I flew right over the top of Maracan? and hovered there about three hundred feet up. Below us, athletes from more than one hundred countries were surrounded by troops of samba dancers shaking their stuff on raised stages. “They’re pointing at us,” Acosta said, looking out his window. “They think it’s part of the show.”
I didn’t care. I was scanning the horizon back toward the mountains. Where was it? A minute ticked by.
General da Silva said, “You’ve upset the organizers by hovering up there.”
“I don’t give a damn,” I said, still peering back to the southeast.
Where was the drone? Had it crashed? Had something gone wrong? Was the drone down? Was Hydra-9 already killing somewhere outside the— Blip! Blip!
Glancing at the millimeter-wave radar readout, I said, “Here it comes. Six hundred and fifty yards out.”
I pushed the stick forward and we flew toward the drone.
“What do you want me to do?” Acosta said.
“Pray,” I said.
“What are you going to do?”
I thought of Sci warning me not to knock it down. I thought of the location-specificity in the triggering device. I thought of the helicopter I was flying.
In the next instant I saw our only chance.
Chapter 102
“THERE IT IS,” Acosta said when our spotlight caught the drone, which was three hundred and fifty feet away and puttering along at fifteen miles an hour. “Looks like an octopus or something.”
“Tanks, hoses, and airbrushes,” I said. “The dispersal system. I’m going to try to hook it with the front of my strut.”
I turned the screen to camera view. It was a fish-eye lens and showed both landing struts at a curved angle.
I had three windows to look out—two in the door and one down by my ankles that gave me a solid view in front of the left strut. I swung the helicopter gingerly in behind the drone, which got caught in our rotor wash and dropped altitude fast.
I backed off and for a second I thought I’d blown it and knocked it out of the sky. But then the drone began to climb again.
I decided I couldn’t do this with finesse. I was going to have to swoop in, dive at it, and, hopefully, hook it.
We were three hundred yards from the stadium when I made a nifty move with the control stick, came in at a steep angle, and missed snagging the drone by inches.
“It’s almost here!” General da Silva cried as I spiraled up and away from the drone, getting in position for one last try.
“Jack told you to evacuate the stadium, General,” Lieutenant Acosta said. “You wouldn’t listen to him.”
I ignored all of it, searched for the drone, and spotted it ten yards from entering the airspace right above the stadium and dropping altitude fast. I hit the throttle and dove the chopper once more, tilting the bird almost on its side so I could watch the strut knife right at the drone.
I missed again.
But a foot peg on the strut support about two feet back hooked the mesh hammock.
The drone now dangled upside down below the hammock with its five propellers spinning wildly.
“Got it,” I said, and I pulled away from the stadium.
Ten voices started hooting and cheering in my headphones.
“Well done, Jack!” General da Silva roared.
“Perfectly executed,” Sci said.
“Almost perfectly,” I said, exhaling long and low. “But we’ll take it. Any idea where we should bring the virus?”
“Take it to Castro’s lab,” Sci said. “The clean room is still up. It can be contained and dealt with there.”
Before da Silva could comment, Justine’s voice came over my headset.
“Jack, I’m looking at your camera feed. I can see the drone hanging there, and there’s something flashing green in that hammock thing.”
I looked down and through the lower door window and saw a small digital readout blinking in bright green: 00:60, 00:59, 00:58, 00:57…
Chapter 103
“JACK, IT’S A TIMER!” Justine said. “It’s going off in—”
“Fifty-four seconds,” I said, gritting my teeth, gaining altitude, and wondering what in God’s name I was going to do.
In far less than a minute, Castro’s biological weapon of mass destruction was going to trigger about three feet below me. The tanks were full of Hydra-9 virus. Those hoses and airbrushes were going to let loose a mist of death over Rio de Janeiro.
“Jack,” Lieutenant Acosta said, truly frightened. “Are we going to—”
I swung the helicopter in a tight three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, scanning, looking, trying to figure out where to go.
“Forty-five seconds, forty-four…” Justine said.
I ignored her, and when the chopper’s nose came around to the east-northeast, I saw the cruise ships docked around the Pier Mauá and others moored in a small cove of Guanabara Bay toward the commercial piers at Caju.
“Thirty-eight,” Justine said. “Thirty-seven, thirty-six…”
“Hold on,” I said and accelerated the helicopter straight at that cove.
“Twenty-five, twenty-four…”
We roared over throngs of people partying in the streets of Gamboa, celebrating Rio and the Olympic Games, blissfully unaware of the danger flying above them.
“Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen…”
I dropped altitude fast as I came over the crowded central bus station. The spire of Santo Cristo church flashed by.