. Something’s happening.”
Long Pond flashed by on the left, then the flashing yellow light indicating the turnoff for Camp Buckner. Trace’ banked right, overflying the long barracks that made up the summer training encampment. Popolopen Lake appeared and Trace flittered across the surface, continuing on a southwesterly direction. She knew the Bull Hill fire tower was somewhere off to her right, but the cloud cover was so low, the tops of the hills were completely covered.
Doubt began to creep into Trace’s mind. Did 293 intersect the Thruway or did it loop back to Route 6 and Bear Mountain? She had driven out this way numerous times as a cadet but that was over a dozen years ago.
Of one thing she was certain: the Thruway was to the west, and it was her best and only shot through the mountains and to Stewart Airfield.
She remembered seeing the four-lane highway from her plebe field training at Lake Frederick which she knew was very close, somewhere off to the right. With her hands full of cyclic and collective, there was no way she could check to see if there were any charts in the helmet bag next to the seat. A helicopter needs two hands to fly; let go of the controls even for the briefest of seconds and the aircraft will immediately attempt to invert and destroy itself.
A gap appeared in the solid line of green to Trace’s right as the terrain descended below the clouds, an opening heading due west. Trace made her decision and turned, heading directly into the opening. A pond appeared: Lake Frederick?
Trace wondered. She was caught between the gray clouds less than a hundred feet above and the black water thirty feet under her skids. The far side of the pond was a solid wall of trees. She was forced to turn left again, south 9 west, following the pond’s surface.
The pond gave way to swamp and Trace slowed to an airspeed of less than thirty knots. She was looking out to the right when something appeared in the corner of her eyes. As she spun her head about she screamed a curse and pulled in on the collective as she slammed the cyclic over.
High-tension wires were directly ahead, looming down out of the clouds and attached to a tower to her far left.
For a brief second Trace thought she’d make it as they flashed beneath the cockpit. The toe of the right skid didn’t clear. It hooked on the topmost wire. The helicopter tilted and the blades flashed through the steel wires, destroying the wires and themselves in a split second. The helicopter went from an aerodynamic object to a rock.
Trace’s hands were still struggling with the dead controls when the cockpit slammed into the rock wall face, then tumbled to the ground below, coming to a rest in a pile of broken tree limbs, crumpled metal, and shattered Plexiglas.
CHAPTER 18
WAIAWA, HAWAII
3 DECEMBER
6:20 A.M.LOCAL 1620 ZULU
From the hillside Boomer could clearly see the Arizona Memorial and the entire harbor spread out below him. He was above the Pacific Palisades in the jungle that clung to the side of the mountains. Skibicki had driven them there in the dark, going up an old trail until it gave o
ut in a small clearing, hidden by the overhanging trees.
Boomer glanced over. Vasquez was in the back seat, sleeping. Skibicki had strung a hammock between two trees and was quietly snoring.
Boomer looked along the southern coast of Oahu in the quiet splendor of the rising sun. He wondered if any place could be further from the cold gray walls of West Point in December than Hawaii? Boomer couldn’t imagine the Academy on the slopes of Diamond Head. Such martial learnings seemed so far removed from the tropical paradise around him.
But he only had to look down at the harbor and the constantly lit white building above the rusting hulk of the Arizona to know that war had come here too.
Boomer twisted the focus on the binoculars. There was a launch heading out to the Memorial. He scanned it.
Everyone on board was Navy except for one man in a suit.
As he checked the man out, a sound to the side drew his attention.
It was Skibicki stirring. The sergeant major swung his feet to the ground, still supported by the hammock.
“How’s the head?”
Boomer reached up and felt the bandage the sergeant major had applied in the dark.
“I’ve got a little bit of a headache, but other than that, it’s all right.”
Skibicki glanced down at the harbor.
“What’s up?”
“Not much,” Boomer replied.
“What’s the plan now?”
Skibicki stood up.
“We wait. I’m willing to bet that there will be no sign of what happened last night in the tunnel, but I’m sure that there will be someone posted there, waiting for us to come back. There’s not much we can do right now.
“We wait,” Skibicki repeated.
“Let’s hope Trace comes up with something today.”
“And if she doesn’t?” Boomer had to ask.
“Then we will have to do something.”
