“What do we do?” Kowalski bellowed from the open rear door.
Gray knew they couldn’t return fire at the enemy, not with the tower between them. He also understood the intent behind this attack. He read the message in the deadly tracery of gunfire.
Retreat or more will die.
“Gray!” Kowalski hollered, demanding he come to a decision.
But what can I do?
He knew the enemy would not stop firing until he flew off—far enough away that there could be no hope of pursuing them. Once the Crucible escaped, they would be free to wreak havoc on another unsuspecting city, holding the entire world hostage.
But if Gray stayed, more innocent people would die, including scores of children. Could he leverage their young lives against that future threat?
Gray came to a decision, knowing what he must do.
He gritted his teeth, pulled angrily on his control stick, and flung his helicopter away from the tower. He headed south, leaving the north open for those bastards to escape.
At the tower, the fiery barrage ended. The enemy made one last slow pass around the tower and lingered on its south flank, making sure Gray was far enough away before heading north.
With the other craft now directly behind him, hovering in place, Gray yelled, “Hold on!”
He yanked on his collective, punched the right torque pedal, and twisted the cyclic. He cartwheeled the helicopter through the smoke and sped at the enemy.
With only seconds to spare, Gray radioed to Kowalski. “When I sweep left, you give ’em everything you got!”
“Damn right I will!”
Caught by surprise, the pilot could not get out of the way in time. Gray firmed his grip on his controls, ready in case the craft fled right or left. Unfortunately, his opponent did neither. Rather than trying to escape, the pilot spun his chopper a full 180 degrees, swinging the open cabin door to face him.
The giant stood braced inside there, his weapon at his shoulder. Gray stared back—straight down the barrel of the grenade launcher.
2:55 A.M.
Todor was done playing with this hunter. The nuclear plant was set to blow in five minutes. He intended to be well away from here by then.
He pressed his blistered cheek against the cold stock of his rifle and centered his sights on the front canopy of the other helicopter. He had loaded the launcher with a high-explosive grenade. At such close range, the blast would leave little more than shrapnel to rain down into the fires below.
He waited a breath, until there was no chance of missing.
Then pulled the trigger.
As he squeezed, the world went dark.
The helicopter bobbled and fell several feet, throwing off his shot. The shell rocketed under the landing struts of the other copter and arced down into the fiery city. With no chance to reload, he flung himself to the floor.
“Everyone down!”
The other helicopter swept past their position, strafing their side with a chattering salvo. The craft sped wildly by, barely under control. It came close to slamming into the dark tower—only to angle away at the last second. One strut scraped against the latticework, knapping sparks from the iron as it passed. The brief impact sent the chopper spinning wildly downward.
Sprawled on the floor, Todor followed its passage. At the base of the tower, the raging firestorm had blown itself out, leaving the grounds under the structure scorched and smoking. He recognized that the abrupt loss of the superheated thermals rising from the gas fire must have caught the pilot by surprise.
Still, that sudden drop had spared them from the worst of the deadly barrage a moment ago. Not that their craft had escaped unscathed. Several rounds had punched through their flank. Smoke trailed from the tail section.
Below, the other chopper managed to lift its nose at the last second, braking enough to avoid a deadly crash. Its struts kissed the scorched ground, then struggled back up.
Knowing this was their chance, Todor yelled to the pilot, “Get us the hell out of here!”
The helicopter turned and climbed away—sluggishly at first, then faster. Todor frowned at the Eiffel Tower, backlit by the fires of Paris.
He didn’t know why that gas inferno had just ended, but it was only a temporary reprieve. He turned his back on the city.
In less than three minutes, Paris would fall.
2:57 A.M.
“I think it’s working!” Jason reported from the neighboring station. “At least, here in the city.”
Carly kept at Mara’s side, maintaining a vigil alongside her friend. With this bit of good news, she placed a hand on Mara’s shoulder. Her friend flinched, her nerves plainly frayed. Carly rubbed those tense muscles, trying to get them to soften.
