He shoved the joystick forward in an attempt to duck under the missile’s path. It wasn’t fast enough.
Even though the warhead didn’t make a direct impact, the missile’s proximity sensor detonated, showering the chopper with shrapnel.
The windscreen was peppered with metal shards, and two of them hit Gomez, one in the head and one in the leg. Blood gushed down his face, obscuring his vision, but he didn’t feel any pain. Not yet.
The explosion also hit the engine, and smoke poured out. Alarms blared, and the control panel warning lights flashed like it was Times Square.
He could feel the lift decreasing, and the helicopter swung crazily from side to side. It wasn’t going to stay in the air much longer.
“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” Gomez shouted into the headset as he wrestled with the controls. “I’m going down. Repeat, I’m going down.”
He didn’t get an answer, so he didn’t know if his radio had been hit as well.
The mountain was rugged and steep, but there was a small glacier on one side of the island. He aimed the MD 520N for the flattest portion.
As he approached, the engine suddenly cut out, and he had to glide in as best he could using autorotation. His depth perception was gone, so gauging his speed as he headed for the white expanse was nearly impossible.
He used his thousands of flight hours to guess when to flare out. Too early and he’d drop like a stone. Too late and he’d slam into the ground at high speed.
He was too early, but only a little. He was hovering just feet over the glacier when the last of the lift gave out. The helicopter lurched downward, but the soft snow cushioned its fall, and then it remained upright as the skids sank into the powder. The rotor blades slowly came to a stop and the cabin went eerily silent.
Gomez keyed the radio, but all he heard was static.
Then the pain finally hit. His leg throbbed and his head ached. He reached in the first-aid kit and grabbed and ripped open some gauze, pressing it against his temple to stanch the blood flow. His thigh was bleeding, too, but it didn’t look serious.
If the drone saw him, it certainly saw the NUMA ship, and it meant the Portland was somewhere nearby. Getting off this glacier was going to be a problem. He leaned back and closed his eyes. That was nothing compared to the trouble coming for the Deepwater.
62
That helicopter had to have spotted the drone,” Tate said from his command chair in the Portland’s op center. The smoking MD 520N that was now resting on the glacier was similar to the Portland’s own chopper. “It must be from the Oregon.”
“What was it doing there?” Ballard asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe Juan is in communication with the Deepwater and sent someone to evacuate them.” The NUMA ship was motionless in the cove where it was hiding.
“That won’t happen now,” Farouk said. “The chopper is a wreck.”
“Now it is. But the pilot might have been able to warn Deepwater that we’re nearby.”
“We can’t get in there,” Li Quon said. “The Portland is too big to fit.”
“What about firing a missile to sink her?” Tate asked.
Li shook his head. “We can’t get a lock from here.”
“Don’t we want hostages?” Ballard asked.
Tate nodded. “I was just considering my options. What do you suggest?”
“The Portland may not be able to get in,” Ballard said, “but I can take our chopper over there.” No sense in sending it out on a search for the Oregon when it could be shot down without ever seeing the ship.
“I can go with her,” Li said. “I should be able to steer the Deepwater back out of the cove.”
“If she’s seaworthy,” Tate said. “Durchenko’s men put a lot of holes in her engine room before the Abtao went down.”
“If the ship isn’t able to make headway, we can hold them hostage on board,” Ballard said. “Or we can start ferrying them back here.”
Tate grimaced. There were supposed to be more than fifty crew on board. Bringing them all back two or three at a time would take too long.