Randy White - Twelve Mile Limit

I much prefer boats.

As we walked toward the chopper, I told Lieutenant Martinez, “I’m impressed by your equipment. A covert Little Bird. I’ve never flown in one.”

Martinez’s voice had more than a touch of envy when he answered. “Me neither. That one’s assigned to your SEALs. They won’t let us touch it. We’re going to be transported in that piece of shit.”

He gestured toward a hangar. His men were just sliding back the big double doors.

Inside, was an old Bell UH-type Iroquois-“H” as in a Huey slick. It was painted desert yellow-an unlikely color for a country dense with rain forest. Even the main rotor was bright yellow-an old chopper pilot trick so that fighter aircraft overhead wouldn’t accidentally drop a bomb on you.

I walked into the hangar to take a closer look. The place smelled of dust, diesel fuel, and paint. The chopper’s large cargo doors were open, showing khaki bench seats inside and a single M-60 machine gun fixed in its harness on the starboard side.

I walked to the front of the craft and touched my hand to the landing light, knelt, and read the black and gold crest above it:

I turned and looked at Martinez. “Jesus Christ! This is an old Australian Huey. It’s got to be thirty, forty years old.” I reached for the satellite phone in my pocket-Harrington could certainly find us something safer than this.

The young commando was nodding, not pleased. “I know, I know. Let’s hope we can get the damn thing started this time.”

Above, through the Huey’s open cargo door, the sky was a current of stars. Beneath us was an ocean of blue mist afloat upon canyons of shadow.

We were flying over jungle, the top strata of forest canopy awash in moonlight. The moon was at eye level, through the starboard door. It was huge, pocked by geologic cataclysm, white as winter ice. As we traveled at close to 130 miles an hour, there was the illusion that the moon was sailing along with us, gliding over the rain forest in pursuit, ghostly in its silence.

We had to stop and refuel at a military base near some large city in the mountains-I guessed it to be Bogota. As the aircraft banked away, nose down, and gathered speed in the darkness, flying south, I watched the lights of the city fade, then disappear. After that, there were only small pockets of light: jungle villages, fires burning, the night strongholds of rural people linked by darkness, aglow like incremental pearls, bright and solitary from half a mile high.

In the air a second time, I began to relax a little. Yes, I hated flying in helicopters, but the fact that we had now lifted off safely twice had increased my level of confidence.

Even Lieutenant Martinez seemed to noticed the difference. He slapped me on the shoulder and smiled, “You are not so sick-looking this time, Commander. Not so pale!”

I doubted if he was serious about my coloring-the cabin’s interior was lighted with two overhead red bulbs. Very dim. The human eye contains two types of photoreceptors, rods and cones. Rods do not respond to red light, thus red lights do not alter our night vision.

I didn’t doubt, however, that he and his crew perceived that I was a lot happier on the ground than off. Now, though, in the rare moments I wasn’t worrying about Amelia and what Kazan’s people might be doing to her, I could actually look out onto the jungle and take some small pleasure in the vastness of it, the pure wilderness that it implied.

I knew that we had crossed into the rim of rain forest and rivers that is the beginning of the Amazon Valley, one of the earth’s last remaining wild regions. Below, there were many hundreds-perhaps thousands-of plants, insects, and even fish that had yet to be discovered or described scientifically. People, too-there were still dozens of isolated tribes that had had little or no contact with the outside world.

The thought of doing fieldwork here, of doing a fish count and finding a new species, made me long for my little lab back on Sanibel. I wanted to be back there. I wanted Amelia with me. I liked the image that played in my head: The two of us alone-her doing her work, me doing mine-joined by our proximity, but more than that, too. I liked the idea of the two of us creating our own isolated tribe and reducing our contact with the outside world. Maybe for a couple of months. Maybe a couple of years-or more.

That would be a good thing, too.

The thought that was always with me, though, was much darker. What if Kazan or Stallings had touched her? What if they’d done something to her?

The prospect made me nauseous.

If they had, I’d help put it behind her. She was one of the strong ones. Amelia would be okay. We’d be okay once we got back to Florida.

Before I could take her home, though, I had to find her.

When we were far away from civilization, we dropped down low, probably only five hundred feet or so above the tops of the trees, the pilot following the contour of the jungle.

Through the open cargo door, I could feel the temperature drop as we followed, for a time, the course of a river. I could smell the musk of rotting wood and vine, the quarry scent of fresh water.

One of Tomlinson’s favorite assertions is that for a certain type of person-both of us included-an external association with water is as important as internal consumption. Oddly, just knowing I was over water made me feel better.

But the feeling didn’t last long.

From the cockpit, I heard the pilot shout Shit, a word that, in Spanish, has an ironic, musical sound. Then he yelled, “Those sons of bitches!” as the chopper twisted suddenly to port.

I knew then that we were in trouble.

The helicopter was equipped with some kind of a radar-detection system. As the craft turned, I began to hear a steady beeping noise. I leaned to look into the cockpit and could see a flashing red light on the control panel. If I hadn’t known what the noise was, I could have guessed what it meant when the pilot began jinking wildly, making hard lefts and rights, as if trying to do evade.

The beeping alarm meant that something on the ground was tracking us.

For the Anfibios, it wasn’t so bad. Except for the commando belted to the M-60 machine gun, the rest were strapped tight onto the bench seat across from me. From old habit, though, I chose to add an extra layer of protection between my butt and the chopper’s thin armor. Any kid with a rifle can shoot up through the belly of a helicopter. From what I knew about Colombia, there were bound to be a lot of people down there with rifles. Probably eager to use them, too.

I was sitting on the briefcase that Harrington had provided me. I, too, wore a seat belt, but the surface of the briefcase was slick, and I began to slide violently one way, then the other, as the chopper jinked. I kept myself steady by holding on to the nylon strap overhead until, during a unbelievably sharp turn, the strap broke.

The fuselage of the chopper wasn’t the only thing that was outdated.

From the flight deck, the beeping horn changed to a loud, high-pitched warble, as I heard the pilot yell, “They’re firing at us, those sons of bitches just fired!”

And I thought to myself: Stinger missile.

You’re dead, Ford. Dead.

The Stinger is a man-portable, shoulder-fired, infra-red, heat-seeking guided missile that travels faster than the speed of sound. It weighs less than forty pounds and comes with a disposable firing tube.

In Afghanistan, mountain people used Stingers to shoot down a couple hundred Russian MIG fighter jets. For a computer-controlled missile sufficiently sophisticated to discriminate between background clutter and an actual aircraft, this old chopper wasn’t much of a challenge.

Our door gunner had opened fire: a deafening staccato clatter, tracers streaming through the darkness, and spent brass casings ringing bell-like against the fuselage.