Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

His eyes meet mine with an intensity that shakes me to the core. “We’'ve got to get down. Somebody’s trying to kill us.”

I want to help, but my mind is blank. Before I can say anything more, Necker pulls on the rope, and our balloon begins dropping like an elevator in a Tokyo office building. My stomach flies into my throat, and my feet tingle the way they do when I stand on a cliff edge.

“Will the canopy hold together?” I ask above the rush of the wind.

Necker nods with confidence. “We can take quite a few holes and maintain buoyancy. But if they hit a cable or cause a big rip, we’ll be in trouble.”

“What if they hit the fuel tanks?”

Necker gives me a grin of utter fatalism. “If they hit a tank, we’re dead.”

The sound of the wind is twofold now, the air blowing past us horizontally, and that rushing upward as we plummet toward the earth.

“Can we dump the tanks over the side?”

Necker is watching the top of the balloon through its mouth. “That would take four or five minutes in my balloon, and this isn’t my balloon. I'’ll have us on the ground in fifty seconds.”

He pulls harder on the rope, and we drop still faster. I cannot bear to look outside the basket. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Venting hot air from the top of the balloon. It’s the only way to get down fast.”

“How fast are we going?”

“A thousand feet a minute.”

“How fast is that?”

Necker purses his lips, figuring on the fly. “A forty-yard dash straight into the ground. It probably won'’t kill you, but it’ll hurt like hell.”

Shit….

He squeezes my upper arm and winks. “We’ll be all right. I'’ll do a burn right before we hit. Try to cushion it a little.”

My heart is pounding so hard that my chest hurts. “I feel like we just jumped out of a plane!”

Necker actually laughs. “A skydiver falls ten times this fast. Just

keep scanning the ground. Watch for a muzzle flash. Somebody’s going to jail for this.”

Steeling myself, I pan my eyes over the swampy ground bounded by the snaky bend of the old river course. There’s a thousand acres of trees down there that a sniper could hide behind. There’s no way we’re going to find him without hearing his gun go off.

The ground seems to swoop up toward us with surreal speed. I'm trying to force my gaze away from it when Necker takes out his cell phone and speed-dials a number. “Major McDavitt? We’re taking ground fire…. That'’s right, rifle fire, I’d say. Could be hunters, but I don'’t think so. I'm hitting the deck right where we are, maximum safe descent.” Necker gives me a quick glance. “Maybe faster.”

A mile to the west, the Athens Point sheriff’s department chopper banks toward us and accelerates. Just as my heart lifts, another bullet punches though the canopy with the sound of a bullwhip finding flesh.

“God

damn

it!” Necker bellows, pointing toward the levee road. “I think that came from the south,” he shouts into the phone. “Skim the levee road on your way here and see if you see anything. Try to get a license plate.”

The helicopter makes no move toward the levee, but makes for us at what must be maximum speed. Major McDavitt has decided that survival means more than punishment.

Necker’s jaw is set tight, but I see a wry smile on his lips. “So that’s how it is,” he says into the phone. “Medevac time. Well, you’d better call ahead to the hospital. I'm AB positive. Penn, do you know your blood type?”

“O negative.”

Beneath us I see an orange tractor and a propane tank beside what looks like a bunkhouse. A billy goat stands munching something beside a barbed-wire fence—

“Stop looking at the ground,” Necker advises. “You’re turning green. Watch the horizon. I'’ll tell you when to brace. Fifteen seconds. If we overshoot and land in the water, stay with the basket. It’ll float. Unless you want to try to swim right to shore.”

“Shouldn’t we try for the water?”

“We might not be able to swim after impact.”

Good Lord.

The gas jet roars above our heads, heat blasts my

scalp, and the basket presses up against my feet like an express elevator slowing for the ground floor. “That old river’s full of alligators anyway!” I shout.

Necker tries to laugh, but what comes out is a strangled bark. He grabs the valve of the propane tank and shuts off the fuel line. “Five seconds! Brace! Bend your knees!”

I bend my knees and grab the upper frame of the basket, bracing against our lateral motion, which is westward toward the water. We’re moving a lot faster across the ground than I’d realized, but that may actually help us.

The impact is like falling from a galloping horse. My knees collapse and my pelvis slams the side of the basket, jolting me from ankles to crown, and then we’re sliding over the marshy ground as the wind drags us relentlessly toward the water. Necker hauls mightily on a rope, and suddenly the canopy collapses and we shudder to a stop.

The sudden silence is unnerving, but in seconds I hear the steady beating of McDavitt’s helicopter descending beside us.

Hans Necker drops to the floor of the basket like a man who died on his feet. It’s only now that I remember the gunfire that caused this crash landing.

“Are you hit?” I ask.

Necker shakes his head. “Ankle’s broken. One for sure, maybe both. Can you help me up?”

“Hell, yes. Let’s get out of this thing.”

McDavitt is already out of the chopper and running toward us. “Anybody hit?” he calls.

“No,” I shout back. “We need help though!”

When McDavitt reaches the basket, he helps me lift Necker over the side. The CEO grips the frame for a moment and smiles. “This old girl got us down alive.”

“You got us down, buddy. We need to get to St. Catherine’s Hospital, Major. Ready?”

McDavitt nods as we cradle Necker between us in a sitting position.

“Let’s do it.”

I thought the balloon was moving fast when we crossed the river, but Major McDavitt storms back toward Natchez at 120 knots, aiming

for the helipad atop St. Catherine’s Hospital. The town’s top orthopedist is waiting for Necker in the emergency room, and the Adams County sheriff’s department chopper is flying in tandem, following us in. Paul Labry is on his way to the hospital, preparing to deal with what can only be a media crisis for the Balloon Festival.

“How you doing?” I ask Necker, who’s sitting with his back to the wall of the helicopter’s cabin, his left calf propped on my knee to keep his foot elevated.

“Hurts like a son of a bitch,” he says. “But it could have been a lot worse. You did good, keeping it together. A lot of people would have panicked.”

“Oh, I panicked.”

Necker laughs, then winces. “Damn, I’d like some morphine.”

“Two minutes.”

Necker nods. “Let’s talk fast then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don'’t believe in luck, good or bad. We weren’t the first balloon in line, or the last. But we were shot at and hit three times with a high-powered rifle. Anybody who could hit us three times could have killed us if he wanted to. All he had to do was shoot the basket. He’d have hit us or the fuel tanks, or both.”

I look back noncommittally. “So…?”

“So either we stumbled on a psycho hunter having a really bad day, or somebody was trying to send one of us a message. I don'’t have any enemies here yet, so far as I know. What about you?”

I stare back at the CEO but do not speak. Necker didn't get where he is by being dumb.

He changes tack. “A lot of people are about to ask us what happened back there. What are we going to say?”

I'm not sure what to say, to Necker or the public. I can’t quite believe that Sands or Quinn would pull a stunt like that. Especially after I reaffirmed that I intended to do what they’ve asked of me. But who else could it have been?