Page 74 of Vaquero
Chapter Thirty
Julio climbed aboard with zero enthusiasm. For the first time in his career, his chosen vocation had asked too much. He’d never before felt so torn nor this inadequate. He’d been shot twice only days ago. Physically, he was compromised, and he needed more downtime to heal. But stepping out of the lush warmth he’d found inside Meg’s arms, and walking away from her, so soon after making love with her, was by far the hardest thing he’d ever done. He’d finally found a measure of peace in the storm that had been his life. Yet once again, duty called. He was leaving his one shining star and his only safe harbor. Didn’t seem fair and it didn’t feel right. Yet there he was, locked into always doing the honorable thing, simply because that was what Navy SEALs, even those who rang out, did.
Hotrod had already strapped into the pilot’s seat and put on his helmet. While he talked back and forth with the tower, requesting weather reports and updates, Julio strapped into the co-pilot’s seat and pulled on the only helmet left in the cockpit. The steady thwack-thwack-thwack of rotors revving overhead diminished once he secured his com-link, then diminished more as he tightened the helmet strap under his chin.
He’d never ridden up front in a Blackhawk cockpit before, much less been privy to pilot/control tower chatter. Without a doubt, this MH-60M was a dynamic workhorse. Its usual crew consisted of pilot, co-pilot, two crew chiefs or two door gunners, but Hotrod had come alone this time. It could carry an even dozen troops, their equipment, and it sported an external sling for heavy equipment. Maximum internal payload came in at a solid twenty-six thousand pounds. External payload, Julio wasn’t quite sure. He’d seen a Blackhawk hover with precise skill at the edge of a mountain cliff, one skid on solid dirt, the other in the wind, as its crew retrieved Army casualties while in the middle of a firefight. It’d been one helluva daring rescue, and Julio fully believed Blackhawk pilots worked miracles. Yet here he was. Taking up space.
This helo’s four main rotor blades and three aft tail rotors were powered by the two growling YT706-GE-700 engines overhead that could push its air speed to a maximum one hundred fifty knots.
Julio had once been on board a Blackhawk during aerial refueling. Talk about a thrill. But mostly, he’d served as door gunner on more lethal versions of this same bird. Some MH-60Ms were outfitted to support medium assault armament, such as miniguns, cannons, Gatling guns, air-to-air stingers, and AGM-114 Hellfire anti-tank missiles. Navy snipers usually dangled off helicopter skids or out helicopter doors. They fast-roped down to hot targets, and, occasionally, rode as mere passengers instead of harbingers of death. But never as co-pilot.
As he settled back, he took in the night-vision-compatible digital cockpit array of LCD displays. Instead of fuel, temperature, and the typical automobile-type gauges he’d expected, Julio was looking at streams of full-color flight and mission data, a moving map, health, and sensor data.
He leaned forward to glean as much information as he could about the condition of this helo before dust-off. Crew and engine alerts showed steady, but there was so much information to absorb. Forward-looking infrared video. Radio. Navigation data. Other data streams he didn’t fully understand. But all this technology was controlled by the full alphanumeric keyboard like he used back home? Breathtaking. This rugged aircraft was straight out of science fiction.
Julio knew these birds were also equipped with infrared jamming devices, as well as laser detection systems, chaff and flare cannons. Covertly, he made a quick sign of the cross, thankful he wasn’t expected to pilot this bird. All he had to do was sit tight and enjoy the ride.Gracias Dios!
Well… that wasn’t all Julio had to do. He hadn’t volunteered to accompany Hotrod for nothing. Something about the British woman sitting in the rigid rear seats had irked Julio from the get-go, so much that he’d asked Sullivan to verify Hazelton’s credentials. Only Sullivan hadn’t yet gotten back with anything substantial, only that, yes, she was the UK’s top nuclear engineer. Yet Julio knew damned well Hazelton was not who she pretended to be. So here he was, either an idiot for leaving the woman he loved behind, or playing hero again.
Julio sucked in a belly full of air once the skids tipped forward, then leveled off as it lifted up and hovered momentarily above the flight deck. Once airborne, when the Blackhawk headed north into the wind at breakneck speed, Julio let that breath go.
He sat in silence for a while, but they were moving too fast. Soon he’d lose his chance to question Hazelton. He had to act now. He turned to Hotrod. “Where are we going, Chief?”
Hotrod’s lips were pursed tight. “Naval Air Station Key West, Florida.”
“How long before we land?”
“An hour or two. Just set her on cruise control.” Without taking his eyes off the helo’s flight deck displays, Hotrod pressed his right hand against his chest. His fingers curled into an S, then his index finger and thumb made an O. American Sign Language. Hotrod had just sent Julio a covert SOS.
But cruise control? Really?
“You ever been there before?” Julio asked conversationally while he signed, “What’s wrong?”
Hotrod turned to face Julio and flashed a toothy smile. “You know it, Bro. I grew up in Miami.” When he faced forward, he tucked his right hand back into his chest and signed, “Doc is not what you think.”
Just as Julio suspected. Hotrod had picked up on the same vibe Julio had. “Must’ve been nice,” he said while he signed, “You got a plan?”
“Best childhood a kid could ask for,” Hotrod continued easily, his right hand on the stick while he looked over his shoulder and told Doctor Hazelton, “Make sure you’re strapped in, ma’am. Things are going to get bump—”
He never finished. One second, he was bright-eyed and cocky. The next, he’d slumped forward in his harness, a tiny dart stuck in the side of his neck.
Julio snapped around, his pistol instantly on Hazelton, his harness already undone. “Don’t move,” he ordered the fierce woman now pointing that damned tranquilizer pistol at him. At least, he hoped that was a tranq in Hotrod’s neck.
“Or what?” Hazelton snapped, aiming squarely at Julio’s chest where she couldn’t miss. “You’ll shoot me? Go ahead. See how long this helicopter stays in the air with a dead stick.”
She must not have heard the cruise control comment.
He’d turned fully in his seat by then, his boots in the aisle and positioned to leap into action, his target close and his mission clear. “You’re a Doll. A spy. A Matryoshka gangster.”
Her lip lifted with a sneer as the polished British charm she’d exuded disappeared into cold-blooded ice. “You want to make small talk, Agent Juarez? Now? While your buddy dies? Do you have any idea what I have in this weapon?”
Weapon, not gun. She was former military.
“Don’t care,” he answered bluntly as the helo veered gradually to the right and farther out to sea. “Drop that pistol or I drop you. You’re not taking the plutonium.”
With the slightest turn of her wrist, her weapon was once again on Hotrod. “Are you sure about that? One hit only knocks a guy his size out for an hour or so. But two hits…” She tsked. “Special K is a killer at that strength, Juarez, and this little baby holds four darts. You sure you want your buddy’s death on your conscience?”
He wasn’t falling for that. Without hesitation, Julio fired twice. Once, to end the conversation. Twice, to make sure Hazelton knew she’d been shot despite the tactical armor he was certain she wore. He didn’t need her dead. Only out of commission. In seconds, she was restrained. Still breathing, but talking gibberish.
