but the explosive always wins. Reacher saw the starboard engine
disintegrate, then the rear rotor housing blow off. Shattered
fragments of the drivetrain exploded outward like shrapnel and the
rotor detached and spun away in terrible slow motion. The Chinook
stalled in the air and fell, tail-down, checked only by the screaming
forward rotor, and slowly spun to the earth, like a holed ship slips
slowly below the sea.
Holly heard the helicopter. She heard the low-frequency beat pulsing
faintly through her walls. She heard it grow louder. Then she heard
the explosion and the shriek of the forward rotor grabbing the air.
Then she heard nothing.
She jammed her elbow into her crutch and limped across to the diagonal
partition. The prison room was completely empty except for the
mattress. So her search was going to have to start again in the
bathroom.
“Only one question,” Webster said. “How long can we keep the lid on
this?”
General Johnson said nothing in reply. Neither did his aide. Webster
moved his gaze across to Garber. Garber was looking grim.
“Not too damn long,” he said.
“But how long?” Webster asked. “A day? An hour?”
“Six hours,” Garber said.
“Why?” McGrath asked.
“Standard procedure,” Garber said. They’ll investigate the crash,
obviously. Normally they’d send another chopper out. But not if
there’s a suspicion of ground fire. So they’ll come by road from
Malmstrom. Six hours.”
Webster nodded. Turned to Johnson.
“Can you delay them, General?” he asked.
Johnson shook his head.
“Not really,” he said. His voice was low and resigned. “They just
lost a Chinook. Crew of two. I can’t call them and say, do me a
favor, don’t investigate that. I could try, I guess, and they might
agree at first, but it would leak, and then we’d be back where we
started. Might gain us an hour.”
Webster nodded.
“Seven hours, six hours, what’s the difference?” he said.
Nobody replied.
“We’ve got to move now,” McGrath said. “Forget the White House. We
can’t wait any longer. We need to do something right now, people. Six
hours from now, the whole situation blows right out of control. We’ll
lose her.”
Six hours is three hundred and sixty minutes. They wasted the first
two sitting in silence. Johnson stared into space. Webster drummed
his fingers on the table. Garber stared at McGrath, a wry expression
on his face. McGrath was staring at the map. Milosevic and Brogan
were standing in the silence, holding the brown bags of breakfast and
the Styrofoam cups.
“Coffee here, anybody wants it,” Brogan said.
Garber waved him over.
“Eat and plan,” he said.
“Map,” Johnson said.
McGrath slid the map across the table. They all sat forward. Back in
motion. Three hundred and fifty eight minutes to go.
“Ravine’s about four miles north of us,” the aide said. “All we got is
eight Marines in a LAV-25.”
That tank thing?” McGrath asked.
The aide shook his head.
“Light Armored Vehicle,” he said. “LAV. Eight wheels, no tracks.”
“Bulletproof?” Webster asked.
“For sure,” the aide said. They can drive it all the way to Yorke.”
“If it gets through the ravine,” Garber said.
Johnson nodded.
That’s the big question,” he said. “We need to go take a look.”
The Light Armored Vehicle looked just like a tank to McGrath’s hasty
civilian glance, except there were eight wheels on it instead
QOO
of tracks. The hull was welded up out of brutal sloping armor plates
and there was a turret with a gun. The driver sat forward, and the
commander sat in the turret. In the rear, two rows of three Marines
sat back to back, facing weapon ports. Each port had its own
periscope. McGrath could visualize the vehicle rumbling into battle,
invulnerable, weapons bristling out of those ports. Down into the
ravine, up the other side, along the road to Yorke to the courthouse.
He pulled Webster to one side and spoke urgently.
“We never told them,” he said. “About the dynamite in the walls.”
“And we’re not going to,” Webster said quietly. The old guy would
freak out. He’s close to falling apart right now. I’m going to tell
the Marines direct. They’re going in there. They’ll have to deal with