I'm trying, he thought but didn't use any of his air to say so. His side split and pain burned up his chest to his armpits. Within sight was the building where she'd parked the snowmobile and his car. He wondered why it wasn't closer to the house. Why hadn't they attached the garage? The place was built within the last twenty years. Attached garages weren't a novelty then. Yet, this shed was several hundred yards from the house and the size of a barn.
Sandra slid a door to the side and disappeared inside. He followed as fast as he could. Behind him the sound of the engine was getting closer. It trudged along. Wyatt wondered what kind of vehicle it could be. It didn't sound like a car engine. He couldn't tell how many RPM’s he heard at this distance. It could be a snowmobile. For some reason it sounded like a—tank. He rejected the idea. What would a tank be doing in the Pocono Mountains?
He entered the building where Sandra had gone. What he saw made the possibility of a tank not so farfetched. In front of him was a helicopter. Looking like a giant bug in the darkened cavern, Wyatt stood frozen in place.
"Damn," he cursed. "And I was thinking about a snowmobile." Relief spread through him. They had an avenue of escape. It had been there and she'd known about it all along.
The helicopter was equipped with both wheels and skids. Sandra was already in the cockpit placing earphones over her ears.
"Can you fly this thing?" he shouted above the noise created by her turning on gauges and flipping switches. His heart began to pound again. Maybe they wouldn't be able to escape. Checking over his shoulder he expected men to suddenly burst through the door, guns drawn, and begin shooting. "Can you fly this thing?" he repeated, this time with more urgency in his voice.
"Better than I can perform medical procedures. Get in."
"Are you sure?" Wyatt hesitated. He wasn't sure he wanted to die in a helicopter accident in the snow-covered mountains of Pennsylvania. "That snow trawler is getting closer."
"It's a piece of cake, Wyatt." She glared at him. "This is an Enstrom F-28C. It has a supercharged Lycoming HIO-360 piston engine that generates over 200 horsepower. The engine operates on 100 octane gasoline and it's blue. Feel better?"
"Only if you tell me you can fly it."
"I start the engine, engage the rotor clutch, bring the throttle up to takeoff power of 2900 RPM's, pull the collective until the skid is approximately three to five feet off the ground, use the tail rotor pedals to rotate into the wind, push the cyclic to lower the nose slightly and accelerate to a climb speed of sixty knots. And then I fly. Any questions?"
"None," he said. He couldn't hear the engine of the other vehicle above the chopping sound of the one he was in, but he was sure they, whoever they were, were getting closer.
Swinging himself into the seat next to her, he slid the glass door closed. She pulled a stick forward and the car eased forward. It rolled onto the snow. Wyatt was sure it would sink into the soft powder, but she worked the controls and he felt the heavy machine settle. He knew she had changed from wheels to skis.
"There they are." He pointed to three men trying valiantly to negotiate the elements and get to the helicopter.
Sandra looked in their direction. "They have guns!" she exclaimed as a shot rang out. It missed them, but startled Sandra. She pulled the stick forward, and the chopper lifted off the ground. A flurry of snow churned below them like an explosion of feathers. The men on the ground shot blindly through the cloud. Wyatt raised his hand, warding off possible injury. Sandra raised the metal bird on an angle then banked right, directly over the men chasing them.
Wyatt felt the air pressure change as she ascended. As soon as she cleared the trees she headed South. He could see the men on the ground scurrying back to the trawler. One of them raised his fist to the sky. He squinted but recognized no one. Who were they? They probably scared Sandra to death, yet she was concentrating on controlling the helicopter.
"K9051, calling K7950. Over." Sandra adjusted the mouthpiece connected to her headset as she spoke.
"Sandy, what's going on?" She'd called Olson Andrews her uncle every since she was a little girl.
"We're in Starfighter and heading for the station. Several men with guns got out of a trawler and shot at us."
"Are you hurt?" His voice boomed into her ears. She looked at Wyatt. He'd put his earphones on and was listening to the conversation. He shook his head.
