Deliver Us from Evil (7 page)

“Not so good. I veered off course to miss the bulk of the storm. Comm is also acting up.”

Which explained why Air Traffic Control couldn't reach him. “How're you on fuel?”

“Half a tank.”

Brannon breathed a silent prayer of thanks. “Stand by.” She clicked the channel back to the main frequency. “Knoxville ATC, this is RCM986 again. Over.”

“Do you have a status on 121MCE?”

“Affirmative. Pilot states he has half a tank of fuel but is off course. Pilot reports regular radio is out as well. Please advise. Over.”

“Knoxville ATC requests you intercept Bell and escort to Knoxville. Can you confirm? Over.”

“Confirm, Knoxville ATC. Intercept and escort. Over.” She twisted the channel knob back to the pilot-to-pilot comm and informed the Bell pilot of ATC's instructions.

The loud response sounded over the headset. “Yes, I copy. Thank you.”

“Copy that. We should intercept you in approximately twenty-five minutes. What are your current coordinates?”

As the pilot read out his coordinates, foreboding spidered down Brannon's spine. She cut her eyes over to Lincoln, who scribbled in his notebook.

“Got it, 121MCE. Will keep the frequency open.”

“Thanks, RCM986.”

Brannon switched off her mike. “I have a sick feeling this will turn into a SAR.” She shook her head. “We'll intercept them right about Mount LeConte. Great. Had to be one of the high areas.”

“‘O, you of little faith.'”

She narrowed her eyes at Lincoln but let the Scripture soothe her fears. “Too easy. Luke 12:28.”

Lincoln chuckled, the familiar rumbling calming her just as their quizzing of Scripture did. It'd been the one thing Lincoln used to pull her out of the darkest grief she'd ever lived through. Without the coping mechanism and Lincoln, she didn't know if she would've survived.

Brannon shifted in the seat, keeping her eyes peeled on the shadowed horizon. A sudden gust of wind thrust the Dolphin down and to the right. She tightened her grip on the collective and pushed on the right pedal. The helicopter jostled, then steadied. “Storm's moving in right on top of us.”

“We'll be fine.”

“‘He got up, rebuked the wind, and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.'”

Lincoln shook his head. “Simple. Mark 4:39.”

“Right. Now if we could just get the wind to calm down for us, I'd be one happy camper.”
God, we could definitely use some of Your rebuking right about now.

Lincoln's face twisted into seriousness. “Let's pray.”

“Already on it.”

Friday, 8:15 p.m.

Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee

ROARK RUBBED HIS PALMS on his jeans and flexed his fingers. Why didn't helicopters come equipped with heaters? Because no idiot would be out in this kind of weather.

A gust of snow and sleet, shoved by the unforgiving wind, plowed into the side of the aircraft, pitching it nose first into a plunge. The helicopter's engine sputtered and coughed, made an ear-piercing screech, then stalled. Lights flashed inside the cabin. Alarms reverberated off the metal frame.

The lack of engine noise hung colder than the air, heavier than wet snow.

“Hold on!”

Roark stared at the pilot as the helicopter dropped. “What are you doing?”

“Autorotation, now be quiet.”

Thomas's eyes widened to the size of silver dollars. He set the cooler on the floor, placed his feet on either side, and tightened the cinch of his seat belt.

Bracing his own feet on the floor, Roark kept his attention trained on the cursing pilot.

An odor similar to ethanol seeped into the cabin. Roark swallowed back the acidic burning in the back of his throat.

The pilot lowered the control in his left hand, all the way down. His right leg stiffened and pressed down on the pedal.

The nose of the aircraft pitched down. Shifting under them, the helicopter lost airspeed.

With his right hand the pilot lifted the control. The needle on the RPM gauge of the instrument panel spun counterclockwise.

“121MCE to RCM986. Mayday! I repeat, Mayday! We're going down.”

The air crackled with the wind and vibration. The rancid stench of fear overpowered the smell associated with electrical charges.

Roark clenched his jaw. It was one thing to suspect they might crash, but it was an entirely different matter to hear the pilot call out a Mayday.

The pilot yelled into his headset. “No, there's no place to land. Can't recover from the autorotation.” He tapped a gauge, then yelled out coordinates.

