AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You don’t believe him, Grandpa, do you?” Rosalind said.
“Yes, I do,” Walke said, helping me up. “Let’s get back to the ATVs.”
I sat in front of Walke on his Honda ATV, cradled in his arms like a baby in a basket, as we skirted the swampland back to the pickup he had parked four miles away.
As the woods flew away behind us, I couldn’t stop thinking about how lucky I was. About God answering my prayers. When we arrived at the blue truck and Mr. Walke cut the chain of the cuffs with a pair of side cutters he took from the toolbox, I was seriously thinking about hugging him.
We’d gotten both ATVs back into the bed of the truck and had just started the engine when we heard it. It was a distant sound, almost pleasant at first like a lawn mower, but then we could hear its trilling. It was a helicopter, flying low and fast over the swamp.
“That them?” Mr. Walke said.
I nodded.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Grandpa, what have you gotten us into now? Grandma is gonna kill you,” Rosalind said, sitting beside me with Roxie in her lap.
Joe Walke dropped the truck into drive and dropped the hammer.
“What else is new, child?” he said, as we bumped and skidded off down the old dirt logging road.
Chapter 25
The whizzing rotors of the black MH-6 chopper that Haber called the Black Egg of Death slammed at the air above as they followed the slope of the hill down. Like a skier coasting down a ramp, the wasplike aircraft floated down the ridge low enough to put stars on the tops of the hemlocks and white pines it skimmed.
As in Iraq, Paul Haber sat in the skid seat of the helicopter poised like a bronco-busting cowboy in the chute. He had aviator sunglasses perched atop his head and the butt of the M4A1 held jauntily off his hip, right hand in front of the trigger guard, in a textbook field-manual ready position.
Devine knew that the real authority of military men and leaders lies in the half-magical, half-insane ability to lead by example, to dive headlong into combat with calm and confidence. How many times had he seen Haber expose himself to devastating fire without hesitation?
Haber could do anything, Devine thought, his doubts and fears long gone. Haber wasn’t like regular men.
As in Iraq, when Haber was his hero, Devine watched closely what he did, how his hunter’s eyes tracked into the boughs of the endless trees.
“Sir, three o’clock,” said Willard, on the aircraft’s other side.
The bird swung to the right. On Sweetheart Mountain, the opposite hill of the river valley beyond the swamp, there was movement up an old logging road. It was a faded blue pickup. Dirt spat out from the rear tires as it struggled up the steep grade.
“Is it him?” Haber called over the intercom.
“I can’t tell,” Devine said, trying to make out anyone in the cab. It was practically impossible with the vibration of the chopper.
Haber grabbed the glasses and looked himself.
“It has to be. Get after the truck.”
The chopper’s nose tilted downward and they sped forward over the swamp. Reaching the opposite side, they could see the blue pickup make the top of the hill. Instead of continuing on the logging road down the other side, the truck lurched to the left and continued along the top of an exposed rocky ridge, bouncing up and down off the bumpy rock face crazily as it picked up speed.
“What the hell is it doing?” Devine said.
“Who cares? Get up on that damned ridge and give me a clear shot.”
They’d just reached the top of the ridge, coming up behind the truck, when it happened. The driver’s-side door of the speeding truck opened and a man slid out, tumbling, skidding, and kicking up a cloud of rocks and dust. Into the air on the other side of the ridge, like Evel Knievel trying to jump the Grand Canyon, the still-speeding driverless truck sailed straight off the other side of the cliff and disappeared nose-first from view.
“What the—?” Haber said, and laughed. “Get me down there! Get me down there now!” The helicopter touched down in the tight clearing at the top of the ridge, where the truck’s driver had landed and was still sitting. As they jumped out and approached, Devine saw he was an old man, dressed in an orange vest and waders.
“Who the hell are you?” Haber said to him.
“I’m Joe Walke,” he said. He held his glasses in both hands and looked over the cliff, where the truck had shattered against the boulders far down below. “It wasn’t my fault. He wouldn’t jump. I told him.”
