Heart of the Storm by M. L. Buchman

Author:M. L. Buchman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
Published: 2015-08-26T16:00:00+00:00

8

“We’ve got a Mayday on 243,” Richardson spoke up.

Henderson slid to a halt inches above the road in the heart of Cayuse Pass and grinned at the clock. Twenty-four seconds early. He was inside his time window.

Full dark had set in and—Shit!

He yanked up on the collective barely in time to clear a truck that had decided to cross the pass at that moment. He wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised.

“Give me audio,” he said to cover his nerves.

“Roger, Mayday,” Mark kept his voice steady. “This is a Black Hawk out of Fort Lewis-McChord,” he certainly wasn’t giving his ID to some unknown. “How may we assist?”

“I have a civilian at twelve thousand feet who needs immediate evac to hospital. Plus one.”

No need to explain the “Plus one.” Plus one corpse.

The guy on the far end of the radio call continued, “Winds currently gusting seven-five to one-one-zero estimated. Temp steady at minus thirty. Visibility under ten feet in driving ice and snow. Can you assist?” The wind howled over his headset while the guy’s transmit key was down. No question about mishearing the wind speeds aloft.

The silence on the intercom was deafening after he keyed off. What kind of a crazy bastard was doing a search-and-rescue in those kinds of conditions? The guy was sitting in the middle of a Category 2 hurricane.

Mark considered. He had wanted to prove that a DAP Hawk of the 5D could go anywhere and do anything. Hadn’t he wished for that just an hour or two ago while standing safely on the tarmac at Fort Lewis?

Twelve thousand feet in the midst of a kick-ass, hurricane-force storm.

What ultimately decided him was one word, “Civilian.”

Based on the frequency and the way he spoke, there was a military man on top of that mountain asking for his assistance. And the military’s job was to—

“Roger, Mayday. This is—”

Mark released the mike switch. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to announce himself over the radio. “Richardson. Where is this guy? Do you have a vector?” A sharp gust over the pass caused his finger to bump the transmit button and send the last word.

“—vector.”

“Roger, Viper. Mayday is at,” and he rattled off GPS coordinates that Richardson keyed down for him.

Viper? Mark had said “vector” but over the wind’s roar it was miracle they could understand each other at all. Mark also noted that the guy still wasn’t identifying himself.

Any normal soldier would do so. Even Green Beret.

Whoever this was had to be extremely well trained to be doing a rescue in this weather and yet wasn’t transmitting his identity. That meant only one thing: Special Operations—the standard customers of the Night Stalkers.

And he needed their help.

“Okay guys,” Mark called over the intercom. “Dress warm. This elevator is going up.” The DAP Hawk was hovering at forty-six hundred feet in Cayuse Pass headed for twelve thou.

“Women’s lingerie,” Tim started in as they climbed.

“Bowling jerseys, jockstraps, and tap shoes,” Big John joined in.

Mark tuned them out as they continued calling out more and more outrageous items.

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