Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of Stone

Chapter 3

Just the act of climbing up the metal rungs that doubled as a ladder, and then onto the black metal fuselage before ducking into the front cockpit of the Boeing Apache, soothed some of Maya’s initial anxiousness. Dawn had yet to break in the east. The cockpit canopy opened on the left side, folding upward and back so that both pilots could climb into their respective positions at once. The crew chief was Sergeant Elena Macedo from Peru. Maya could hear her copilot and gunner, Chief Warrant Officer 2 Jessica Merril, settling into her position directly behind her. Jessica hailed from California. Her nickname was Wild Woman. Though she was twenty-six, she had the look of an impish pixie, her blond hair dyed with streaks of red. The splashes of color were Jess’s way of donning war-paint and going off to battle, in a sense. Everyone’s got a big bang out of Wild Woman’s wild “do.” She more than symbolized the highly individualized rebel attitude of the base. Maya liked it and approved of it.

The Apache was a big, ugly looking dog with a bulbous nose that housed the infrared, television and radar equipment. The cockpits rose upward on a metal frame, the front cockpit Plexiglas hardened to take a 30 mm cannon hit as well as bird strikes. The seat felt welcoming to Maya, the space narrow, with the cyclic positioned between her legs, the collective by her left, gloved hand. Between her and her copilot was a blast shield; in case they took a hit and one pilot was killed or wounded, the other would be protected so they could fly the chopper home.

Settling the helmet on her head, Maya lifted her hand and twirled it in a clockwise motion, signaling the ground crew to start up the Apache. The first thing that came on in the assault gunship was the air-conditioning, designed to cool the miles of circuitry that were bundled along the sides of the prehistoric-looking craft beneath the black metal fuselage. The blast of air from the ducts in the front panel, along with the high-pitched whine of the air-conditioning cranking up, surrounded Maya. She watched all the instruments in front of her start to blink and flicker on. The two HUD’s came to life, glowing a pleasant green color that was easy on the eyes and didn’t contribute to night blindness. She pressed some buttons, making sure the related systems were operational. Positioning the mouthpiece within an inch of her lips, she tested communications with her copilot.

“Wild Woman, how are you reading me?”

“Loud and clear, Captain.”

“Roger.”

Looking up, Maya saw the constant wisps of clouds that embraced the ten-thousand foot inactive volcano where their base was located. The two Apaches faced outward, having been pushed into position from beneath the cave’s overhang by the crews earlier. The lip of lava extended out a good four hundred feet in front of them and made an excellent landing and takeoff spot for the birds. Squinting above the cockpit console, Maya noted the lava wall that rose directly in front of them a thousand feet high, like a big rock curtain. The only way in and out of this cave complex was through the “Eye of the Needle,” as they called it.

The Eye of the Needle was a natural geologic wonder—a hole in the lava wall sixty feet high and eighty feet wide, just large enough for an Apache or Cobra to move very carefully through it. The rotor diameter on an Apache was forty-eight feet, so they had very little clearance at any time.

Clouds also helped hide the base from prying eyes. Far below them flowed the mighty Urubamba River, a continual source of moisture rising upward in the tropical heat. As this humid air rolled up the mountainside, it met and mixed with cooler, descending air—exactly where the cave and their base was located, creating a fog that was nearly constant all year-round.

This morning was no exception. They would be required to lift off and fly out on instruments and radar in order to thread the Eye squarely and not take off a chunk of their titanium-edged rotor blades, risking a crash. The operation wasn’t for fools or anyone not paying attention to her flying. After logging three hundred miles on a mission, the pilots were often tired coming back, and this obstacle became even more dangerous in their exhausted state.

Glancing down, Maya positioned her chicken plate, the bulletproof vest across her chest and abdomen, so that it rode as comfortably as possible. The radio in her helmet crackled to life.

“Black Jaguar One, this is Two. You read me?” It was Dallas Klein’s whiskey-smooth voice.

“Roger, Black Jaguar Two. Read you loud and clear.”

“Looks like we got split pea soup out there as usual, Saber.”