Eight kilometers to the south, Mike Stewart tried hard to look suitably impressed as he was briefed.
“At precisely zero-seven-fifty-four the Antietam, an Aegis cruiser, will pass in review right there,” the Navy captain said, pointing across the harbor, the crisp starched line of his dress whites accentuating the movement.
Stewart wished he didn’t have to wear this damn suit everywhere. He could feel a trickle of sweat down his back despite the off-shore breeze and the sun not being much over the horizon yet. Stewart was standing on the edge of the Arizona Memorial, gazing out across the harbor at the sleek gray ships riding at anchor. He wondered how the Navy officer managed to look so cool and collected.
“At zero-seven-fifty-four plus twenty seconds, a flight of F-16 Fighting Falcons will fly in from the north,” the captain said, pointing toward the lush green hills bathed in the bright sunlight, “in a missing-man formation, and head out sea. At zero-seven-fifty-four plus forty seconds, the bugler will begin playing Taps, at which time the President’s party—”
“I have the time schedule of the ceremony,” Stewart interrupted as gently as possible.
“Getting back to security.
What about sea and air control? The media will certainly have helicopters and chartered boats, and you also will have private boats coming—” Stewart stopped at the captain’s bark of a laugh.
“There will be no problem with either unauthorized aircraft or vessels.” The captain swept his arm around the harbor.
“Everything you see here is Navy. No ship can get into this harbor without us clearing it at the mouth. We will have Marine Corps helicopter gunships on station to keep away any unauthorized aircraft.”
Stewart was more than satisfied with all that he had seen and been briefed on so far — yet General Maxwell’s words echoed in his ears: “… particularly with regard to the military installations he’ll be visiting.”
But Pearl was as safe as you could get, Stewart reasoned, as he followed the captain to the launch that was waiting to take them ashore. As he made the short hop into the boat, Stewart glanced down and through the green water the rusting round hole that had once been the mount for one of the Arizona’s main guns was clearly visible. He felt a momentary chill. There were hundreds of bodies still entombed in the wreckage there. That thought immediately led him to the realization that those men had also thought themselves safe that Sunday morning so many years ago, nestled in the bosom of the Pacific Fleet.
The words came to the forefront of his mind as clearly as if General Maxwell was there speaking them: What if the very security offered here was the threat itself?
“Bullshit,” Stewart muttered out loud.
“Excuse me?” the naval officer asked, perplexed.
“Nothing,” Stewart said. He reeled in his wild train of reasoning.
Damn General Maxwell, he thought; until this trip was over, Stewart knew his mind would have no rest, but he had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for.
Boomer put the binoculars down. Skibicki and Vasquez were heading down into town to get some fast food, while Boomer remained behind. No sense in all three of them being in the same place in public.
Boomer knew the man in civilian clothes on the memorial and he knew where he worked. He registered that fact and filed it for future use.
He didn’t like Skibicki’s plan of waiting but he didn’t have any better ideas at the moment. But if they didn’t hear from Trace by tomorrow morning. Boomer now had an idea what he was going to do.
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
3 DECEMBER 1995
6:30 P.M.LOCAL 2330 ZULU
The old man in the high-backed chair twisted the ring on his finger as he listened to the report over the secure phone. His aide shifted uncomfortably on the other side of the desk when the phone call ended.
“Your men did poorly,” Hooker said.
“Yes, sir,” the aide acknowledged.
“The superintendent is very upset.”
To that the aide had nothing to say.
“And worse,” Hooker continued, “this woman — this Major Trace — she’s still unaccounted for. The helicopter has not been reported anywhere.”
“I have my men still looking, sir.”
“I will have to take care of this personally,” Hooker said.
“Sir, I don’t think—” Hooker cut off the protest.
“We have reached a critical juncture and I can’t leave this to amateurs any more.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know what she dug up at West Point?”
“No, sir.”
Hooker leaned back in his leather seat.
“I believe I know,” he murmured. His voice became sharper.
“Delay my flight to Oahu for a day. I want to get a resolution on this problem. File a flight plan for New York.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 19
WEST POINT MILITARY RESERVATION, NEW YORK
3 DECEMBER
7:00 P.M.LOCAL 2400 ZULU
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 batte
ry.
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.