"We're fine."
"Good."
She could hear the relief in his voice.
"You come on in. Pad F is free."
Before she could answer Wyatt stopped her. "What's the range on this helicopter?"
She checked the fuel gauge. It was full. "Five or six hundred miles, why?"
"We can't go to the ranger station. They would have left men there."
"You don't know that."
"They couldn't have just found this place. They came in a snow trawler, not your standard snow vehicle for Pennsylvania. They were determined to find me. Sandra, they're not stupid. If they got this far, they certainly covered their bases."
She opened the channel. "Uncle Olson, are you alone?"
"No, there are other men on duty, but no one is in the room at the moment. What's on your mind?"
"Mr. Andrews, this is Wyatt Randolph. Are there any strangers at the station?"
"There've been people all over for days, what with the good weather and all the snow we've had. A stranger wouldn't be noticed."
"What about people asking for directions to Senator Rutledge’s cabin?"
"A few days ago, before the roads were cleared, a couple of guys asked about skiing in that area, but left when we told them there were no trails that way."
Wyatt cut the transmission again. "We can't go there," he told her again. "Believe me, Sandra, I've been running from these guys long enough to know they'd leave someone behind. Go somewhere else."
"Sandy!" She heard her name screamed into her ears. "What are you doing? You've just passed over us."
"What do I tell him?" she asked Wyatt.
He hesitated for a moment, thinking. "Don't tell him anything. Cut the speaker."
"I can't-"
Wyatt yanked the earphones and speaker from her. The sound of the rotors vibrating deafened her. She had to use her hands to control the aircraft and couldn't let go to fight him. Then she remembered she had control. She was flying this chopper. She could turn and sit down on Pad F or she could keep going. However, men had chased them and fired shots as they escaped from the cabin. It wasn’t too far a reach to believe what he said about there being men at the ranger station. Pad F was out in the open. If they did sit down and someone was waiting, they'd have no cover and no time to take off again.
Giving him the benefit of the doubt, she quickly adjusted the controls and laid in a course for the nation's capital. If he was telling the truth, she wanted verification, and where better to get it than from her own father? They could go to Washington and all this would be cleared up in a matter of minutes. At least her father's part would be cleared up. She didn't know what it would take to get rid of the men shooting at them.
Chapter 5
The lights of the Capital dazzled like fiery points in the distance ahead. Sandra watched them come closer as she angled the aircraft forward. She rarely got to see the monuments from this angle, bathed in light and Lilliputian size. Usually she entered the capital from the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, a heavily trafficked route where she was more concerned about negotiating the converging lanes and the many vehicles on the road than checking out the scenery.
Careful not to stray into restricted airspace, she headed for Reagan National Airport in nearby Virginia. Wyatt had been deep in thought since he realized she wasn't heading for the ranger station. She didn't disturb him but flew silently for the hour trip to the District.
Suddenly he sat up straight and asked, "What are we doing here?"
"My parents live here," she offered as explanation.
"Coming here is like taking out an a
d. I can't go anywhere in this town where I won't be recognized."
"Then it seems like the best place to hide. Who would expect you to return home?"
"Those same guys who found me at the cabin will have my house watched. Just how do you think we can survive here?"
She wondered if he knew he'd included her in his plans. She wasn't sure she wanted to be part of them, but she didn't have a choice until this business about her father being a traitor was laid to rest.
"We won't go to your house. We'll go someplace else."
"Where? We can't walk up to the senator's house. I'd be dead before I cleared the first flagstone."
"You've been to the house before?" Sandra's eyebrows rose. The courtyard to her family's Georgetown address was inlaid with pink and green flagstones.
"Only once, and I didn't get out of the car."
He stopped abruptly and Sandra was afraid to ask him why. He looked agitated. It could be due to fear that there were people on the ground who wanted to kill him, but it could also be that he'd been lying all along. Sandra had to find out which was the truth.