Maya smiled as she hooked up her harness. Saber was her nickname, given to her upon graduation from army basic aviation school, when she’d gotten her wings. Everyone got a nickname. She’d earned hers because her company said she was like a fine-bladed army ceremonial sword, slicing through any situation with finality. The name Saber had stuck. Maya liked living up to it. “Roger that, Dallas. Nothing new. The boys comin’ up from Lima oughta be real impressed if this stuff hangs around the Eye like it usually does,” she chuckled darkly. She made sure the knee board on her right thigh was adjusted, in case she needed to jot anything down.

Continuing her checks, Maya felt her left thigh pocket to make sure that her sister’s medicine necklace was in there. Inca had given her the protective necklace soon after they’d met, and Maya always kept it on her during a mission. She couldn’t wear jewlery, so she tucked it into a side pocket. It felt warm and secure in there and she gave it a pat of affection. In a way, it reminded Maya that now she had a sister to come home to, and to be careful out there in the skies over Peru.

Chuckling, Dallas said, “Oh, I’m sure they’re gonna be real impressed, anyway.”

“We’ll see just how tough the good ole boys from Fort Rucker are when they encounter the Eye. I’d give my right arm to see the looks on their faces when they approach it.”

“They’ve been given prior info on it, right?” Wild Woman interjected from the rear cockpit.

Maya nodded. She was ready. They were ready. Excitement thrummed through her. “Roger that, Jess. But looking at it on paper and seeing it in person, and knowing your forty-eight-foot blade has no room for error, despite the winds that are always whipping up from the river, is gonna make it real interesting for those boys.”

Laughter filled Maya’s earphones. She grinned mirthlessly. Yes, she’d like to see York’s face when he came up against the Eye wrapped in thick clouds that were subject to the whim of the winds in this mountainous region. He’d learn to respect Eye real fast. Maya could hardly wait until they returned and she saw the two new Apaches thread it. There wasn’t a pilot around that didn’t approach it slowly and with a lot of trepidation.

The crew chief moved toward the ladder. “You’re ready to go, Captain,” she said, and snapped a salute to the two pilots.

Maya snapped off an answering salute. “Thank you, Sergeant Macedo.”

Macedo then brought down both canopies and locked them into position, making the cabin of each cockpit secure.

Maya rested her gloved hands in plain sight of the crew below. Until everyone was clear, Maya would not start the massive engines of the helo or endanger her ground crew. As the three of them stepped away, their faces shadowed by the low lighting provided by a nearby generator, Maya lifted her hand and twirled her index finger in a circular motion, which meant she was going to start engines.

“Let’s get down to work,” she told Wild Woman, her voice turning businesslike. Maya flipped the first switch, which would engage the engine on the starboard, or right side of the fuselage. Instantly, a high whine and shudder worked through the aircraft. Eyes narrowing, Maya watched the engine indicator leap like active thermometers, bobbing up and down. When the engine was activated to a certain level, she thumbed the second engine switch. The gunship was awakening. In some sense Maya always thought of it as an ugly and ungainly looking thing. The image of a Tyrannosaurus rex came to mind: king of the dinosaurs and a mean bastard who ruled its turf—just like the Apache did. She could feel the sleek shudder that ran through it as the gunship gained power.

To Maya, her helicopter was a living being consisting of metal, wire circuitry, software and engine parts. She found her own power in that machinery. Whatever nervousness she’d felt about the coming encounter with Major Dane York was soothed away. When she was in the cockpit, the world and all its troubles dissolved. Her love of flying, of handling this remarkable machine, took over completely.

As the engine indicators leveled out, Maya engaged the main rotor. The four blades began to turn in a counterclockwise motion, slowly at first, then faster and faster as she notched up the power with the cyclic grasped in her fingers. Her entire left forearm rested comfortably on a panel so that her hand wouldn’t cramp up and the cyclic became a natural extension of her hand.

“Jess, switch on the radar. I need to thread the needle here in a moment.”

“Right… We’re up…go for it….”

Maya saw the full sweep of a bright green set of lines on the right HUD. It looked like a slice of pie as the long, green needle of radar swept ceaselessly back and forth, clearly revealing the hole in the wall directly in front of them, despite the cloud cover beyond.

“Let’s go over our checklist,” Maya ordered.

“Roger,” Jess returned, and they began to move through a sequence they had memorized long ago. Maya reached for her knee board, systematically checking off each station as it was called out. There was no room for sloppiness in her squadron. Things were done by the book. It improved their chances of survival.

