Stuart Woods: Two-Dollar Bill

The helicopter began a slow, descending left turn, and Stone made a leap for the copilot's seat. "Hang on, Peter!" he yelled, grabbing the boy's hand and dragging him forward. Stone made the copilot's seat and grabbed the stick, trying to get the chopper level, but then he saw the top of a building coming at him. He yanked back on the stick and cleared the building by a foot, then continued climbing, feeling the airspeed bleed off. They were going to stall any second.

Stone pushed the pilot's body out of the way and found the throttle, pushing it forward. The chopper climbed, and he breathed a sigh of relief, until he realized that Peter was no longer next to him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the boy tugging at the inert Billy Bob, one of whose legs was dangling out the open door.

"Come back to me, Peter!" he shouted, and in that moment of looking back, he lost control of the helicopter. It banked sharply to the left, and Stone desperately tried to correct. The chopper had turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees before he could level it again and glance back. The good news was both Billy Bob and Peter had been thrown against the left side of the helicopter, away from the open door. "Come to me, Peter!" he shouted.

"No," the boy shouted back. "He'll fall out, if I let him go."

"No, he won't. Come to me!"

Peter shook his head and clung to Billy Bob.

Stone looked at the chopper's instrument panel, trying to find something that looked like an autopilot. He found nothing but the usual flight instruments, like the ones on his own airplane. He was headed north again, toward Central Park. At least that was open space, he thought. He might have some chance of setting the thing down. He looked back at Peter.

"Listen to me!" he shouted. "He's all right, he won't fall out. I want you to climb over the backseat and stay there while I land. Sit down and don't move!"

The boy looked at the rear seats, then at Billy Bob, then at Stone. He nodded.

Stone tried to keep the chopper level while Peter inched his way aft. He glanced back to see the boy disappear behind the rear seats. "Thank God," he said, then he turned his attention back to flying.

It didn't feel like an airplane, exactly, but it had a stick, rudder pedals and a throttle, like an airplane. He hoped to God he wasn't going to need the collective handle, because he didn't really know what would happen if he used it. They were crossing Fifty-seventh Street now, and the bare trees of Central Park beckoned.

Then he heard Peter scream, "Stone!!!" He looked back to find Billy Bob on his knees, his head bleeding and his assault rifle pointed at Stone. What was worse, he could see that a grenade had been attached to the rifle.

"Shoot me, and you die!" Stone shouted.

"Do what I say, or we all die," Billy Bob shouted back. "The boy, too!"

STONE TRIED to think of something, but he could only concentrate on keeping the helicopter in the air.

Billy Bob slipped on a headset and handed Stone one. "We're going back to Times Square," he said.

Stone put on the headset. "I've never flown a helicopter before. I don't know if I can make that kind of turn without dumping this thing."

"Well, you seem to be doing okay," Billy Bob replied. "Let's give it a whirl. Say, where's the boy?"

"I lost him trying to turn this thing. He was trying to keep you inside, and he went out."

"And I had grown so fond of the little shit," Billy Bob said. "To think he gave his all for me. Hey, why aren't you turning?" He nudged the back of Stone's head with the assault rifle.

Stone started a right-hand turn, keeping it shallow. He was making a wide arc to the east, now, and they were over Fifth Avenue before he was headed south.

"You know," Billy Bob said, "there are an awful lot of cops around Times Square, and they probably have snipers set up by now. Maybe a nicer spot would be Rockefeller Center, and you're right on course."

"Oh, shit," Stone muttered.

"I can put a grenade right into the skating rink," Billy Bob said. "The area will be jammed with tourists this time of year."

"Why are you doing this?" Stone asked. "What's in it for you?"

"I know I'm not getting out of this alive," Billy Bob said. "I may as well make a splash."

"Look, I can fly this thing to Teterboro right now. Don't you have an airplane out there?"

"Not anymore, Stone."

"Then hijack one. There are always a dozen jets on the ramp with their engines running, waiting for passengers to arrive. Take one and get the hell out of here."

"And where would I go?"

"Iceland doesn't have an extradition treaty with the United States." This wasn't true, but maybe Billy Bob didn't know that.

"Iceland doesn't have an extradition treaty? I've never heard that."

"Few people know about it, but it's true."

"Bullshit. I don't believe that for a moment."

"Then…" Stone was about to make another suggestion, but he was interrupted by the sound of the engine sputtering and dying. The helicopter began to descend.

"What the hell is wrong?" Billy Bob shouted.

"I don't know," Stone replied. He was scanning the instrument panel, looking for a warning light or some other reason. His eyes stopped on the fuel gauges: One of them showed full, the other empty. He found a lever and shoved it sideways, changing tanks. The engine came back to life, as if it had never been starved for fuel.

"Good work, Stone."

But now they were low over Fifth Avenue. Stone eased the throttle forward, and the chopper began to climb again. "What's wrong with Mexico?" he asked.

"Too far. They'd shoot me down before I could get there."

"Then go offshore and head for South America. They can't shoot you down over international waters." This was a lie, too.

"You know, you might have something there."

"So, we'll head for Teterboro?"

"Yeah, but not yet; first I want to lob a couple of these grenades into Rockefeller Center, see how they perform. Call it a test."

"You do that, and they'll never stop looking for you, Billy Bob. Come on, you've got money offshore, right? Head south and lie low. Find some nice spot and buy a house and a few girls. Eventually, they'll get tired of looking."

"You make it sound so inviting," Billy Bob said.

"It'll never happen if you fire those grenades," Stone said. "The cops will blow us out of the sky; they'll be finding pieces of us around midtown for days. But, right now, they're standing off. We can make Teterboro."

"That's a very tempting thought, Stone," Billy Bob said.

"Turning right for Teterboro," Stone said. He eased the chopper into a right turn. Then he felt the gun barrel at the back of his head again.

"I don't think so," Billy Bob said.

"Come on, why not?"

"Because I'm tired, Stone. I've run out my string, and this is going to be my last day on the planet. Yours, too. You know, I'm really sorry about the boy; he was a sweet kid."

Stone leveled out heading west. He wasn't going to be complicit in this. If he and Peter were going to die today, then they weren't going to take hundreds of others with them. If a grenade had to go off, then the Hudson River, he decided, was the best place for it to happen. He didn't think Billy Bob would have time to fire one and reload from the case before he could dump the helicopter into the icy river.

"Hey, you're headed in the wrong direction," Billy Bob said.

"No, I think you really want to go to Teterboro; that's the best deal." They had crossed Sixth Avenue, now, and Seventh was coming up fast. Five more crosstown blocks, and he'd make the water. Stone pushed the throttle farther forward and adjusted the trim to keep the chopper level, so it would pick up speed. He watched the airspeed climb from eighty-five to a hundred knots.