Why would he lie, she wondered. Lying usually meant a person had something to gain. In her role as instructor of mathematics, she heard plenty of student lies; everything from oversleeping to the death of a family member. What would Wyatt have to gain? She had no answer for that. She'd only known him a little over a week, and looking objectively at the circumstances of his arrival and the story he'd told her, she wasn't sure where the truth lay. Yet, she knew the part about her father had to have another explanation and she was determined to prove it.
As she approached the airport she reached for the switch to talk to the control tower. Wyatt's larger hand covered hers.
"What are you planning to tell them?" he asked.
"That I need landing instructions."
"And when we get to the ground?"
"Wyatt, they don't know you're with me."
"What about the ranger? He didn't radio ahead?"
"He didn't know where we were headed."
"He might have guessed. You are a senator's daughter. Where else would you go except back to the nest?"
"I don't live with my father. For all Uncle Olson knows I could have flown to Johnson Hall."
"It might have been better if we had gone there—wherever there is."
"Johnson Hall is the name of the building that houses the corporate headquarters of the mega-health care company, Johnson and Johnson. They have a heliport in New Brunswick. The building was constructed in the style of the university with an angular roof and cupola. It sits directly across the street from the main campus where I teach." She paused a moment, glancing at him to check his reaction. "They don't allow private landings except for their executives."
"All right," he conceded. "I suppose if they knew I was at your father's cabin, they also know about you."
Sandra shuddered. She remembered the men with the guns and being shot at. The idea that someone might be watching her house in New Brunswick scared her.
"There are a few rules I insist on when we land." Wyatt's voice pulled her out of the shock.
"I'm listening."
"First, you get out alone. Tell no one, no one, I'm here or that you have seen me."
Sandra nodded agreement.
"Then get a taxi and go to the Commodore Hotel. I'll meet you there."
Sandra hovered above the heliport, dropping altitude on an easy cushion of air. Reagan National was busy for both planes and helicopters. No one took any notice of them.
Wyatt suddenly popped his seat belt and climbed behind her seat. He wouldn't be seen by anyone coming toward them when they reached the ground. Sandra touched down inside the brightly painted circle on the ground. She reached for the switches to begin shutting down the engine when Wyatt stopped her.
"Wait," he said.
"In there." He pointed to a gray-painted hangar not far from where she'd set down. A small sign reading Richard's Aviation hung on the outside wall.
She looked at him. "It's highly unusual," she said.
"I don't care."
Sandra taxied the helicopter into the hangar. She gathered her backpack and prepared to open the door.
"One more thing," he said, his hand on her left arm. "Take these." He threw a small box into her lap.
"You're giving me the stones?"
"Not all of them. Just enough for insurance."
"Insurance?"
"You don't really believe everything I've said. In case anything happens to me, I won't have all the stones, and whatever their purpose, all of them are necessary to accomplish it."
"I'm to be your safety net?"
"Not exactly. If I don't survive, you're the next target."
***
Wyatt could see her walking away from him. Her hips swayed from side to side. He couldn't help the sexual excitement that rushed to his loins as he watched. She didn't turn back and glance over her shoulder. He'd expected that she would. Maybe she'd bought into his story and thought looking back could alert anyone watching that she expected something else to take place. Disappointment tightened in his gut. In a moment he pushed it aside.
She swung the backpack onto her right shoulder and struck an easy gait. Her footsteps echoed in the cavernous hollow. The heavy parka she wore covered her from neck to knees. Her legs were protected by ski pants and she had on knee-length boots, yet he knew the body concealed under all that clothing. He'd held it against him and knew her softness and her smell. Eventually he wanted to know her taste.
He felt like a heel putting her in danger, but it had to be done. He told himself he had to be sensible, logical. If he were to survive he had to cover all the bases, and Sandra Rutledge believed staunchly in her father. He didn't know what she would do when confronted with the truth. If he'd given her all the stones, she could have turned them over to the man responsible for sabotaging Project Eagle. Yet, if his ability to judge character held, she would at least examine the options before making a decision. He was counting on that.
