Page 131 of The 9th Man

He turned his attention to the cockpit, under no illusion his gunfire would bring down the helo, but a panicked and overcorrecting pilot certainly could.

He sent rounds into the rotor.

The helicopter staggered left, steadied, then began climbing, moving away.

Smoke poured out.

The Sikorsky lurched sideways and banked off. The helo’s engine groaned, the rotors clawing at the thin, frigid air for purchase. He watched, half horrified, half fascinated as the Sikorsky rolled fully onto its side and the rotors slammed into the slot ravine’s upper edge and shattered. Shrapnel whined overhead and tore into the headframe and the millhouse. Now rotorless, the Sikorsky crashed into the ravine, then tumbled down the cliff and came to rest roof-first in the snow.

Silence overtook the camp.

Then he heard a torrent of rifle fire and the rapid, overlapping thunk of bullets peppering the mine carts.

Jillian.

He desperately wanted to go to her aid but for his new plan to succeed he needed Talley’s men focused in a single direction.

Hers.

He started toward the fallen helicopter, gun up and tracking for movement until he reached the cabin’s inverted side door. Ignoring the twisted bodies, he climbed inside and started rummaging around. A burst of radio static from the cockpit stopped him short. He leaned through the opening and groped until he touched the pilot’s helmet, which he freed and donned.

“Bravo Two, this is Bravo One, do you copy?”

Talley.

He partially covered the microphone with his sleeve and keyed the headset. “Bravo One…wounded…pinned.”

“Say again. Who am I talking to, over?”

He rubbed his sleeve over the microphone. “Pinned…tourniquet…slot canyon.”

“Hang on. I’ll send help. We have an incoming helo.”

He removed the headset and dropped it. Whether he’d pulled off the ruse or Talley was playing him Luke didn’t know, but it was an opportunity he couldn’t afford to pass up. And thank goodness he hadn’t. But—

Incoming helo?

Just great.

He ran from the crash site and chose a spot where the snow was particularly deep, then lay flat and half buried himself. From the east came the chop of more rotors. Another Sikorsky swept in fast over the millhouse roof, nosed hard over, then leveled ten feet above the ground with the cabin door facing the crash site. A man leaped from the door, plunged into the snow, and started bulldozing his way to the wreckage. Luke waited until he was almost there then sprang to his feet and ran, hunched over, toward the hovering Sikorsky. The pilot spotted Luke and shouted something. The door gunner’s face appeared in the cabin window, then pulled back. Luke dove beneath the helo’s skids then rolled onto his back. The door gunner, now armed with a rifle, leaned out and fired three quick shots. Luke pulled the pin on the flashbang he’d been carrying, let the spoon go, then arched it into the Sikorsky’s open door.

Smoke gushed from the door.

The Sikorsky dropped straight down. Luke rolled sideways but not quickly enough. The left-side skid graced his shoulder.

Which hurt.

The helo landed and a man emerged from the smoke armed with a rifle, advancing for a point-blank shot. Luke searched for his rifle, which had fallen from his grasp in the chaos. He spotted it and was reaching for it when two shots rang out.

The man’s head became engulfed in red mist.

Jillian appeared with her Beretta leveled.

“I appreciate your timeliness,” he said.

“You hurt?”

“Just my pride.”

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