“I thought you knew how to fly this mother—”
Another hot gust whipped the chopper around, cutting off Kowalski’s complaint. His partner sat on the other side of the aircraft, hunkered low in the backseat. He hugged his rifle to his chest, braced his legs against the front passenger seat, and kept his cigar tightly clamped in his molars.
Gray pulled harder on the collective stick next to his seat and goosed the throttle. The engine roared louder as they rose higher over the cemetery. He worked the pedals to counteract the torque of the main rotors. The craft finally steadied, the nose pointing to the north.
He headed away, intending to pursue the escaping aircraft. Now faced with a landscape choked by smoke and flame, he wondered if it was wise to have stranded the pilot behind at the cemetery, instead of merely commandeering the helicopter.
Maybe not the best choice.
Gray was familiar enough with flying a helicopter, but he was far from experienced—and a little rusty. He attempted to skirt the massive blaze directly in their path, only to overcompensate and nearly roll the chopper up on its side. He jerked the cyclic stick to correct this mistake, throwing Kowalski to the other side.
The big man swore, long and hard enough to make a marine blush.
Gray firmed his grip on his controls, righting the craft’s yaw and pitch, and raced ahead. He plowed through columns of smoke and angled around spirals of flame. The rotors whipped ash in the air, fanning them brighter, leaving a fiery wake of embers behind him.
He searched the smoke-choked skies.
Other emergency and military helicopters buzzed the terrain, their lights casting beams down into the ruins below. Gray sought his target. The enemy had fled aboard a wide-bodied EC145, dramatically painted yellow and black like an angry hornet. The others had a seven-minute lead, but Gray’s helicopter was smaller, faster, and hopefully carrying a lighter load.
Also, the enemy had little reason to believe they were being hunted, so would not be maxing their engines, especially if they wanted to avoid undue attention.
Gray didn’t have these concerns. He tipped his nose down, twisted the throttle, and roared across the fiery destruction of Paris. As he finally adjusted to the aircraft and turbulence, his eyes took in the full sweep of the airspace ahead of him. One of the reasons Director Crowe had handpicked him to join Sigma was Gray’s unique ability to discern patterns that others missed.
Like now.
His gaze mapped and tracked the path of the other helicopters in the air. Some dipped lower, while others lifted higher, assisting in the evacuation. Even more zipped back and forth, covering a search grid. Only a few carved straight paths through the smoke.
And only one headed in a beeline to the northwest.
Gray pictured the nuclear plant mentioned by the pilot. It lay alongside the Seine, sixty miles to the southeast. Perhaps someone was trying to put as much distance as possible between them and the impending meltdown and explosion.
Gray angled toward that helicopter as it raced toward the Seine. One obstacle blocked the enemy’s path. The dark expanse of the Eiffel Tower rose a thousand feet into the air; its elaborate tiers of iron latticework were lit starkly by fires below. A gas main had blown near its base, spewing flames across its giant supports.
The enemy angled to the right side to clear the fiery tower.
“Hang on!” Gray radioed back to Kowalski and pulled the cyclic hard to the left.
The helicopter tilted sharply as he aimed toward the other side of the Eiffel Tower. He twisted the throttle wide open. He wanted to close the distance by the time both aircraft reached that landmark. He intended to use the tower’s bulk to mask their passage and deal with those bastards on the far side.
“Kowalski, get ready!”
“For what?” he hollered back, his distress amplified by the radio headphones.
Gray hugged the cyclic between his knees and pointed at the other helicopter as they raced after it. They were close enough to confirm it was the hornet-striped EC145.
“Once we clear the tower, you open fire! Drop that bird out of the sky!”
Gray pictured the enemy crashing to the far side of the Seine, where a dark park stretched across the river. Even still, his plan risked killing innocent bystanders, but he only had to look at the damage below to know he couldn’t let the Crucible get away with that device. Otherwise, how many other cities might fall?