Wyatt had made her a target nonetheless. She'd gotten out of the helicopter in plain view. If someone had seen her they would have no problem in capturing her and finding out everything they needed to know. It was a risk, but he had to take it. He didn't want her hurt, and if there was anything he could do to prevent it, he would.
She'd been gone five minutes. Wyatt checked the exterior grounds for anyone who might be within sight. Scanning the area like a human periscope, he saw no one. He let himself out of the cockpit and skirted the ground until he reached the wall of the huge building. Quietly he listened for voices, any sign of life. Since he'd been on the run, his life had depended on his powers of sight and hearing. He could hear a pin drop during a hurricane or a gun cocking in the horn-honking cacophony of rush hour traffic.
Rejecting the obvious avenue of escape, he looked about for another exit. There were no windows, only giant doors at both ends of the building.
Deciding to take the one opposite from Sandra's choice, he worked his way around the hollowed room and blended into the shadows near the slate-colored wall. He skimmed the edge and peered outside. It was bright, as cloudless an afternoon sky as any pilot could ask for. Visibility was probably endless. Activity went on everywhere. If he stepped outside, anyone could see him. Sandra had walked about freely and no one stopped her. Maybe if he followed her lead, acting as if he belonged there and knew what he was doing, no one would take notice of him either.
Looking behind him, he took stock of the hangar. The helicopter was the only occupant. Around the room were different machines used to diagnose mechanical problems in the equipment, an old luggage cart without the Jeep to drive it, cans of oil and dirty rags, and someone's baseball cap. He took the cap and pulled it down over his head. A pair of overalls lay on the luggage cart with the name "Adam" stitched onto the breast pocket. Wyatt slipped into them. They covered most of him, leaving his boots and about five inches of his pant legs showing above
them. Reaching down, he stuffed his pants into the boots. He didn't think he'd pass the GQ male-model test in this outfit, but he hoped it was good enough to pass as a mechanic.
It was the best he could do. With an I-belong-here-and-know-what-I'm-doing attitude, he strolled casually out of the hangar and walked toward the arrivals building. If he got to the building, he'd discard me "borrowed" clothes in the first men’s room he came to, but he'd keep the hat, then jump into a cab.
He made it, almost.
"Hey, Mister." A kid of about eleven stood behind him. Wyatt stopped, thinking it was better to find out what the kid wanted than to ignore him and have him begin making loud comments to his back. He remembered being eleven well and knew how he and his friends used to act. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself.
"Are you lost?" Wyatt asked, hoping it was something as innocuous as that, and pointing him in the direction of the information booth.
"Aren't you that senator I saw on TV?"
So much for his chameleon act. Maybe he should have kept the mechanics clothes, not just the baseball cap. Wyatt checked his surroundings hoping no one had heard the boy. He might have been an intelligent kid, a good kid, but at the moment Wyatt wanted to muzzle him.
"Yeah, Senator Rut—Rut—something."
"Rutledge," Wyatt whispered, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.
"Yeah, that's the one." A wide smile split his face revealing teeth that seemed too big for his mouth. "Can I have your autograph?"
Wyatt almost laughed with relief. "Of course. Do you have something I can write on?"
"I only have this." He shoved a copy of Sports Illustrated for Kids and a pen at him.
Wyatt smiled and took the magazine. He clicked the pen and signed Senator Rutledge's name in a script so unreadable no one would have a clue what it actually read. He handed the book and pen back to the boy.
"Gee, thanks, mister. Wait until I show my friends." With that, he was off, looking in one direction while he ran in the other. Wyatt could see he was going to collide with someone in the busy terminal and waited long enough to see it happen. The unlucky victim was a harried traveler carrying bags and cases. Everything went haywire, but the kid was unhurt.
White Diamonds (Capitol Chronicles Book 2) Page 7
