The Silent Sea (Oregon Files 7)

They were Eurocopter EC-135s, a medium utility chopper with a ten-year history of some of the most rugged flying in the world. These were stripped-down troop transports with the doors modified so they could mount .30 caliber door guns. One of the choppers had a rear access panel open and the pilot half buried in the machine’s innards. Juan assumed he was working on the fault he had overheard Lieutenant Jimenez mention.

He pulled closer to the second chopper. The pilot of this bird, sporting a bandanna around his nose and mouth to filter out the worst of the smoke, was asleep in his seat. Cabrillo got an idea; better to use a well-trained enemy than an amateur ally. He sounded the truck’s horn, which turned out to be the only part of the old vehicle that still showed signs of life.

The man startled awake and lifted his sunglasses. His dark eyes widened when he saw the bloody apparitions stepping from the old pickup.

“We need an immediate evac,” Juan called to the pilot, pausing to help Mike Trono and his Quasimodo-like gait.

“Not without the Major’s permission,” the pilot replied.

“Radio him,” Juan said sharply. “He was the one who said to take off immediately. But fire the turbines first so we don’t waste any time.”

The pilot made no move to turn on the Eurocopter’s engines. Instead, he reached for his helmet, with its integrated communication’s system. Cabrillo glanced up the mountain. Through the smoke, it was difficult to make out details. It didn’t appear the lead vehicles of the rescue convoy had made it to the crash scene, but he decided they’d wasted enough time.

He moved quickly, drawing an automatic from his hip holster and rushing forward to place the muzzle against the pilot’s head before he could don the bulky helmet. The man froze.

“Start the engines now.” The cold timber in Juan’s voice was enough to command compliance.

“Take it easy, amigo. I’ll get you and your buddies out of here.” He carefully set the helmet back onto the copilot’s seat and set about preparing the chopper for flight.

Juan turned back to his men. “Miguel,” he said nodding to Mike Trono and then pointing to the cockpit. Trono knew immediately that the Chairman wanted him watching the pilot for any sign he was going to trick them. The pilot should be thinking that these were badly wounded and even more frightened comrades who needed medical care. It would come later that he’d realize he was being kidnapped.

The rest of the men climbed into the helo, strapping themselves into the web-

canvas bench seats. Jerry carefully placed the power cell on the deck and found some bungee cords to secure it in place.

In the cockpit, the pilot hit the turbine starter. There was a loud pop followed immediately by the steadily increasing whine of the helo’s main engine. In seconds, the chorus was joined by the second motor. It would take more than a minute for them to reach the proper temperatures to engage the transmission and start the blades turning overhead.

Juan kept glancing upslope. The convoy must have reached the injured men by now. He wondered how long it would take the Major to understand what had happened. An hour would be nice, Cabrillo thought ruefully, but the truth was that the Argentine officer appeared more than capable. He would consider them lucky to get off the ground before coming under fire.

There came a clunk as the rotors started turning. Slowly at first, they quickly began whipping the smoke-gorged air. A tinny voice came over the helmet’s speakers. Even with the din filling the chopper, its strident tone was plain.

Time’s up, Juan thought.

The pilot motioned for Mike to hand him the helmet. Trono threw back a thousand-yard stare, the look of a man so deep into his own pain that nothing in the outside world mattered. The Argentine reached over to grab it, only to feel the cold steel of Juan’s pistol hard up against his neck.

“Leave it and just take off.”

“What’s going on?”

Mike suddenly shed his wounded persona and also had an automatic trained on the pilot.

“My friend here also knows how to fly this thing. Do what we say, and you’ll walk away alive. Screw with me, and some poor slob is going to be hosing your brains out of the cabin for a week. Comprende?”

“Who are you people? Americans?”

“Do I sound American to you?” Juan shot back. Like any of the world’s great languages, Spanish has diverse accents and dialects that are as regionally distinctive as fingerprints. Cabrillo also spoke Arabic, and no matter how he tried he couldn’t shake a Saudi accent. But in Spanish he was a perfect mimic. He could imitate royalty from Seville or a sot from a Mexico City slum.

What the pilot heard was the voice of a man from his own city of Buenos Aires. “I . . .”

“Don’t think,” Juan said. “Just fly. Take us south.”

He spent a microsecond considering his options. The hard eyes on him said there was only one. “Sí, sí. I’ll fly.”

His hands moved to the controls. Cabrillo looked up the hill once again. Trucks were racing down the log-hauling road, kicking up dust that mixed with the smoke already fouling the air. It wasn’t even going to be close. The chopper would be a mile away by the time the Ninth Brigade soldiers were in range.

Jerry Pulaski shouted Juan’s name.

And saved his life.