Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

The sheer surprise of seeing this rash counterattack against an armored aircraft must have far outweighed its actual threat to its occupants. As the chopper banked and veered away, one of the men in back was either hit by a lucky shot or simply lost his footing and fell, arms flailing, sixty feet down into the pavement.

The helo had disappeared around the side of the building but it likely wouldn’t be gone for long. Hollis ran outside to the fallen body, took the AR-15 strapped over the dead man’s shoulder and a spare magazine from his pack, and then hurried the length of the warehouse back toward the vehicle bay.

There was a heavy thump from overhead as something hit the ceiling. He ducked behind cover and a second later an explosion shook the place and peeled back the metal roof high above the south side of the warehouse. Shiny canisters fell through the new opening, spewing sparks and yellowish gas as they bounced and skittered across the floor.

When he reached the others they were taking shelter within the igloo of stacked sandbags, just as he’d asked. He retrieved the respirators from the front seat of the truck and helped the three of them strap on the masks before he applied his own. As the stinging gas began to blow through the space he directed Lana and Cathy back into hiding and then turned to Tyler.

“It’s not much of a chance we’ve got but I need your help!” Hollis shouted through the clear mask. “Follow me!”

The boy nodded without hesitation, and they set off running.

The two of them reached the nearest of the water heaters they’d prepared earlier and Tyler helped steady the heavy cylinder as Hollis put his shoulder to it and lifted it upright so it was standing as designed on its stubby legs. He twisted the thermostat control to its maximum setting, tapped the boy’s arm, and they ran on to the next one.

Another explosion rocked the air from above and another jagged hole tore open in the roof. Rain poured in to mingle with the water already spraying from the overhead sprinkler system, which had been set off by the smoke and drifting gas.

They’d just managed to get the last of the heaters aimed upright and set on high when gunfire erupted from overhead and they were driven again to cover. It wasn’t the big gun that was firing this time; maybe that beast really was out of commission. The helicopter was fighting gusting winds and the three-round bursts coming from the remaining men in back made a lot of noise but so far weren’t proving accurate.

“I don’t know how much time we’ve got before those water heaters blow on their own,” Hollis said, “but it’s not much. Get to the back and get your mom and the girl ready to go. Tell them to stay down and cover their ears tight, and you do the same. This is about to get loud.”

Tyler looked reluctant to leave but he did what was right and took off running for the rear of the warehouse. The gunfire from above shifted to follow his sudden movement, the bullets clanging in the rafters and ricocheting off the high shelves along his path. Whatever they were using to track their targets, it wasn’t only visual; it seemed as though they could see through solid walls.

As the helicopter appeared through one of the holes in the ceiling, Hollis stepped out from cover and opened fire on it with the AR-15. That seemed to do the trick of drawing attention away from the others; a new barrage of bullets rained down around his position as he ran for the front and then on outside into the parking lot.

Hollis tore the respirator from his face as he crouched behind the metal base of a tall light pole. The helicopter was hovering above the battered warehouse, pivoting around so the men in the cargo bay would have a clear shot at him and the others from a safer range.

He reloaded and readied the rifle, brought the scope near his eye, took aim at the base of the first distant water heater—the one that was almost directly below the aircraft—and then squeezed the trigger.

The cylinder exploded with the force of a healthy stick of TNT, sending the bulk of its chassis rocketing upward through the roof, trailing vapor and debris five hundred feet into the air.

It was a clean miss, but the craft was buffeted by the shock wave and began an evasive sideways drift, left to right across the width of the warehouse. The men in the back were still firing at him, the impacts of their shots working closer to him by the second. He kept his patience, tracked the building speed and movement of the helicopter, and breathed the first real prayer he’d offered in twenty years. He then sighted down on his remaining targets and shot them in sequence, right to left:

1 . . . . . . . 2 . . . . . . . 3 . . . . . . . 4 . . . . . . . 5

The pilot of the craft must have sensed what was in store, because the helicopter had jerked suddenly upward and pivoted toward safety, but his reaction came too late.

Each water heater blasted upward through the roof, one after the other, in a relentless line toward his oncoming flight path, until the last of them just barely clipped the chopper’s aft end. It was just enough; the impact hadn’t looked like much but the tail of the craft was destroyed.

With no force to counteract the torque of the main rotor the helicopter began an uncontrolled spin, whirling faster and faster as it descended toward the far side of the parking lot, where it crashed in a bright, fiery explosion of unspent fuel and armaments.

Hollis pushed himself to his feet and walked slowly toward the burning wreckage, scanning the area for danger as he went, his weapon at the ready. He reached the crash about the time Tyler and the others pulled up beside him in the truck.

In the back of the ruined chopper were the burned remains of three men.

The pilot’s seat was empty.

Chapter 61

By the time the tiny airfield came into view Noah noticed that the plane’s fuel gauges had dipped to near zero and one engine was running rough.

Though the old C-60 had clawed her way through battering turbulence and ice and lightning strikes and equipment failures, in the end its pilot had endured even more. Despite his brave front Bill McCord was clearly fading and it had become a continual struggle for Ellen Davenport to preserve the weakened function of his heart. The only saving grace was that one way or another, the flight was nearly over.

Ellen watched from the right-hand seat as the pilot eased down the throttle, set the flaps and trims, flicked on the nav lights, and pulled the lever that would hopefully lower the landing gear. There was a grinding and a deep mechanical rumble from behind and below them as the undercarriage descended. McCord took his eyes from the windshield for only a second when the sound had ceased; he checked the status lights of the gear and shook his head.

“Hold on tight,” he said. His jaw was clenched, his voice only a harsh whisper spoken through the unrelenting torture of the shocks from the pacing. “I don’t know if both the wheels are down, but either way, we’re landing.”

As the throttle was pulled back farther the right engine faltered and then coughed and died with a final wheeze. The plane slowed and yawed perilously and the pilot responded to correct his crumbling descent.

Every minute of his many decades of flying experience must have come to bear in those last few seconds. With utter concentration and some last measure of untapped strength he somehow straightened them out. He eased the craft into a gentle bank that would put the bulk of the weight on the only wheel they were sure was down and locked, and then he held all the battling forces steady under his hands as the ground rose up to meet them.