Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1) (58 page)

Back on foot, Michael heard the whup-whup-whup of helicopter rotors. He knew the sound of the AH-64H, Apache Attack Helicopter, by heart. From the way his captors looked toward the sky, he could tell they recognized the sound, too. Michael felt a tingle run up his spine when the noise grew louder.

Sokic had stopped. He now cocked an ear upward. He looked at Michael. Michael smiled back, watching realization strike.

“Take cover,” Sokic yelled. He dove into a shallow dry ditch beside the road. Dimitrov and Pyotr followed suit. Josef, tugging violently on the rope around Michael’s wrists, dragged him into the ditch on the opposite side of the road and dove on top of him. Vassily dropped into the same ditch, farther down the road.

Helicopter noise grew louder and louder. Then Michael felt the beat of the rotors churning the air above him.

But the choppers moved away, farther down the road, taking Michael’s desperate hope with them.

“Scooter, we’re past the position where those men are supposed to be,” Jess Dombrowsky shouted. “Let’s turn around and make another pass to the north.”

“Roger,” Scooter replied, following Dombrowsky. “We can’t hang around here much longer, though, Jess. Those Serb jets are going to join the party any minute.”

“Damn, that was close,” Josef said, starting to climb out of the ditch.

“Get back down,” Vassily yelled. “The Americans could come back.”

Josef fell back down. “Fucking Americans,” he grumbled. But he raised his head and saw two specks on the horizon about a mile away. They seemed to be getting bigger.

Michael heard the Apaches coming back. It’s now or never, he thought. He snapped his head backward through the half-foot of space Josef had created by lifting his own head. Michael felt the crunch of bone and cartilage when the back of his head smashed into Josef’s face. A sharp pain shot through Michael’s head, neck, and shoulders, making him forget for a moment about his busted ribs. He felt dizzy. Josef went limp and fell with his full weight onto Michael’s back. Michael peeked over at Vassily through his now-cloudy vision. The Serb appeared to be facing away, his arms covering his head.

Rolling Josef off his back, Michael grabbed the Serb’s AK-47 assault rifle and, with his eyes closed, checked the weapon’s safety. It was off. He opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut, hoping to clear his vision. When he opened them again, he seemed to be able to see a lot better. He pulled the knife from the scabbard on Josef’s belt and cut the Serb’s throat.

He wiped the blade on his fatigue pants, propped the knife upside down between his boots and sawed the ropes on his wrists against its razor-sharp blade. The ropes parted while the Apaches roared overhead on their way back to the north. Their screaming rotors kicked up dust devils that screened Michael from the Serbs. Gripping the knife, he crept on his hands and knees toward Vassily, whose shape appeared dimly in the dust cloud. The Serb still had his head down, protecting his face from the blowing dirt. Then, as the choppers passed them, Vassily suddenly turned toward Michael. Shock showed on his face.

Vassily drew his knife – Michael was too close for him to have time to bring his rifle around. The Serb rolled away and came up on his knees.

They grappled, each with a grip on the other’s knife hand. The Serb was bigger and stronger, but Michael was faster. He broke the Serb’s hold on his wrist, twisted him onto his stomach, heaved himself atop, and drove his knife into the side of Vassily’s neck. Pressing down with all his weight, he waited for his enemy to stop struggling, while warm blood splashed over his hand.

Then Michael ripped off his bloody fatigue shirt, picked up the AK-47 he’d taken from Josef, and crouched low, hoping the Apaches would return before the other Serbs discovered what had happened.

Dombrowsky focused on the valley below and the road bisecting it. The men they were looking for had to be down there. He checked the coordinates he’d punched into his controls. Correct. “Scooter, let’s go back up the road one more time.”

“Roger,” Scooter replied. “But those MIGs are going to be on our asses any second now.”

The choppers turned for another pass – to Michael it seemed like a miracle. The beat of the rotors drummed the still morning air. Michael looked across the road – no sign of the other Serbs. He stood and waved his bloody shirt in great, exaggerated arcs.

The Apaches raced by overhead.

“Did you see that?” Scooter and his co-pilot, Billy Herrera, shouted into their headsets at the same time.

“Yeah! I’m going back,” Dombrowsky answered. “Scooter, you follow me around, but let’s not fall into a trap. And Ernie, Billy keep your eyes open. Those MIGs could be here any second.”

Dombrowsky steered straight for the man in the T-shirt still standing in the ditch. But now, instead of waving his shirt, he had an arm pointed across the road.

“Looks like our guy, Scooter,” Dombrowsky shouted. “I think he’s trying to tell us something. Hang back. I’ll yell if I need help.”

He hovered closer while the man in the ditch ducked back down, using the shirt to protect his face from the stinging dirt being whipped up by the aircraft.

Several men rose up from the ditch across the road and began firing their weapons at Dombrowsky. His hand already on the helicopter’s M230 automatic cannon’s firing grip, he let loose a barrage of 30mm shells that chewed up the edge of the road in a procession of explosions marching toward the men who were firing at him. One of the men flew backward, his torso erupting in a pinkish spray.

But then Dombrowsky noticed something wrong with the Apache. It wasn’t responding properly. Black smoke began to fill his cabin. He could hear Ernie screaming. Despite its special armor, the Apache had been critically damaged.

Michael had watched the helicopter inch its way toward the road, like a giant, supernatural insect hovering and waiting for the sight of prey. Then the Serbs had fired on the aircraft and the Apache returned fire with devastating force. He felt elated by the turn of events. Then he saw smoke plume from the back of the Apache’s cabin when it veered away from the road. Momentarily distracted, he almost missed seeing the dust-obscured figures of two men still standing on the other side of the road, continuing to fire at the fleeing, wounded helicopter. He raised Josef’s AK-47 and fired through the dust screen. One of the men screamed and both dropped out of sight.

Crouching down and peering over his shoulder, Michael watched the burning aircraft stagger toward a hillside. He looked around for the second chopper. There was still hope, if the second aircraft engaged the Serbs hiding in the ditch.

There it was. The other chopper now hovered near its wounded partner. Still spewing black smoke, the chopper’s engine whined sickeningly while the aircraft began to auto-rotate and lose altitude.

Michael looked across the road again. He rested his rifle on the top of the ditch and waited for someone to show themselves. But he was assaulted by a shock wave that shook his damaged ribs and froze the blood in his veins. Two jets with Serb markings shrieked overhead. He realized then he’d also have himself to blame for the destruction of the second helicopter and the deaths of its crew.

Scooter James was no coward, but he believed discretion really was the better part of valor. He couldn’t help his crewman, wingman, or Danforth if he got blown to bits by a Russian-made rocket. He shouted into his headset while he turned tail. “Target alive! Lobo One is down. MIGs in the area. I’m outta here.”