As both helicopters raced toward the tower, angling to either side, Kowalski yanked the clamshell side door and slid it back. Winds slammed into the cabin.
Gray fought to compensate, bobbling the craft wildly for three breaths.
Kowalski bellowed, nearly getting tossed out the open door. Only his seat restraints kept him in place. The big man even lost a grip on his assault rifle, but the weapon was strapped over his shoulder, allowing him to quickly recover it.
“Almost there!” Gray warned. “Be ready!”
Then ahead of them, the enemy aircraft tilted its nose up, swiftly braking through the air. Gray instinctively mirrored their action, not wanting to overshoot the other’s position. Still, he could guess what this maneuver implied.
The jig was up.
2:44 A.M.
From the back cabin of the EC145, Todor radioed forward to the pilot. “Drop us lower!” He waved a hand above his head. “Circle us around!”
He pointed to the Eiffel Tower.
A moment ago, the pilot had warned of another helicopter closing swiftly on their position, its behavior erratic, suspicious. The pilot’s paranoia proved well placed, as a rear door slid open in the other aircraft, a gunman nearly falling out.
They were being followed, chased down with deadly intent.
Todor had ordered the pilot to try to outrun the other, but the airman had cautioned otherwise. He warned that the other helicopter was lighter, faster, and that their craft was weighted down with weapons, equipment crates, and the six men inside.
With no chance to outrun a pursuit, Todor had opted instead to take advantage of the men and firepower aboard his aircraft. He intended to turn the fight back on the hunters on their tail.
As his helicopter tipped steeply and made a sharp turn, the hunters slowed and followed. Soon the two aircraft were circling in unison around and around the Eiffel Tower, a pair of angry bees buzzing the landmark.
Todor hauled his side door open.
Scalding winds swept inside, heated by the fiery gas main below. The tower was an iron mountain thrusting out of a sea of flames. Todor eyed the enemy craft through the Eiffel’s latticework as they spun around its bulk. The combatants studied each other, using this momentary stalemate to size up their opponent.
Todor knew this couldn’t last forever.
Someone had to make the first move.
He turned his attention from the helicopter to the tower itself. Paris’s most prominent attraction—the pride of the city—had not been abandoned on this most holy of nights. A giant Christmas market sprawled around the tower, making a mockery of this sacred day. It had drawn thousands, many of whom were lured up into the tower to view Paris at night.
When hell had come to claim the city, a crowd had been caught within the tower. The explosion of the gas main below had blocked any escape. Now trapped, the tourists had scrambled to the upper levels, fleeing the heat and smoke. Still, they were slowly being roasted alive.
Todor was amused by an ice rink on one level, resting some twenty stories above Paris. The fires below had melted it into a reflection pool, mirroring the chaos above. He spotted many children among the packed terrified mass, innocents corrupted by their parents, blaspheming this most holy day with profane amusements instead of solemn prayer.
Burning with anger at this sight, he realized one way to break the current impasse, to dissuade the hunters from continuing their pursuit.
He raised his heavy weapon through the open door and encouraged two men to join him with rifles. He pointed to the trapped tourists.
“Open fire!”
25
December 26, 2:47 A.M. CET
Paris, France
Carly frowned at the static image on Mara’s screen. It showed Eve kneeling motionless in the grass, cradling a little form painted in black, orange, and white.
She didn’t understand.
Neither did Monk. “You gave Eve a beagle puppy?” he asked. “Why?”
Mara didn’t look up as she scanned data flowing along one side of the frozen screen. “I named him Adam.”
Of course you did. Who else would share Eve’s garden?
“If you were going to introduce a new element into Eden, a digital Adam,” Monk pressed, “why not make him a guy, like the original story? Wouldn’t that help Eve understand us better?”
“Better?” Carly scowled at his chauvinism. “It doesn’t always take a man to complete a woman.”
Monk shrugged. “Still, why a dog?”
Mara answered absently, focused on the data stream, “Eve doesn’t need a man.”
Carly glared pointedly at Monk.