Lost Empire (Fargo Adventures 2)

“Check the distance,” he asked.

Remi slid the cabin door halfway open and poked her head out. “Twenty feet . . . fifteen . . . ten . . .”

“Can you make that?” Sam asked.

“I may be well past my gymnastics days, but I can still do ten feet blindfolded.”

Sam flipped on the hover coupler. He took his hands off the controls. The helicopter lurched sideways, quivered, dipped, then steadied itself.

“Okay, go,” Sam called. “Give me a wave when you’re down and safe.”

Remi hunch-walked forward, stuck her head between the seats, kissed him, said “Good luck,” then walked back and shoved the door the rest of the way open.

“Try to miss the skids,” Sam said.

Remi put her shoulder to the crate, took a deep breath, and shoved. The crate tumbled through the opening and disappeared. The guns went next. Remi gave Sam a final glance and jumped out. Ten seconds later Sam spotted her farther up the sandbar. She gave him a thumbs-up and dashed off into the darkness.

Sam counted to sixty to give her time to find cover, then grabbed the collective. He disengaged the hover coupler and seized the cyclic. He dipped the nose slightly and let the rotor blade’s pitch angle ease him across the sandbar and over the river. When he reached a section that was both wide and deep enough for his purposes, he pulled the nose up and worked the collective into a hover.

He took one final look around. Once the helicopter submerged, the interior would be black. With no visual reference points, he’d have to escape by feel alone. He checked his seat belt to ensure he knew how to unhook it, then studied the cabin-door latch, then rehearsed his movements in his mind’s eye.

He lowered the collective ever so slightly and felt the helicopter drop. He pressed his face against the door window. The skids were about five feet off the water. Close enough. Any closer, Sam feared, and he’d have a zero margin for error.

“Here goes everything,” Sam muttered.

He released the cyclic, shut off the engines, pulled the collective up to its stops to slow the blades, and grabbed the collective again. Sam felt his belly shoot into his throat. With a crash, the helicopter struck the surface. He was thrown forward against the restraints. He felt the helicopter tipping right, thought, Collective!, and he jerked the control to the left. The effect was immediate. With the blades already fully pitched, the rotor assembly responded to Sam’s command by angling to the left and shifting the helicopter’s center of gravity. Water rushed up the windshield, horizontally at first, then diagonally as the helicopter pitched sideways. Sam tucked his chin to his chest, grasped the restraints with both hands, and set his jaw.

He felt a bone-shaking jolt. White light burst behind his eyes. Then nothing.

HE AWOKE COUGHING. Water filled his throat. He jerked his head back, sputtered again, and forced his eyes open. Seeing only blackness, he felt a moment of panic. He squashed it, forced himself to breathe. He reached out, fingers extended, until he touched something solid—the tip of the cyclic. Gravity was pulling his head to the left. The helicopter was lying on its side; the river hadn’t been deep enough for the helicopter to completely capsize. That was the good news. The bad news was that he could hear water gushing into the cabin behind him. Already the level had reached his face.

“Move, Sam,” he muttered.

He extended his right arm up, felt the upholstery of the passenger seat, and kept groping until his fingers found the safety belt. He latched on, then dipped his left hand beneath the water and punched the Release button on his restraints. He fell sideways, then brought his free hand up, joined it with his left hand, and chinned himself from the water until his knees reached the gap separating the cockpit from the cabin. Toes pointed, he shoved his legs through the opening and stretched to his full length until his feet touched the cabin’s bulkhead. He let go of the restraints and slid the rest of the way into the cabin. Now that he was standing hunched over, the water was at his chest. He extended his arms upward, felt the cabin door, and traced its outline with his fingertips. Water was spurting through the seams. He found the latch, tested it with slight downward pressure. It seemed operable.

“Deep breath,” Sam told himself.

He sucked in a lungful of air, shoved the latch down, and slid the door open. Water crashed onto his head. He stumbled backward and slid beneath the surface. He let the wave shove him against the cabin wall, using the momentum to coil his legs beneath him. The pressure subsided. He kicked off, arms spread before him, hands grasping

at the doorframe and pushing, feet kicking—

His head broke the surface.

“Sam!” he heard. Remi’s voice.

He opened his eyes and turned in the water, trying to get his bearings.

“Sam!” she called again.

He turned again, saw her standing on the bank waving at him.

“—diles!” she yelled.

“What?”

“Crocodiles! Swim!”

Sam did just that, pouring his last shred of energy into a sprint for the bank. He touched sand, shoved himself to his knees, then to his feet, then stumbled forward into Remi’s arms. Together they slogged up the sand onto level ground before collapsing.