Thomas whimpered. Roark couldn't comfort him this time. Not now, when it was obvious they were about to crash and burn.

The helicopter plummeted toward the mountain summit and outcrops—rapid and inflexible. Wind pummeled the body of the aircraft, causing it to creak and quake.

Roark's stomach flipped as if he were soaring down the highest peak of a roller coaster. He tightened his seat belt, then gripped the side of the seat.

“Hold on, guys. This one's gonna be rough.”

As if they needed the announcement. Roark didn't blink as he stared out the front bubble window. The mountain drew closer and closer. Trees grew bigger and bigger. Every muscle in Roark tightened, squeezing . . . choking.

Thomas heaved, emptying his stomach contents all over the floor.

The bitter stench almost caused Roark to gag. He jammed his feet against the rubber tracks where the copilot's chair was anchored to the floor and pressed his back into the seat.

Trees brushed against the windows, scraping and rasping. Limbs snapped. The helicopter shuddered.

A boom exploded in Roark's ears. He jolted forward, his seat belt pinning him to the seat. The windshield shattered, then clattered against metal. A blast of frigid air swooshed into the cabin.

Then all was still. Silence loomed over the helicopter.

Roark struggled to regain his breath, his heartbeat ringing in his head.

Drip . . . drip . . . drip!

The unmistakable odor of fuel filled Roark's nostrils. He opened his mouth to breathe and struggled to get his fingers around the seat belt release.

A thunderous explosion sounded. No, Roark
felt
the explosion. Unbearable heat lanced out at his face. He squinted, forcing himself to disengage the belt. Dots surged before his line of vision, just out of focus. He shook his head and fought to keep his eyes opened.

Not again!

Orange and red flames licked up at the pilot's feet. He screamed, the agony chasing away every other sound.

Friday, 8:25 p.m.

Congressman McGovern's Office

Knoxville, Tennessee

“CONGRESSMAN, YOU NEED TO see this.” Kevin passed him a single sheet of paper.

Warren scanned the information and ground his teeth.

RCM986 with GSMNPS has picked up an emergency Mayday call from 121MCE.

Warren's pulse spiked. He glanced at his aide. “Is that Mayday call from the helicopter transporting the heart?”

“Yes, sir.”

Warren continued reading down the page.

121MCE is down. RCM986 GSMNPS search-and-rescue team dispatched.

Warren glanced again at Kevin. “Who's heading up the search and rescue?”

“From the ATC conversation I've been monitoring, a ranger-pilot from the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, sir.”

“So they're going to find the helicopter?”

“As I understand it, this National Park Service pilot has been in communication with the Bell pilot for some time and is already on her way to intercept.”

“Her?”

“The ranger-pilot is a woman.”

Long minutes ticked by, as if peanut butter had crept into Father Time's clock.

A woman pilot? How absurd. The heart needed to be recovered, and they were entrusting a
woman
to do the rescuing?

“Anything else, sir?”

“Did you hear when the search-and-rescue unit should arrive at the crash site?”

“The land crew should be there within thirty minutes.”

“And the ranger woman?”

“Should be there any moment, sir, if not already. I'll continue monitoring.”

“Very good, Kevin. Keep me updated.”

The young man rushed from the room.

Sitting back in his leather chair, Warren peered out the window into the dark void. Swirls of pristine snow danced around, but he paid little attention. His mind tripped over tidbits of information. Shifting in his seat, he reached into his Armani jacket pocket, pulled out his private cell phone, and pressed speed dial number six.

The situation had escalated. Now Warren had to act.

SIX

Friday, 8:26 p.m.

Suburb South of Townsend, Tennessee

THE SMALL BUILDING HUMMED with activity—music blaring, girls giggling, and doors slamming. The perfume Madam Nancy doused them in mixed with the stench of body sweat and liquor, hanging in the air like heavy clouds. As Friday night arrived, so did the men willing to brave the foul weather and long distance to make a visit.

Mai had vomited after Milt's call, enraging Madam Nancy to the point where she had been beaten, but at least she was excused from “entertaining” for several hours. Huddled in the corner of her room, Mai rested her head against the rough wall. She had to find a way out. But how? She was smart but in unfamiliar territory.