You’ve done all you could, Mara.
Simon was bent beside Jason, both men focused on the other laptop. They were monitoring the city’s infrastructure. “Gas lines to the damaged mains have been shut off. Water is flowing again. Power is flickering back on in several arrondissements.”
Jason glanced over. “It’s got to be Eve’s handiwork.”
Simon agreed. “No one could coordinate all of this manually.”
“What about the nuclear plant?” Carly asked.
Jason grimaced, glancing back to a window labeled NOGENT on his screen. It was full of gauges and meters all blinking red. “Situation’s still deteriorating over there.”
Next to her, Mara had never stopped staring at her screen.
The garden glowed in all its beauty and splendor, but Eden was currently empty. The avatar of Eve had vanished into the ether.
The tension in Mara’s shoulders refused to soften. Carly knew why. Her friend’s thin shoulders carried all the weight of Paris. The entire city above her head depended on her creation.
Carly could also make out Mara’s face in the screen. Her features were indistinct, a ghostly image of God superimposed over Eden. Only Mara’s eyes shone brightly from there—the welling of her tears reflecting back the brightness.
Oh, Mara . . .
While her friend quietly bore the tension of her responsibility, guilt also hollowed her out. While her creation offered the best chance for salvation, it had also caused all the misery, death, and destruction above.
Carly didn’t know any words to comfort her.
So she leaned down and folded her arms around Mara, pressing her cheek against her friend, trying her best to share in this burden, to let her know she wasn’t alone.
Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.
2:58 A.M.
Gray forced his helicopter higher.
After their brush with the tower and wild tumble toward the ground, he should be thankful to be still alive. Instead, anger burned inside him. They had lost precious time. He would have cursed, but Kowalski was handling that for the both of them.
“Where the hell are we going now?” the big man complained and pointed adamantly down. “We were right there. Right on the ground. I could’ve kissed it.”
“And you would’ve broiled your lips. The concrete down there was hot enough to fry bacon.”
“I’ll take burnt lips over flying more with you.”
“Quit your griping.” Gray hunched over his controls. “Even if I can’t catch up with those bastards, I want my eyes on them for as long as possible.”
By now, he had gained enough elevation to spot the other helicopter. Across the dark Seine, he could make out their lights in the distance. The illumination also revealed black smoke trailing behind the craft.
He hoped the damage would eventually force the enemy back to the ground. He tried to judge if the other helicopter was already losing altitude.
It seemed that way.
Encouraged, he headed over the Seine.
As he cleared the left bank, a salvo of gunfire ripped across the water ahead. He gasped and shoved the nose of the helicopter high, braking in midair, trying to avoid the barrage. In the skies above, another helicopter dove at them.
It was not enemy reinforcements, but something far deadlier.
A military attack helicopter—a French Tiger.
Clearly the assault on the Eiffel Tower had not gone unnoticed.
The Tiger opened fire again, plainly assuming Gray’s craft was part of that attack. It was an easy enough mistake to make. He pictured both choppers chaotically circling the tower, the lines of tracer fire blazing a confusing pattern in the darkness.
With no time to explain his innocence, Gray dodged to the side, but his civilian craft was not nearly as nimble as the deadly hawk.
Rounds pelted one side. A corner of his canopy shattered.
Gray dove his helicopter lower and raced along the Seine.
The Tiger spun in midair and gave chase. The river blasted all around their fleeing craft. Several rounds struck the back of the chopper, pinging loudly.
Kowalski hunkered low. “You know, I could’ve lived with burnt lips.”
“Got a plan,” Gray said.
“What?”
“Surrendering.”
“What does that—?”
Gray reached down and cut the power. The engine’s roar died immediately.
Kowalski swore to fill the silence—as the helicopter tipped nose-first and plummeted like a rock.
27
December 26, 2:59 A.M. CET
Paris, France