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The helicopter dropped beneath him.
Sam’s stomach rose into his throat.
The movement stopped, but now the helicopter was resting at an angle; through the cockpit, he could see the waters of the lake far below.
Running out of time . . .
He turned around, eyes darting around the cabin. Something . . . anything. He found a partially full green canvas duffel bag. He didn’t bother examining the contents,
but instead began snatching up loose items from inside the cabin, paying little attention to what they were. If they felt useful and would fit in the bag, he took them. He searched the dead soldier, found a lighter but nothing else of use, then turned his attention to the pilot and copilot. He came away with a semiautomatic pistol and a kneeboard stuffed with paperwork. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a half-open hatch at the rear of the cabin. He climbed up to it, stuck his hand inside. His fingers touched canvas. He pulled the object free: a lumbar pack. He stuffed it into the duffel.
“Time to go,” he muttered, then shouted through the door, “Remi, can you hear me?”
Her reply was muffled but understandable: “I’m here!”
“Is the piton still—”
The helicopter lurched again; the nose tipped downward. Sam was now half standing on the pilot’s seat back.
“Is the piton still firm?” he shouted again.
“Yes! Hurry, Sam, get out of there!”
“On my way!”
Sam zipped the duffel closed and shoved the looped handles down over his head so the bag was dangling from his neck. He closed his eyes, said a silent One . . . two . . . three . . . then dove through the open door.
Whether his shove off from the pilot’s seat was the cause, Sam would never know, but even as he broke clear of the sheet of water he heard and felt the Z-9 going over. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder, instead concentrating on the wall of rock rushing toward him. He arched his head backward, covered his face with both arms.
The impact was similar to slamming one’s chest into a tackling dummy. The duffel bag had acted as a bumper, he realized. He felt his body spinning, bumping over the wall several times, before he settled into a gentle swing.
Above him, Remi’s face appeared over the edge. Her panicked expression switched to a relieved smile. “An exit worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster.”
“An exit born of desperation and fear,” Sam corrected.
He looked down at the lake. The Z-9’s fuselage was slipping beneath the surface; the rear half was missing. Sam looked left and saw the tail section still jutting from the runnel. Where the fuselage had torn free, only ragged aluminum remained.
Remi called, “Climb up, Sam. You’re going to freeze to death.”
He nodded wearily. “Give me just a minute—or two—and I’ll be right with you.”
33
NORTHERN NEPAL
Exhausted and shaking with adrenaline, Sam slogged his way up the rope until Remi could reach over and help him the rest of the way. He rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. Remi flung her arms around him and tried to hide her tears.
“Don’t you ever do that again.” After a deep sigh, she asked, “What’s in the duffel?”
“A whole bunch of I’m not sure. I was grabbing anything that looked useful.”
“A grab bag,” Remi said with a smile. She gently lifted the duffel’s handle over Sam’s head. She unzipped it and began rummaging inside. “Thermos,” she said, and brought it out. “Empty.”
Sam sat up and donned his jacket, cap, and glove. “Good. I’ve got a mission for you: take your trusty thermos and go scoop up every drop of unburned aviation fuel you can find.”
“Good thinking.”
Sam nodded and grunted, “Fire good.”