The office door slammed, causing the thin wall to rattle and shake. Mai lifted her head, then pressed it back against the chipped paint when she heard voices.

“I don't know what we're going to do, Bucky. Milton says they're closing down operations for a while,” Madam Nancy's voice screeched.

“What's going on with them? They've never been behind schedule before.” Mai didn't recognize the man's voice.

“I don't know. He just said there was a glitch in their system and they're working to straighten it all out.” A cabinet banged, then glasses rattled. “I don't know what to do. I was ready to ship this current group off to Colorado when the new ones arrived.” Madam Nancy's words echoed against the wall. “I swear this throws our whole system out of whack.”

Creaks of wooden chairs came from the office. Mai hugged her legs tighter to her chest.

“Sounds to me like something's seriously wrong, Nancy. If I were you, I'd check it out.” The man's belch vibrated the wall, making Mai shudder. Just like all the repulsive Americans.

“You think?”

“No telling what's going on, but if I were you, I'd sure want to know.”

“You have a point, Bucky.” Glasses clinked before clattering against wood. “Have any suggestions on who I could get to look into this for me?” Madam Nancy's voice sounded smooth and silky now.

“Well, now, I just might.”

The wooden chair creaked again.

“Maybe you and I should go to the hall back there and discuss this a little further.”

Madam Nancy laughed, but it did not sound ugly like normal. “Don't be crass, Bucky, those are for the girls. I happen to keep a special room for myself and some very special customers. Would you like to see it?”

Mai pinched her eyes closed tight, her firsthand knowledge of what Madam Nancy was about to do with the strange man filling her mind with visuals she did not want. The acid in her stomach churned, and she retched, but nothing came up. She had nothing left to purge.

She would find a way to flee Madam Nancy's before she was sent to this Colorado place. She had to. Her survival depended on her escape.

Friday, 8:29 p.m.

East of Mount LeConte

Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee

“HOLD ON,” BRANNON HISSED as she took the Dolphin into a deep pitch. The pilot-to-pilot comm had remained silent for several minutes, no matter how much she hailed the Bell.
Please, God, let them be okay.

Lincoln reached down to the metal box snapped below his legs as Brannon dropped the helicopter lower. He yanked out the night-vision goggles, then shoved them over his eyes. “Tell me when to start looking.”

“Now.” She squinted against the driving sleet and snow before glancing down at her instrument panel. The little voice inside her head screamed that she might be too late for the people in the Bell. She increased the Dolphin's airspeed as she dropped altitude, increasing her prayer as well.

Peering out into the sheets of precipitation descending, Lincoln tapped his fingers against his knee. In a fluid movement he reached over and gripped Brannon's shoulder. “About thirty degrees to your left. See it?”

She jerked her gaze to where Lincoln had indicated and squinted. Faint hues of orange danced off in the distance. Flames! Brannon increased the airspeed, pushing the craft into maximum load as she careened over the tall trees. Three more knots clicked off her gauge, and she decreased their altitude again, slipping lower and dodging the pines with their branches covered in snow.

The dense forest whipped past the helicopter as Brannon kept her eyes glued to the fire cutting into the landscape, drawing brighter and closer. She tightened her hold on the controls, careful not to let her hands slip against the sweat coating her palms.

Lincoln pressed a hand against the bubble window, lodging himself against the seat as the helicopter dipped lower and lower. He pushed the goggles tighter on his face and peered out the window.

Despite her training in the Coast Guard, Brannon bit back fear. The searing at the back of her throat burned with familiarity. It scorched her each time she searched for a crash and prayed to find survivors. The pain associated with losing her parents, then Wade, always sat at the forefront of her memory.

Please, Lord, let us find them alive.

As she flew closer, the orange hue flickered against the sullen night like a serpent's tongue hissing out into the darkness. Despair shot through her as she searched for a landing area close to the crash but not close enough to endanger the Dolphin. A small clearing next to the valley opened, and she aimed for it. The edge of Roaring Fork nature trail. If only the Bell pilot had been able to hold out for a couple hundred more feet, the helicopter could've stayed intact.