They were ready. Maya devoured the excitement still throbbing through her. The Apache shook around her, the noise muted to a great degree by her helmet. She tested the yaw pedals beneath her booted feet. Everything was functioning properly. Proud of her hardworking ground crews, Maya lifted her hand to them in farewell as they moved back to watch the two assault helicopters take off, one at a time, to thread the needle.

“Black Jaguar Two. You ready to rock ’n’ roll?” Maya asked.

Dallas chuckled indulgently. “Roger that, Saber. My girl is checked out and we’re ready to boogie on down the road with you. I want to dance on a Black Shark’s head today.”

“Roger. Let’s go meet those good ole boys from Fort Rucker first, shall we? They might have the new D models, but us girls have got the guns.”

Chuckling, Dallas said, “I don’t think Gunslinger is ready for us.”

Gunslinger was Dane York’s nickname, Maya remembered starkly. He was an aggressive, type A individual who lived to hunt and kill in the air. Of course, so did anyone who got assigned to Apaches. They were a breed apart, bloodhounds in the sky, looking for quarry. Grinning, Maya notched up to takeoff speed and gently lifted the fully armed Apache off the lava lip. Smoothly, she nudged the helo forward into the swirling clouds. Within moments, they were completely embraced by the thick moisture.

“On glide path,” Jess called out.

Maya flew by instruments only. Her eyes were narrowed on the HUD, watching the swiftly moving radar that whipped back and forth on the screen to create a picture of the approaching Eye. The winds were erratic at this time of the morning, because when the sun rose, the land heated up and made air currents unpredictable—and dangerous. Raindrops splattered across the windshield of her aircraft, falling from clouds which carried moisture from the humid jungle below. The Apache eased forward, closer and closer to the opening in the lava wall.

“On glide path…”

Compressing her lips, Maya tensed a little, as always. The aircraft was within twenty feet of the Eye. Right now, the wrong wind current, the wrong move with her hands or feet, would crash them into the wall. Easy…easy… She moved the aircraft smoothly through the hole and out over the jungle far below. They were at eight thousand feet now, and Maya eased away from the cliff to allow Dallas’s aircraft to exit in turn.

“Switching to radar to hunt for the bad guys,” Jess called.

“Roger.” Maya looked up briefly. She could see nothing but the thick, white mists all around them. It was dark and the Apaches ran with no lights on them. Their instruments were all they had. “Keep a lookout for Kamovs. I got a bad feeling on this one, Jess.”

“I thought you might. Scanning beginning now…”

Of course, Maya knew that even with their advanced radar, Kamovs had a certain type of paint on their fuselage that absorbed the Apache’s radar signal, so that what little pinged back to the instruments on board was negligible, and therefore unreadable. A Kamov could spot them in fog like this, providing the cloud cover wasn’t too thick, and nail them. Plus, their radar could send out a strong signal through thinner clouds and get an equally strong returning signal back from its target. Right now, they were sitting ducks and Maya knew it.

“We’re out, Saber,” Dallas said.

“Roger,” Maya replied. “Let’s split up, make less of a target of ourselves. Leave a mile between us and head for the meeting point. Keep your eyes and ears open, ladies.”

“Roger that,” Dallas said.

Inching up the throttles, Maya felt the Apache growl more deeply as it rose higher and higher. She wanted out of this cloud cover, to get on top of it so her 360-degree radar could detect and protect them from any lurking intruders. The Apache felt good around her. It was sleek and smooth compared to many other helicopters she’d flown. With a full load of ordnance on board, she felt the lethal power of it as well. At a flick of a switch on her collective, the stick between her legs, she could send a fiery hell to earth in a matter of moments.

As they rose to nine thousand feet, they suddenly popped out of the cloud cover. Above, Maya saw the familiar sight of the Southern Cross. She smiled a little at the peaceful looking stars as they glimmered across the ebony arc above them. And yet here they were in a cat-and-mouse game with killers who’d just as soon see them dead as alive. The incongruity of it all struck her.

The helicopter dipped its nose forward as Maya poured in more power, and they swiftly moved along the top of the ever-moving clouds.

“Beautiful out tonight,” Wild Woman murmured as she scanned her instruments carefully.

