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“What about the second one?”
Stone had been furiously typing on the keyboard. “It’s a Bell Jet Ranger leased by a Canadian mineral company.”
“The second one’s a Bell Jet Rang—” Hanley started to say.
“I’m staring at it right now,” Cabrillo said. “It’s not a Jet Ranger, it looks more like a McDonnell Douglas 500 series.”
Stone typed in some more commands and a second later a picture of a wrecked helicopter filled the monitor. “Someone has stolen the registration and ident to avoid detection. Can Mr. Cabrillo see any tail numbers?”
“Stone says we have a stolen registration,” Hanley noted. “Can you see any tail numbers?”
Cabrillo removed a pair of small binoculars from his pocket and stared through the darkness. “Two things,” he said slowly. “The first is that there’s a weapons pod hung under the fuselage. The second is that the tail numbers aren’t visible, but I can make out letters painted on the side. There is an A, followed by a K, followed by a B.
Then the rest are covered in ice. The next is maybe an A, I can’t be sure.”
Hanley related to Cabrillo what they had uncovered about the yacht named Akbar.
“It’s that son of a bitch Al-Khalifa?” Cabrillo blurted. “Who’s in the other helicopter? Al Capone?”
NEILSEN HAD THE rotor blade up to speed and he pulled up on the collective, taking the Eurocopter into a hover just as the other helicopter appeared in the windshield.
“Look there,” he said through the headset to Hughes.
“Take off, now,” Hughes shouted.
“I think we’d better set down and see what’s up,” Neilsen said.
With a lightning-fast move, Hughes pulled a pistol from his pocket and pointed it at Neilsen’s head. “I said take off.”
One look at Hughes and the pistol was enough; Neilsen moved the cyclic and the Eurocopter lurched forward. At that instant a flame erupted from the bottom of the other helicopter and a missile streaked toward where they had been hovering. The missile went wide and veered out into the frozen wasteland.
STONE BROUGHT UP an image on the monitor in the Oregon’s control room. “This is a DOD satellite shot one hour ago,” he said quickly. “Helicopter number two came from a location offshore of eastern Greenland on a straight course for Mount Forel.”
Just then Adams walked into the control room. “Our helicopter is armed and ready.”
“Do you have enough range to make it from here and back?” Hanley asked.
“No,” Adams admitted, “we’ll be thirty to forty gallons short on the return.”
“What kind of fuel do you burn?”
“One hundred octane low-lead.”
“Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said over the satellite phone, “we have Adams ready to go, but we’re short fuel f
or the return trip. Do you have extra fuel on the snowcat?”
“I have a hundred gallons or so left,” Cabrillo said.
Hanley looked up at Adams, who had listened to the transmission carefully.
“If I take along some liquid octane booster, we can bump the gas up so it might work. One way or another, I want to get over there and help the boss.”
“I’ll call the mechanical shop and have the booster delivered to the flight deck,” Hanley said quickly. “You do your preflight and take off as soon as possible.”
Adams nodded and raced for the door.
“I’m sending in the cavalry, Juan,” Hanley said into the telephone. “He’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
