Stuart Woods - Two-Dollar Bill

Billy Bob rapped him sharply on the head with the barrel of the assault rifle. "You're not paying attention," he said.

Stone felt a warm trickle of blood run down his scalp to his neck. "There's something I've got to do before we go back to Rockefeller Center," Stone said.

"What do you mean, there's something you've got to do?" Billy Bob demanded. "This is my party, and we'll go where I say."

"Yeah, well you're going to have to say it to that police helicopter on our tail. Those things are equipped with rocket launchers, you know, but if we can get across the Hudson, they can't touch us. They'll have to scramble Jersey State Police choppers on the other side, and that will take time." He was coming up on Twelfth Avenue, now, and the river was just ahead.

"What police chopper?" Billy Bob asked. "I don't see it."

"It's dead behind us, and gaining," Stone said. "But we can make Jersey, and we'll be okay. The chopper crossed the banks of the Hudson at a thousand feet, and then Billy Bob did something that Stone would always be grateful for.

He stepped back, transferred the assault rifle to his left hand, grabbed a handgrip bolted to the airframe and stuck his head into the slipstream, leaning out and looking behind them for the police helicopter.

Stone yanked back on the throttle, whipped the stick to the right and the chopper went into an impossibly steep right turn. He looked back to see Billy Bob hanging out of the helicopter, still gripping the rifle, hanging on to the handgrip for dear life. Stone kicked the right rudder, and the chopper's roll became even steeper. It was more than Billy Bob's grip could handle. His grip failed, and Stone watched him begin his plunge toward the icy Hudson a thousand feet below.

But Stone had no time to relish the moment, because the helicopter continued to roll. Stone could see the George Washington Bridge, in the distance, and it was upside down. Stone had a sensation of falling from the sky, and he closed his eyes. Then a huge explosion rocked the helicopter, and Stone knew Billy Bob had tested his grenade.

THE HEAT from the explosion caused a huge thermal, and the helicopter rode it upward, threatening to roll again. Stone got hold of himself and got hold of the stick. The airspeed had bled off to sixty knots, and he was afraid of stalling again. He shoved the throttle forward, and held the stick centered between his legs, hoping aerodynamics would do the rest. But now there was something new-a thumping vibration that rhythmically shook the chopper.

The instrument panel was a vibrating blur, so he looked outside to orient himself. He was flying up the river toward the George Washington Bridge, and he didn't have enough altitude to clear it. He pushed the stick down, and a moment later, the bridge passed over him. He eased back the stick, trying to gain altitude without advancing the throttle. He thought he must have lost a rotor tip in the explosion, and he didn't want to put any more strain on the machine.

Finally, he was at the top of the Palisades, the high cliffs overlooking the Hudson, then he managed to gain another couple of hundred feet. He remembered that Teterboro was southwest of the bridge, and he eased the chopper into a shallow left turn. The vibration increased, but soon, he was on the right heading. Then he saw a big business jet a few miles ahead, making an approach, and he followed its line of flight toward the runway. He had the airfield in sight.

He found a radio in the panel, but he couldn't for the life of him remember the frequency for Teterboro tower, so he tuned in 121.5 mhz, the emergency frequency, and pressed the push-to-talk switch. "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday," he said. "Helicopter approaching Teterboro from the northeast for emergency landing. Teterboro tower, if you can hear me, clear the way, because I've never landed a helicopter, and I think I have a broken rotor tip."

"Stone?" A familiar voice

"Dino?"

"Right behind you, pal."

"Helicopter, Teterboro tower," an urgent voice said. "We have you in sight; cleared to land anyplace you want to put her down. Suggest runway one niner, if able."

"I'll do the best I can," Stone replied. "Dino?"

"Shut up and fly the chopper," Dino said.

Stone took his advice. He began trying to slow the helicopter; he was too hot, and he pulled back on the throttle and held his altitude to bleed off airspeed, the way he would do in an airplane. He could see the runway, now, and he was about two hundred feet above it. He pulled the throttle back to idle, and the thing began dropping like a rock. He added power, but he was still high and hot. He chopped the throttle again and yanked back on the stick. The sky filled the windshield, and with his peripheral vision he could see the ground coming up fast. He passed over the runway, losing altitude, in a nose-up position.

The helicopter struck tail first, and still Stone held the stick back. Then it slammed into the ground, and strangely, there was water everywhere. Stone, who was not wearing a seat belt, was thrown forward, striking his head on the windshield. The last thing he heard was the noise of the rotor chewing up the ground, then everything went quiet.

THE VOICE came from a distance: "Stone?" A small voice. "Stone?" Somebody shook him and pulled him back into his seat. Stone opened his eyes and looked around.

"Peter?"

"Here I am, Stone."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, and I did what you said."

"What?"

"I got behind the seat and stayed there. It was sort of like a ride at the carnival in Charlottesville, but not as much fun."

The air was filled with approaching sirens, and Stone was aware that a helicopter was landing a few yards away. He looked out the window and saw that they had come to rest in shallow water, a swampy area between a runway and a taxiway. Twenty yards away he saw his own airplane, parked with others in the infield. Then he passed out.

HIS DREAMS were not good: They were a montage of Billy Bob, Arrington, Peter and Tiffany Baldwin, who always seemed to be screaming at him. Then, slowly, they faded and he found himself in a darkened room. Sunlight peeked from behind Venetian blinds. Someone was holding his hand.

"Stone?" A woman's voice.

"Go away, Tiff," he said wearily. He had had enough of her.

"It's Arrington."

Stone turned his head and looked at her. "It is, isn't it?" he said, relieved.

"You're all right; you just had a couple of bumps on the head. You lost a little hair, and you have a few stitches, and your head is sort of swollen, but you'll be just fine. All you have to do is rest."

"I'm hungry," Stone said. "Am I on drugs?"

"The doctor gave you something when they stitched your head up yesterday. He wanted you to rest."

"Yesterday? And now it's today?"

"That's how it works, Stone: yesterday, then today."

"Can I have a bacon cheeseburger?"

"I'm not sure that's on the menu, but I'll get you something." She picked up the call buzzer and pressed it. A moment later a nurse came in, followed by Dino and Lance.

"Okay, Lance," he said. "Now you can court-martial me."

Everybody began laughing.

LANCE AND DINO took him home that afternoon, in Arrington's chauffeured Bentley.

"Where's Arrington?" Stone asked, as they got into the car.

"She and Peter had something to do," Dino said. "She didn't say what."

"Let me tell you where we are," Lance said. "We recovered thirty-five grenades from the helicopter you crashed."

"Crashed? I thought that was a pretty good landing, considering."

"Controlled crash was how the FAA described it," Dino said. "The helicopter is a total loss."

"That's what insurance is for."

"Billy Bob managed to fire one grenade while he was falling from the helicopter," Lance said.