Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“Did you check him out, this doctor?” Mercer torqued himself around so that his eyes bored into Collins.

“I made a couple of calls when it happened.”

“And?” He cocked one dark eyebrow.

“Tissue repair following frostbite was his true speciality. He’s one of the foremost…” Collins went silent.

The rotors were thumping over their heads so loudly they drowned out the sound of the JetRanger’s turbine. Eddie kept the craft straight and level, ignoring his desire to dip into the valleys and fly nape of the earth as the military had trained him to do. In the Gulf War, he’d flown Recon Marines into the hottest landing zones, and that wild flying style had never left him.

Mercer spoke. “How many times has the Arctica docked at Alyeska without incident in the past year? How many times has Harris Albrecht snugged his tanker into your docks without so much as a bump? Tell me how he could lose an arm and need the attention of a frostbite specialist on a normal run from Long Beach, California, to Valdez, Alaska. He’s been smuggling frozen nitrogen into Alaska right under your nose. But on his last trip, something went wrong.”

“You don’t think this is all related?”

Mercer shot him a scathing look. “For Christ’s sake, of course it’s all related. Why do you think I’m in this helicopter with a madman at the controls while I could be back home having drinks at my neighborhood bar? Mike, Howard Small is dead, his cousin is dead, and so is his cousin’s son. People have taken potshots at me all because we found the boat ferrying the canisters of liquid nitrogen from the Petromax Arctica to shore. Kerikov and PEAL are trying to cover themselves by eliminating anyone who stumbled onto their operation. Your computer problem? It isn’t a coincidence, despite what your computer guy says. The riot at the depot, the accident with your vans? Whatever Kerikov has planned is happening right now!”

He hadn’t intended to go off like that; it wasn’t his style, but tension was starting to eat at him. There was a nagging feeling telling him he was already too late. He wasn’t angry at Mike Collins for not recognizing the dangers; he was mad at himself for not recognizing them fast enough. When Aggie Johnston had told him her boyfriend was gone on some mysterious mission, he should have acted then, called in the cavalry so to speak, and ordered a statewide search for PEAL’s leader. He was certain that Kerikov would have turned up in the same dragnet and this desperate flight wouldn’t have been necessary.

“Eddie, what’s our ETA to Elmendorf AFB?”

“I don’t know, I filed a flight plan to Fairbanks. What’s at Elly?”

“A couple of helicopter gunships and some gung-ho soldiers.” Mercer grinned at Rice. “There’s no way I’m going to get shot at again.”

“Amen to that, brother.” Rice smiled back, his teeth looking iridescent in the glow of the cockpit. “I’d say about another hour and ten minutes in these conditions.”

“As soon as you can, get me in radio contact with them. They’re expecting my call.” Mercer then switched to a more relaxed tone. “So, how does your wife like living up here?”

“She doesn’t,” Rice said ruefully. “She and I split up while I was still in the hospital. It seems I wasn’t the only one receiving injections from my doctor at Pearl.”

“Man, I’m sorry.”

“Ah, shit. Life goes on, don’t it? Besides, a black man up here? I get more ass than I can handle.” Eddie’s grin was back, though there was a hint of sad bitterness in his voice.

An hour later, Anchorage was a bright blur on the ground beneath the JetRanger. The waters of Cook Inlet were an inky black stain. The storm that had pounded Valdez during the afternoon had moved northward and now pummeled Alaska’s Queen City. Rain lashed the helicopter, striking the windshield so hard that it sounded like stones thrown against the Plexiglas. The wipers turned the torrent into arcing streaks across their field of vision. Wind rocked the craft, sluing it dangerously despite Eddie’s best efforts. He made no apology for his flying. His face was tight with concentration, his hands and feet dancing over the controls. A pilot of lesser skill wouldn’t have dared flying tonight.

“Alyeska Flight One-eleven, we have you on radar twelve miles out, flying three-oh-five degrees.”

“Roger that, Elmendorf,” Eddie confirmed. “ETA in five minutes. Approach three-ten, squawk zero-two-two-zero. Confirmed.”

“Confirmed One-eleven.”

“You know what you’re doing?” Mercer teased Rice.

“No clue.”

Four minutes and forty seconds later, Eddie settled the Bell chopper onto the tarmac near a huge corrugated steel hangar. Two Huey UH-1 troop transport helicopters were next to the spot where ATC had sent the Alyeska helicopter, and even in the murky light spilling from the hangars, they looked deadly. The side doors were open, revealing gimbal mounted M-60 heavy machine guns. Even before the JetRanger’s blades stopped turning, technicians were swarming around the craft, oblivious to the icy rain buffeting the airfield. A fuel truck drew alongside and two men prepared to attach the thick hose to the chopper.

Mercer ducked from the JetRanger, dashing for the protective cover of the hangar, his boots kicking up violent waves in the puddles on the asphalt. A cold chill lapped under the raised collar of his leather coat, and his hands felt frozen by the time he entered the glowing hangar.

The huge building’s heating eased the chill on Mercer’s exposed skin, but his insides were still cold with fear and apprehension. Two delta-shaped F-15 Strike Eagles dominated the space, their twin tails rising up almost twenty feet from the polished concrete floor. Behind them, at the back of the hangar, a cluster of men waited quietly, their faces blackened with camouflage grease, their M-16A1 assault rifles held competently in demigloved hands. They paid little attention to Mercer as he approached, satisfying themselves with a dismissive glance before turning back to the perpetual task of checking and rechecking equipment. Mercer kept walking toward them, and finally a single man detached himself from the collective.

He was short and heavily built, with bristle-cut hair and a face that needed a razor. His brows were heavy tangles of wiry hair that met above his hooked nose. His eyes were dark and wrinkled at their corners, but Mercer saw that they were level and quick. His mouth, incongruously, was full-lipped and sensitive.

“Colonel Knoff?”

“You must be Mercer.” Knoff’s handshake was like having a hand caught in some sort of farm machine, a relentless grinding pressure. Mercer briefly considered matching Knoff’s handshake but realized this wasn’t some sort of macho test, just Knoff’s natural grip. “I gotta say, you’ve caught us a little off guard here. An hour ago, I was watching porno movies with a few of the guys, and next thing I know, I’m on the phone with General Samuel Kelly, the Air Force’s Chief of Staff. I can’t even guess who you are to pull that kind of string.”

Mercer immediately liked Knoff’s attitude. He didn’t have a career soldier’s disdain for anyone not in uniform. It was clear that he hadn’t forgotten that it was civilians he was trained to serve. “Ask any politician and he’ll tell you I’m the most powerful person in the country.” Mercer smiled. “An American tax-payer.”

“You mind telling me what this is all about?”

Mercer could understand Colonel Knoff’s question and the concern he felt for his men that made him ask it, but none of them had the time to stand around and discuss it. He had to get them moving.

“Colonel, if I’ve managed to convince your superiors about this mission’s importance, put your trust in their judgment and just go along with it. This may be a waste of your time, but if it’s not, if I’m right, we’re going to face a seriously hot LZ. I can’t give you any of the overall picture, but I need to know if you have any tactical questions about tonight’s op. If you don’t ask now, some of your boys may not be coming back.”