Hit my target, though not in his head. However, a shoulder hit was darned good enough, especially since I’d hit the arm holding his gun. He fell back and, based on mouth movement, cursed.
Shot him again. Once again, missed his head, but hit his torso. Not a killing shot, though. Couldn’t tell if he was wearing a bulletproof vest or not, but while he was hit, he wasn’t stopped. However, he was out of ammo and had to reload again.
Each clip for my gun held fifteen rounds. I’d used five shots so far. I could keep on shooting at him then have to search for a clip, or I could try to get into the cockpit before the pilot decided to bank the chopper. “Fight from the Inside” by Queen came on my airwaves. Clearly Algar supported Plan B.
Figured that the pilot had to be thinking what I was thinking or would be so thinking sooner as opposed to later. Managed to sort of scramble into a blocks position, just like at the start of a race. Though most track meets weren’t held on flying helicopters, but I liked to really test the skills.
Decided I was in a good enough position for government work and shoved off as hard as I could. Because the chopper was coming toward me, in that sense, and I was leaping toward the open window using enhanced strength and a hyperspeed boost, sailed into the cockpit and hit the guy who I’d exchanged gunfire with.
The positive was that I was inside. The negative was that he’d had time to reload. And, you know, based on how I’d landed in the cockpit, his gun was shoved into my stomach.
Always the way.
CHAPTER 27
ONE OF MY BETTER QUALITIES, at least in my opinion, was that I could both think very fast and not think at all and merely react. While the latter doesn’t sound like the greatest skill, in hand-to-hand situations, she who reacts fastest has the most likely chance of surviving.
So, didn’t think about it. Just slammed my head into the gunner’s head. As hard as I could. At hyperspeed.
This slammed his head back against the cockpit. My head hurt, but not as badly as his, because he was knocked out. Got lucky because his hand went limp and I had the time to grab his gun and move it away from my body, using my left hand, too. Hyperspeed again. Took a moment to wonder, as I always did, why the Flash wasn’t a bigger, more popular hero. Truly, superspeed had it all goin’ on.
There wasn’t a lot of room in here. Shockingly, the Apache’s cockpit wasn’t designed to host a kegger. Had a momentary moral quandary of what to do with the unconscious dude. I could toss him or sit on him, but until I got him out of here, I couldn’t do much else.
Looked up to see the pilot gaping at me. Made the “put the chopper down” sign, which was me pointing down emphatically. The pilot responded by flipping me off. Clearly that was this team’s go-to move. And so much for that quandary. I had a gun in each hand, and the gun I’d taken from the unconscious guy had a full clip in it.
Braced myself by putting one foot onto the unconscious guy’s chest and my butt against his instrument panel. Hoped this didn’t mean that I launched rockets but decided I’d deal with that later. Then I started shooting at the glass that divided the cockpit.
Took a few more bullets than the front window had, but the glass shattered. Dropped my Glock into my purse, picked up the unconscious guy with my free hand, and tossed him at the broken window. Hard.
Which turned out to be the right choice for two reasons. One because his body knocked the glass out and onto the pilot, and two because the pilot also had a gun he was firing at me. Only the bullets went into his gunner.
The now presumably dead body hit him. The pilot lost control, which wasn’t all that surprising, really, because he had a ton of broken glass and a dead body on him. The chopper started to spiral, nose heading toward the ground.
Decided that jumping and taking my chances with the ground was in my best interest. Didn’t even need the song change to Van Halen’s “Jump” to tell me that, but it was always nice to get confirmation. Dropped the empty gun and dived over the side.
To land stomach first on a Turleen.
Wasn’t sure who this was and didn’t care. Just grabbed on as best I could as my new ride zoomed away from the crashing chopper.
The chopper hit and exploded, with dangerous debris flying everywhere. Whoever I was riding on flipped and spun to avoid it. And I wasn’t able to hold on.
Landed on another Turleen, who flew me farther away. This one had to avoid both debris and bullets and—at this point, surprising no one—I fell off again.
Hit another Turleen and started to slide almost immediately. But this one was joined by a buddy, who was able to sort of shove me back up. Managed to get a hold and straddle my current ride while the other stayed with us. They were side-by-side, and while I wasn’t able to lie across both of them, having the one on my right was sort of comforting.
Three more arrived, so we were in a formation with me and the one Turleen in the middle and the other four covering me slipping off to either side or front to back. Had no hopes that this formation would last the moment one of the gunners in the remaining choppers decided to shoot at us, but for right now, I’d take it.
Unfortunately, the crashing of one chopper appeared to remind the others of what they were here to do. The shooting increased, and several loosed missiles hit what I was pretty sure was the top of Caliente Base. It was hard to be certain from my current vantage point, which was pretty high up.
My music changed to “Here Come Cowboys” by the Psychedelic Furs. Took a look—sure enough, there were five jets on the horizon. “I think the cavalry’s coming,” I shouted to the Turleens around me. Had no idea if they heard me or knew what I meant.
Recognized the flying signatures—Matt Hughes, Chip Walker, Jerry, Reader, and Tim. Wondered where the hell Joe and Randy were while at the same time I sort of pitied the pilots in the choppers—no matter how good they were, they were no match for Reader and Tim, let alone any one of the flyboys.
My phone rang, interrupting the Psych Furs. Hadn’t gone hands-free, but my earbuds allowed me to answer calls, so I risked it and let go with one hand so I could answer the phone. “FLOTUS Airlines, how may we help you?”
“Commander, it’s always so fun to join you in your work.”
“Jerry! So good to hear your voice. The metallic dirigible-looking things are the good guys.”
“Yes, James and Tim explained that.”
“Where are Joe and Randy?”
“With Matt and Chip. They’re going to be following your lead and destroying the enemy from within.”
As he said this, saw that the planes I knew were piloted by Hughes and Walker had something extra underneath—Joe and Randy were in what looked like giant hammocks holding them to the bottom of the planes.
“What the literal hell, Jerry?”
“Kitty, we liked what you were doing,” Hughes said.
“Are we on a group call?”
“We are,” Walker replied. “James felt you’d enjoy the nostalgia. And our Six Million Dollar Men said they didn’t want to be shown up by a girl.”