“Yeah, it is,” Maya said. “I was just thinking how peaceful it looks up there, above us. And how Faro Valentino probably has his Russian merc pilots in their Kamovs hunting for us right now.”

“Ain’t life a dichotomy?” Jess chuckled.

Scowling, Maya kept moving her head from side to side and looking above her—“rubbernecking,” a term coined by World War II pilots. The Black Sharks were deadly hunters in their own right. When the Soviet Union broke up, Faro Valentino had marched in with his millions, purchased two state-of-the-art Kamovs and hired a cadre of out-of-work Soviet pilots, who liked being paid big bucks to fly cocaine in South America. The pilots were considered mercenaries for hire. And Faro had his pick of the best, waving his drug money under their noses.

Grimly, Maya kept switching her gaze from her instruments to the space around them. Somewhere off to her left was Dallas and the other Apache. Because the gunships were painted black, she could not see them at all. And because of their stealth duties, they ran without outboard lights.

“This time of morning there should be no other aircraft around,” Maya said to Jess.

“Roger that. The civilians are still tucked in their beds, sleeping in Cuzco.”

Chuckling, Maya returned to her duties. She could fly the Apache blind; she knew each movement and each sensation of this stalwart warrior they flew in. The Apache was a killing machine that responded to the most delicate touch. And had a heart that beat strongly within her. The soothing vibration of the engines moved throughout Maya’s body, and to her, it was like a mother holding a child and rocking it; it gave her that sense of completeness and wholeness. The Apache was one of the most marvelous inventions of the air, as far as she was concerned. It had been built by Boeing to protect the pilots, first and foremost, and secondly, to become a sky hunter that had no equal. And it did. The Kamov’s ability to sneak up on them was the one Achilles heel of this magnificent machine. And because of the type of flying they did, it was a constant threat. The Russian mercenary pilots were the cream of the crop, and they were hunters just like Maya. They lived to fly, hunt and kill. There was no difference between her and these pilots except that they were on the wrong side of the law, in Maya’s eyes. Greed ran those pilots. Morals ran her and her people.

Beneath them, Maya knew, there was thick, continuous jungle. She and her teammates had to constantly fly among precipitous peaks covered in greenery. Most of the mountains were at least ten thousand feet high, some higher. Whatever the altitude, flying was not easy and required intense concentration in order not to crash into one of the unseen obstacles. The radar kept the shapes, elevation and height of the mountains on the HUD in front of Maya so that she could fly around them accordingly.

“Hey, look at that red stripe on the eastern horizon,” Jess called out. “Bummer.”

Dawn was coming. Maya scanned the bloodred horizon.

“Think it’s a sign of things to come?” Jess asked.

Maya took the natural world around her seriously. Maybe it was her background with the Jaguar Clan. Or her innate Indian heritage. It didn’t matter. There were signs all around them, all the time. The trick was in reading them correctly. “Damn,” she muttered.

“Black Jaguar One, this is Two. Over.”

Flicking down the button on the collective, Maya answered, “This is Black Jaguar One. Over.”

“See the horizon?”

Mouth quirking, Maya glared at the crimson ribbon. “Yeah, I see it.”

“Not a good sign. Over.”

“No. Keep your eyes peeled, ladies. I’m betting on more company than was originally invited.”

“Roger. Out.”

Jess chuckled. “Wouldn’t those good ole boys from Fort Rucker die laughing if they heard us looking at a red horizon as a sign of a coming Kamov attack?”

Maya knew that there would be radio silence maintained between them and the new Apaches and Blackhawk coming in to meet them. Only once they met would they all switch to another radio frequency to speak for the first time. Ruthlessly grinning, she said, “Yeah, they’re gonna pee in their pants when they start flying with us in those new D models. It will shake up their well-ordered little male world.”

Laughing, Jess said, “Speaking of which…here they come. Got three blips on radar and…” she peered closely at her HUD “…yep, it’s them. It’s showing two Apaches, and a Blackhawk bringing up the rear. What do you know? They can navigate.”

Maya laughed. It broke the tension in her cockpit. “Well, we’ll give them an A for meeting us at the right time and place. Let’s just loiter here until they arrive.”

