Page 5 of Booker's Mission

Calloway looked his way, goggles half off his face, eyes wide. Unseeing. Booker reached over just enough to knock him off the controls before doing his best to stabilize the machine — get them clear of the smoke before they plowed into the tower. Or worse…

Not that it helped. Two seconds in and the damn machine started shaking, tipping left and right as the inputs grew heavy. Stopped moving despite his efforts.

Hydraulics. What must have been the result of a perforated line.

Was the smoke thicker? Coming from inside? He couldn’t tell. Didn’t have time to worry when alarms blared through the cockpit, several of the gauges spiking into the red as the instrument panel lit up like a damn Christmas tree.

“Shit. Hold tight.”

His voice barely registered above the noise. The shouts rising from the back. The chopper dipped, again, rocking sideways as the weight shifted, sending them sliding off to one side.

The men. That’s what had changed. They were bouncing around in the back, darting left and right, making it impossible to find any kind of equilibrium. Not with the damn hydraulics gone. Nothing but sheer force left to move the controls.

Booker chanced a look behind him, instantly regretting it. Flames shot out one side of the chopper, bits of debris littered across the back. He wasn’t sure when they’d gotten hit. If it had been when Calloway had been fighting him for control, or just now, when he’d swung back over because the machine wasn’t responding. Regardless, he had no more than a few seconds to figure out his next move before other systems started failing.

He keyed up the mike, hoping the men could hear him above the chaos. “Grab onto something, gents, the ride’s about to get bumpy—”

The chopper lurched then spun, sending them careening across the platform.

“And that’s the tail rotor crapping out on us. No other choice but to put her in the water. When we hit, I’ll try to tip her towards me, but… be ready for her to flip.”

That’s all he had time for before he was holding tight. Using every ounce of skill to keep her level as he let her spin until they were clear of the carrier — what would have taken out the row of jets lined up on the side and likely killed them all in the crash — before sending up a prayer then bottoming the collective. The machine stabilized for one precious moment — hanging in the air in that eerie slow-motion lag time that happened in the midst of a deadly crisis — before it dropped like a damn brick as it headed for the water.

Booker held firm, yanking up on the collective as they neared the surface. Doing his best to time everything perfectly. Until Calloway grabbed at the controls, again. Tipped them sideways just enough the waves caught one of the wheels — dragged them over.

Dead.

That’s what they’d all be in exactly three seconds. As the blades hit the water, shooting off in different directions. Pieces of one crashing through the bubble — bits of the plexiglass spraying across the cockpit. Booker took a breath, grunting when he got slammed back into the seat, just as the machine flipped, the rush of water quickly pulling them down.

Every went black, the numbing cold stealing what little air he’d gulped in. He fumbled with his harness, finally unlatching the ends only to realize he was pinned, pieces of debris impaled through his shoulder and ribs then into the seat. He pulled at the ends, his fingers barely moving as dots ate up the edges of his vision.

His lungs burned, that small gasp of air nearly gone, when the door beside him rocked open, Wyatt grabbing him by the vest. He paused long enough yank the hunks of metal free before pulling Booker out then up. Water sprayed across his face as they crested the waves, sucking in a lungful of air.

Wyatt wrapped one arm around his shoulders, keeping them both from sinking back down. “Breathe, buddy.”

Booker wanted to tell him he was trying. That he’d spent his entire life breathing, only the words wouldn’t form right. Not when it felt as if some bastard was cracking his chest open with every failed breath.

Wyatt cursed. “Fuck, you’re really bleeding. Talk to me, Booker. Can you breathe?”

He glanced over his shoulder, managing a rough, “Barely,” before closing his eyes. Doing his best to keep kicking. Keep floating. Not that Wyatt was fairing much better. Booker had gotten a glimpse of his buddy’s leg — how his knee wasn’t pointing in the right direction. Not to mention the blood on the back of the man’s hand or the obvious lump on his head.

Wyatt coughed, dipping under for a second before pushing back up. “Boats are on their way. Just… stay with me.”

Booker nodded, finally taking stock of the men bobbing in the water around him. Knowing there weren’t enough heads to account for every teammate. In fact, other than Gunnar, Xavier, and Hunter, he wasn’t sure who had made it out, not that the men were unscathed. Even half-conscious, Booker saw the burns on Gunnar. What looked like more on Hunter, though, with only their heads and shoulders out of the water, it was hard to tell if the blood and wounds were from the fire or the crash. But there was no mistaking how all the men were bleeding. Barely keeping themselves above the crushing waves. “Calloway…”

Christ, it hurt to talk. To get just that one word out.

Wyatt sighed, coughing up more water. “I couldn’t… One of the blades… He was already gone.”

The words hit Booker hard, and he had to fight not to sink back down. Join the wreckage because… it was his fault. It didn’t matter that he’d done his best — avoided getting crushed beneath the other chopper. Fought to keep it upright — to keep it together. All he knew was that he’d failed. Had broken his promise to always bring his teammates back alive.

That, when they’d really needed him, he hadn’t been enough.

Wyatt squeezed his arm. “Don’t. Don’t start second guessing everything. You kept us in the game. That’s all we can ask.”

“I should…”

He should have done more. Knocked Calloway out or found a way to land on the damn carrier.

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