town cars emerged from the park and jumped the curb and skidded to a halt. In front of them, barring further progress, was the wide Potomac itself. In an open area beside the river sat a huge Marine Corps transport helicopter. Both army Apache gunships orbited vigilantly overhead.
Heavily armed marines had already formed a perimeter. They motioned for everyone to get out of the cars.
The noise of the Marine Corps helo was painfully loud, even with its engines just on idle. The stink of the turbine exhaust added to all the other burning smells. There was grit in the air, blown by the spinning main rotor blades; the small tail rotor spun much faster, in a blur. The entire helo was painted in camouflage, a blotchy pattern of matte dark green and black and brown.
“Those men, the attackers,” Michael Fuller shouted in Jeffrey’s ear. “They looked liked Russians!”
Jeffrey nodded. “Former Spetznaz probably! Special forces, in the pay of the Axis now!”
Michael Fuller hesitated. “Is it always like this?”
“Is what like what?”
“The combat!”
Jeffrey looked his father right in the eyes. “Welcome to my world!” Jeffrey reached out a sweaty, smoke-stained hand. Jeffrey’s father shook it; Michael Fuller’s hand felt like an ice cube.
“I’ll see you, Dad!”
Marines hustled Jeffrey and Wilson and Ilse to the helo. The crew chief handed them cranials and floatation vests. The cranials were collapsible flight helmets. They opened like a clamshell, had built-in hearing protection, and came with big padded eye goggles. Jeffrey and Wilson and Ilse quickly got ready for the flight.
So close to the aircraft, conversation was impossible. The crew chief used sign language to show each of them where to sit. They climbed inside the helo. The seat frames were made of stark aluminum tubing, and the seat backs and bottoms were simple thick black vinyl sheets. Shoulder straps came over each shoulder. They clipped into the buckle of a belt that covered both thighs. Jeffrey pulled all the fittings very tight.
The helo was an SH-60 Seahawk. The transport compartment had seating for ten. On board were Jeffrey and Ilse, sitting side by side facing forward at the rear of the compartment. Wilson sat up front, facing Jeffrey. The only other passengers were the crew chief and his assistant, who slammed the door.
The engine noise grew stronger, even through the soundproof ear cups of Jeffrey’s helmet and the insulated padding of the fuselage walls. The vibrations through the seat and through the floor rose to a heavy rapid shaking. The Sea-hawk took to the air.
The helo rose quickly and headed out over the Potomac. The Pentagon was a huge gray squatting presence up ahead, the oblique perspective from the helo making the five-sided building seem oddly elongated and flat.
Jeffrey saw a thinning pillar of black smoke, rising from where the first ambush broke out.
They flew past Theodore Roosevelt Island and over bridges; the interior of the aircraft had a metallic, oily, hot-plastic smell. Then the helo was rushing along the Potomac, closer to and then right past the Pentagon and the airport, at 150 knots, at barely a hundred feet above the river.
The Apache helos flew armed escort. Jeffrey could see their Gatling guns pivoting in their chin mounts, scanning both banks of the river, cued to sights mounted on each gunner’s special helmet. Each Apache’s pilot sat above and behind the gunner in the long and narrow two-man combat helicopters.
Jeffrey tried to slow his pulse and just enjoy the ride and savor life. He’d hated the feeling before of just being a passenger, of having to huddle passively while others fought and died protecting him . He wasn’t used to this, and it galled him. He much preferred to be in charge, both of himself and of the ones who did the fighting and killing and dying.
The engine sounds swelled louder, and the rotor vibrations got more rough, each time the helo banked steeply right or
Heavily armed marines had already formed a perimeter. They motioned for everyone to get out of the cars.
The noise of the Marine Corps helo was painfully loud, even with its engines just on idle. The stink of the turbine exhaust added to all the other burning smells. There was grit in the air, blown by the spinning main rotor blades; the small tail rotor spun much faster, in a blur. The entire helo was painted in camouflage, a blotchy pattern of matte dark green and black and brown.
“Those men, the attackers,” Michael Fuller shouted in Jeffrey’s ear. “They looked liked Russians!”
Jeffrey nodded. “Former Spetznaz probably! Special forces, in the pay of the Axis now!”
Michael Fuller hesitated. “Is it always like this?”
“Is what like what?”
“The combat!”
Jeffrey looked his father right in the eyes. “Welcome to my world!” Jeffrey reached out a sweaty, smoke-stained hand. Jeffrey’s father shook it; Michael Fuller’s hand felt like an ice cube.
“I’ll see you, Dad!”
Marines hustled Jeffrey and Wilson and Ilse to the helo. The crew chief handed them cranials and floatation vests. The cranials were collapsible flight helmets. They opened like a clamshell, had built-in hearing protection, and came with big padded eye goggles. Jeffrey and Wilson and Ilse quickly got ready for the flight.
So close to the aircraft, conversation was impossible. The crew chief used sign language to show each of them where to sit. They climbed inside the helo. The seat frames were made of stark aluminum tubing, and the seat backs and bottoms were simple thick black vinyl sheets. Shoulder straps came over each shoulder. They clipped into the buckle of a belt that covered both thighs. Jeffrey pulled all the fittings very tight.
The helo was an SH-60 Seahawk. The transport compartment had seating for ten. On board were Jeffrey and Ilse, sitting side by side facing forward at the rear of the compartment. Wilson sat up front, facing Jeffrey. The only other passengers were the crew chief and his assistant, who slammed the door.
The engine noise grew stronger, even through the soundproof ear cups of Jeffrey’s helmet and the insulated padding of the fuselage walls. The vibrations through the seat and through the floor rose to a heavy rapid shaking. The Sea-hawk took to the air.
The helo rose quickly and headed out over the Potomac. The Pentagon was a huge gray squatting presence up ahead, the oblique perspective from the helo making the five-sided building seem oddly elongated and flat.
Jeffrey saw a thinning pillar of black smoke, rising from where the first ambush broke out.
They flew past Theodore Roosevelt Island and over bridges; the interior of the aircraft had a metallic, oily, hot-plastic smell. Then the helo was rushing along the Potomac, closer to and then right past the Pentagon and the airport, at 150 knots, at barely a hundred feet above the river.
The Apache helos flew armed escort. Jeffrey could see their Gatling guns pivoting in their chin mounts, scanning both banks of the river, cued to sights mounted on each gunner’s special helmet. Each Apache’s pilot sat above and behind the gunner in the long and narrow two-man combat helicopters.
Jeffrey tried to slow his pulse and just enjoy the ride and savor life. He’d hated the feeling before of just being a passenger, of having to huddle passively while others fought and died protecting him . He wasn’t used to this, and it galled him. He much preferred to be in charge, both of himself and of the ones who did the fighting and killing and dying.
The engine sounds swelled louder, and the rotor vibrations got more rough, each time the helo banked steeply right or
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