Wildfire (59 page)

At that moment another billowing explosion erupted from the distant plane, followed almost immediately by a loud whack! as a rifle bullet ricocheted off the Blackhawk's light armor a few inches above Henry Lightstone's head.

"And speaking of range, whatever it is, we're still in it," Lightstone commented as he triggered two rounds in the general direction of the plane, having no hope of doing anything more than causing a brief distraction.

"Shit, we need an Apache up here," the copilot said to the pilot. "Something with a little firepower."

"You want to scramble an Apache to take on a fucking Cessna?" the pilot asked incredulously.

"Either that, or get one of the other Hawks over here pretty damn quick," the copilot responded. "Just because we've got armor doesn't mean they can't punch through and hit something vital, especially if we've got to get close enough for pistol ammo to have an effect."

"Hey, guys, we're running out of time, fast," Mike Takahara said into his helmet mike as he reached forward and pulled his nylon equipment bag out of the nearby cargo storage net. "They're going to try to circle around and get back over Whitehorse Cabin, and then—if I read the whole thing right—she's either going to drop the device or jump with it. And if she does that, she'll probably go without a chute. Either way we can't let her do it."

"What do you want me to do, ram the damn thing?" the pilot demanded.

"Do whatever you can—just give me thirty seconds," Mike Takahara said as he fumbled with the zipper.

"Okay, we'll give it a try," the pilot agreed as he brought the Blackhawk up into a steep full-throttle climb. "Left gunner, you loaded and ready?"

"Ready," the park ranger said with a pale but determined look on his face as he raised his .357 revolver in acknowledgment.

"Right gunner?"

"Ready as I'm ever—"

"Look out, they're going around . . . and they're starting to climb!" the warrant officer copilot called out.

"Hang on!" the pilot yelled, and swung the Blackhawk around in a blocking move as the park ranger sent three more .357 rounds streaking out into the blackness toward the distant plane.

"We're getting in effective range of that rifle again," the copilot warned. Then Mike Takahara yelled: "Pilot, swing around! Right door! Right door!"

Responding instinctively as he had done hundreds of times before in combat situations, the Blackhawk pilot banked the assault helicopter around sharply as Takahara called out to Lightstone: "Henry, grab this and aim it at the plane."

"What?"

"Do it! Right now!"

Unwilling to release his left arm from the overhead restraining loop, in spite of the supposed security of the combat harness, Lightstone thumbed the Smith & Wesson pistol to a decocked position, tossed it into the back of the vibrating helicopter, grabbed the camouflaged Crucible device with the ignition cable attached to one end, and aimed the other end of the metal cylinder at the distant climbing plane. At the same time,

Mike Takahara set the timer on the ignition system to zero, depressed the ignition button, and then said: "Okay, that's it, toss the thing out the door. It's either going to work or it isn't."

As the discarded Crucible prototype disappeared into the darkness, the small plane continued on its banking climb for nine more seconds. Then, as the two agents stood there at the open cargo door and watched in amazement, the rear of the plane seemed to glow a bright yellow ... and then burst into flames.

Slowly and then with increasing speed, the small plane arced downward into the darkness, a glowing firebrand that suddenly exploded a hundred feet above the black treetops as the aviation fuel in the wing tanks ignited.

"All right!" Henry Lightstone screamed with glee . . . and then froze in horror as he saw Mike Takahara looking down into the darkness and mouthing the numbers silently.

Thousand-and-six.

Thousand-and-seven.

"Oh, Jesus," Lightstone whispered, "are we that close?"

"I don't know." Takahara shook his head.

Thousand-and-nine.

Thousand-and-ten.

The tech agent waited two more seconds, just to be sure. Then he visibly relaxed, looked over at Lighthouse, and grinned widely.

"Pilot," Henry Lightstone said into his helmet mike, "relay a message back to the command post. The ember has fallen, but there's no wildfire."

"Echo-Tango-One to Command Post, be advised, the ember has fallen, but there is no wildfire. Repeat, no wildfire."

Then, after a moment, A1 Grynard's distinctive voice came out over the air: "Congratulations, Echo-Tango-One. What about the suspects?"

Henry Lightstone smiled sadly as he stared out into the darkness at a small glowing spot that finally disappeared, and then spoke into his helmet mike:

"Tell him, they fell too."

Ken Goddard

www.kengoddardbooks.com

www.kengoddardnovels.blogspot.com

www.spectrumliteraryagency.com/goddard.htm

Ken Goddard began his law enforcement career in 1968 as a deputy sheriff/criminalist working CSI and analyzing evidence for the Riverside and San Bernardino County (CA) Crime Labs. In 1972, he was hired by the Huntington Beach (CA) Police Department to set up a Scientific Investigation Bureau for homicide, robbery, narcotics and burglary investigations. In 1979, He joined the US Fish & Wildlife Service to design and direct the National Fish & Wildlife Forensics Laboratory in Ashland, Oregon, which provides forensic support for federal, state and international wildlife law enforcement agencies all over the world. Ken and his wife live in Ashland, Oregon.