Placing the Apache in a hover at nine thousand feet, Maya watched her HUD with interest. The radar clearly showed the three aircraft speeding toward them. The lead one was flown by Dane York, no doubt. Her mouth compressed. Maya held on to the anger that she still had toward him. Every woman pilot at her base had had the misfortune of being under his training command. That was why, when the idea for this base came about, they had all left with Maya. They wanted no part of the continuing prejudice they knew would be thrown at them. At least down here they were graded on their abilities, not their sex.

The crimson ribbon on the horizon was expanding minute by minute, staining the retreating blackness of the starlit sky and chasing it away like a gaping, bleeding wound. Maya kept looking around. She could feel the Kamovs lurking somewhere near…but where? All she needed was to have three unarmed gunships jumped by fully loaded Kamov Black Sharks, with only two Apaches standing between them. Her mind raced. If the Kamovs were near, just waiting for the right moment to jump them, she wondered how they had found out the meeting location in the first place? Was there a leak in intelligence? How could Faro Valentino have gotten hold of this information? Maya frowned. Her gaze moved ceaselessly now. Her gut was tightening. She smelled Kamovs. Where? Dammit, where?

“Black Jaguar One, this is Rocky One. Do you read? Over?”

Maya instantly flinched. It was Dane York’s deep, controlling voice rolling in over the headset inside her helmet. Her heart leaped at that moment, beating hard. With fear. Old fear that she had felt at the school so many years ago. Anger quickly snuffed out her reaction. Thumbing the cyclic, she answered, “Rocky One, this is Black Jaguar One. Welcome to our turf.” She grinned recklessly because she wanted to let him know from the get-go that he was on her turf, her base and under her command.

There was a brief silence. Then he answered, “Roger, Black Jaguar One. What are your instructions? Over.”

Her eyes slitted as she saw the three aircraft coming out of the fleeing darkness. They were all painted the mandatory black, with absolutely no insignias on them. Her lips lifted away from her teeth and she said, “We’re worried about Kamovs jumping us. No sign of them yet, but we feel them out there. You know the routine if we’re jumped? Over.”

“Roger, Black Jaguar One. How do you know there’re Kamovs around?”

It was just like York to question her. Maya rolled her eyes. “Major, just accept it as a reality. Over.”

“Roger, Black Jaguar One. We know the routine in case we are attacked. Over.”

“Roger.” At that point Maya, gave them the heading for the base. “Stay above the cloud cover. We’ll be flying about a mile on either side of you. Over.”

“Roger.”

“He hasn’t changed one bit,” Dallas said over their private frequency. “Maybe you oughta tell him you looked into your crystal ball this morning before you got into the Apache, Maya. Tell him you saw Kamovs in your future.” And she giggled.

Maya didn’t think it was funny at all. Already York was trying to assert control over her by questioning her authority and ability. “No, I’d rather tell him the truth—that we’ve got a red sunrise and that means Kamovs are hunting us. Think he’d buy that instead?” Maya heard the other three women laughing hysterically in her headset. The laughter broke the tension among them. They knew from three years of experience that red sunrises were an ominous sign.

The light of day shone dully across the sky. Off to Maya’s left, she saw the three new aircraft flying in a loose formation, staying far enough apart that they couldn’t be hit as a unit by a missile and destroyed. At least York was smart enough not to fly in a tight formation—she’d give him that. Maya could barely make out Dallas’s aircraft, positioned a mile on the other side of the group. They had an hour to go before they reached the base. And an hour would feel like a lifetime when she knew the Kamovs were up and hunting them.

“Break, break!” Dallas called. “We’ve got a visual on a Kamov at eleven o’clock!”

Instantly, Maya thumbed the radio. “Rocky One, hightail it out of here. We’ve got company. Over.”

“Roger. Over and out.”

Maya sucked in a breath and cursed as she saw the long shape of the Black Shark with its coaxial rotors coming down out of the sky toward the fleeing aircraft.

“Damn! Come on, Jess, let’s get with it!” She punched fuel into the Apache engines. The aircraft instantly responded, the motors deepening in sound as they flew toward the attacking Kamov, which was trying to get a bead on one of the escaping U.S. aircraft. Right now, Maya thought, York was probably pissing in his pants over this. He was a combat pilot in a combat aircraft with no ammunition. Nada. And he was probably hotter than a two-dollar pistol about it. She didn’t blame him.