“They can’t land, not with all the debris, so they’ll have to hover above the plateau and fast-rope soldiers down. If I can catch them at the right moment, maybe . . .” Sam let his words trail off. “Maybe,” he added. “What’s your vote? Fight and perhaps die here or surrender and end up in a Chinese prison camp?”
Remi smiled gamely. “You really have to ask?”
Half hoping, half expecting the Z-9 would make a reconnaissance pass before putting men on the ground, Sam sent Remi back along the ice shelf, where she buried herself in the snow between a pair of drifts. Sam crouched beside the gondola and readied himself.
For what seemed like several minutes, but was likely less than one, Sam listened for the sound of the Z-9 approaching. When it came, he waited until the chopping sound was deafening. He risked a peek around the corner of the gondola.
The Z-9 had stopped in a hover, just off the edge of the plateau and a few feet above it. The helicopter slid sideways like a dragonfly waiting for its prey to appear. In the side door, Sam could see the door gunner bent over the machine gun.
Suddenly the Z-9 veered away and dropped out of sight below the plateau. Seconds later Sam saw it streaking back across the lake. Sam didn’t think but reacted, scrambling from behind cover and running, hunched over, to Hosni’s gun. He snatched it up and sprinted back to the gondola.
“Made it,” Sam called to Remi, then began checking the machine gun. The wooden stock was partially splintered, and the fore stock charred by flames, but the working parts seemed in order and the barrel unscathed. He ejected the magazine; thirteen rounds left.
Remi called, “What are they doing?”
“Either leaving or waiting for enough of the aviation fuel to burn off so they can come in for a fast rope.”
The Z-9 reached the edge of the lake and swooped upward along the slope to the ridgeline. Sam watched, fingers mentally crossed that the helicopter would keep going.
It didn’t.
As had become its pattern, the Z-9 banked over the ridge, reversed course, and came streaking back across the lake.
“They’re coming back,” Sam announced.
“Good luck.”
Sam mentally rehearsed his plan. Much would depend on whether the Z-9 presented him an open door as the soldiers prepared for their fast-rope descent. Firing into the aircraft’s fuselage was pointless; Hosni’s attack had proven that. What Sam needed was a chink in the armor.
The rush of the Z-9’s engine drew nearer, and the rhythmic chop of the rotors rattled Sam’s eardrums. He waited, head down and watching the ice a few feet from the gondola.
Wait . . . wait . . .
Snow began whipping across the ice.
Sam peeked around the corner.
The Z-9 was hovering thirty feet above the plateau.
“Come on, turn,” Sam muttered. “Just a little bit.”
The Z-9 pivoted slightly, bringing the door gunner around so he could cover the soldiers’ descent. Two thick black ropes uncoiled from the door and hit the ice. The first pair of soldiers stepped up to the door. Sam could just make out the pilot’s seat diagonally behind them.
Sam took a breath, set his teeth. He clipped the fire selector to Single Shot, then ducked out. In a crouch, he brought the machine gun to his shoulder and took aim at the Z-9’s open doorway, then shifted left, placing the sight over the door gunner’s helmet. He fired. The gunner crumbled. Sam switched the fire selector to Three Round, adjusted his aim
again, and fired a burst into the doorway. Hit, one of the soldiers stumbled backward; the other ducked and dropped to his belly. Sam now had a clear view of the pilot’s seat—but that would last only a second or two, he knew. Even as he readjusted his aim he could see the pilot’s arm’s moving, adjusting controls, trying to make sense of the chaos around him.
Sam focused on the seat back. He took a breath, let it out, then pulled the trigger. A trio of bullets peppered the Z-9’s interior. Sam pulled the trigger again, then once more. The machine gun let off an empty click; the magazine was empty.
The Z-9 pitched sideways, nose spiraling down and toward the plateau. Through the open cabin door the lifeless body of the door gunner slid out, followed by a second soldier. Arms flailing for handholds, two more soldiers tumbled through the door. One managed to snag the Z-9’s landing skid, but the other plummeted to the ground. Now fully out of control, the pilotless Z-9 hit the plateau, crushing the hanging soldier beneath it.
Sam tore his eyes free, ducked behind the gondola, and sprinted to where Remi was lying. “More shrapnel coming!” he shouted, and dove on top of her.
Two of the Z-9’s rotors struck the ice first, shearing off and hurling away a quarter second before the fuselage struck. Pressed flat in the snow, Sam and Remi waited for a fiery explosion but none came. They heard a high-pitched grinding sound followed by a trio of grenade-like whumps.
On impulse, Sam stood up and glanced over the gondola.
It took a full two seconds for his brain to register what he was seeing: the Z-9, skidding, hurtling toward him, the mangled fuselage, half sliding, half lurching, as the remaining rotor blades splintered on the ice and propelled it forward. It looked like a crippled bug in the throes of death.