Page 52 of Ground Truth

He glanced around the cabin for another weapon.

The captain restarted the boat. The bow leapt from the water when he pushed the throttle to the max.

“What’s this bird’s top speed?” Flint said.

“In theory? One thirty knots.”

“Hundred and fifty miles an hour. We should outrun them.”

“Except I’m at full power and we’re doing sixty.”

“I heard lots of metal breaking.” Flint replied. “They must have hit something.”

“Yeah. Fuel. We’re losing it big time.”

Flint craned around and saw liquid streaming from under the helicopter. Had to be the fuel. Maybe a few other fluids, too.

The speedboat was closing the gap between them. The shooter was holding on to a side rail and had lowered the gun for the rough cruising conditions.

Flint yelled, “Drop. Over them. Now. Fast, fast.”

“What?” Drake shouted, but he lowered the collective and angled the helicopter down toward the boat.

The helo dropped fast. Flint’s senses rolled and the contents of his stomach threatened to come up.

He closed his mouth, holding his lips hard together as he struggled to grab a flare gun. He pulled on the collective, steering directly over the boat.

The liquid stream coming from the helicopter poured onto the rear of the speedboat.

The captain shut down the boat’s engine and the shooter lifted the fifty cal.

Flint shoved the helo door into the wide-open position.

The boat was rolling on the waves.

The helicopter was struggling to stay aloft.

Flares were slow. Fired into the air, they took many seconds to reach their peak altitude.

Flint judged the distance to the boat to be only a hundred feet. Which should be okay. But he waited until it reached a trough in the waves before firing the flare gun.

“Go, go!” he shouted to Drake.

The helo’s engine began a labored rumble and they rolled away to the right.

The flare’s brilliant flash curved slightly as it traveled. Gravity was pulling it down.

A few agonizing moments passed before the flare hit the rear of the boat. It landed behind the shooter.

Fizzing and sparking, the flare grew to its full brightness.

The shooter held the long gun up and fired. Smoke pulsed from the barrel.

The Robinson took repeated hits.

Shaking with each impact, the helo became less stable with each blow.

Flint could feel the thin metal of the craft being peeled away.

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