The Jefferson Allegiance (27 page)

Ducharme could hear blades now, a different pitch than that of the Apache or the Blackhawk. He glanced to the right and saw an aging Huey helicopter coming in low over the Hudson River, under the thick clouds.

“One minute,” Kincannon said.

Three black clad forms broke from the tree line. Ducharme, Kincannon and Evie fired in concert, efficiently, accurately, and all three went down with shots to their body armor.

“I think they’re gonna get pissed soon enough and shoot back for real,” Kincannon said in a level voice, as if he was commenting on the weather.

“Likely,” Ducharme agreed.

A voice yelled out of the woods. “You’ve got no way out. Lay down your weapons or we will use deadly force.”

“We’re going STABO,” Kincannon said to Ducharme and Evie, ignoring the voice.

Ducharme reached over and grabbed her, no time for niceties. He ripped off her coat, turned her around, and peeled back the Velcro enclosure on the rear of her combat vest. A nylon strap with a snap hook on the end of it was exposed. “You’re first. Kincannon second. I’ll be last.”

“What about this?” she asked, holding up the briefcase. Ducharme hooked the two handles through the snap link.

Kincannon had thrown his coat to the ground and retrieved his rig. He hooked it into a loop on the bottom front of Evie’s vest. Ducharme hooked his strap into the loop on the front of Kincannon’s vest.

“We’re only gonna get one pass,” Kincannon said, eyeing the chopper that was banking hard toward them. A rope dangled below it, barely above the frigid waters of the Hudson.

Ducharme was totally focused on the rope as it came racing toward him. There was a loop on the end, and the wind and downdraft from the blades and the forward momentum of the aircraft had it flying all over the place.

The pilot was good. The Huey flared as it came over land toward them, slowing down abruptly. Ducharme ran forward ten feet and slammed down the snap link on the rope, getting a solid connection. He gave a thumbs up even though he knew the pilot couldn’t see him, and the chopper was moving again. With or without them, the pilot was getting the hell out of here as half a dozen streams of tracers arced out of the woods toward it.

Evie yelled something as she was lifted off the ground. Then she gasped as Kincannon was lifted off below her, jerking her vest taut around her. Ducharme fired blindly and high toward the woods, trying to give some semblance of covering fire.

He was lifted off his feet.

Like vertical dominos, the three of them dangled below the Huey as it banked around and then started gaining altitude. Ducharme saw a string of red tracers go by, less than five feet away, hearing the crack of the bullets.

The pilot was heading toward Storm King Mountain. The turbine engine whined, straining for power as the blades clawed for altitude. The chopper banked once more, averting the direct route to Storm King and staying below the clouds. Ducharme’s sigh of relief was brief as he saw something moving behind them. An Apache helicopter was lifting above the tree line at the PX, a Blackhawk beside it.

************

“They’ve got friends,” Burns noted. The three people dangling below the helicopter were like little beads on a string.

“Friends aren’t going to help them,” Turnbull said.

“They’re doing pretty good so far.”

“So far is over.”

***********

They passed over Washington Gate and Route 293 was below as the Huey descended. The pavement was coming up, and Ducharme bent his knees as his boots hit and he stumbled, his knees scraping on the road, then he was on his feet. Kincannon hit the ground running, unhooking himself, then grabbed Evie, unhooking her and the briefcase. The Huey settled down in the middle of the road, blades racing.

“On the chopper!” Ducharme yelled.

They ran to the chopper and piled on board. As soon as they were in, the Huey was airborne again.

***********

“There it is,” Turnbull said.

The Huey had disappeared below the trees for a few seconds, but now it was ahead of them, about a mile away.

“They’re on board,” Burns calmly noted. “Why are we chasing them? They’re not suspects in the murders.”

“You’re not that stupid, are you?” Turnbull asked.

Burns pulled an apple out of a pocket and flicked open his switchblade, meeting Turnbull’s eyes. “Nope. I’m not.”

Turnbull nodded. “Good.”

*************

The chopper shuddered hard, banking at the limits of its design structure. There was one pilot; all Ducharme could see was her helmet and strands of red hair poking out from underneath the back of it in haphazard directions. She looked over her shoulder, face hidden by a dark visor.

“We got company,” she yelled. “You have a plan?”

Ducharme looked out of the cargo bay. The Apache and Blackhawk were closing fast. Evie was against the rear bulkhead, clutching the briefcase, which held the disks they’d found so far, the library book and McBride’s computer. Ducharme connected his strap to a bolt in the ceiling, while Kincannon hooked in to one on the floor of the chopper. Ducharme slipped on a headset.

“Paul Ducharme,” he said as he went to the left edge of the cargo bay and cinched the strap so that it was at the limit of its play as he leaned outward. Then he tucked the stock of the MP-5 into his shoulder.

“Jessie Pollack. You
are not
going to take on an Apache with a sub-machinegun.” A short pause. “Are you?”

“You got something better to get them off our tail?” Ducharme made a quick estimate. “’Cause they’re going to be on top of us in thirty seconds.”

“Hang on,” Pollack said.

Ducharme saw Long Pond flash by on the left and knew they were getting close to Camp Buckner where he had spent his ‘yearling’ summer at the Academy. His stomach did a lurch as the Huey abruptly dropped altitude, now skimming just above Route 293. The chopper flared, and then turned hard right into Camp Buckner, below treetop level, right above a road.

The Apache and Blackhawk screamed by, missing the turn. The Apache looped, doing a roll, coming after them. The Blackhawk was forced to do a more conventional turn.

They’d gained probably ten seconds with the maneuver. Lake Popolopen appeared ahead and Pollack skimmed it. A gash in the ridgeline ahead beckoned where a creek ran into the lake and Pollack flew into it, trees at eye level on either side, dangerously close. Ducharme glanced at Evie. She was staring back at him.

“Having fun?” Ducharme yelled back at her.

“No.”

So much for small talk
, Ducharme thought. The Apache was in the gash about a quarter mile behind them. The large snout of the 30mm chain gun poked out below the cockpit. It moved ever so slightly, ‘slaved’ to the gunner’s helmet. Hellfire missiles dangling on the stubby wings on either side. If the pilots wanted, they could have splashed the Huey a long time ago with either weapon. Which meant they wanted to force them down.

The radio crackled. “Huey helicopter, this is Agent Turnbull of the FBI. You are ordered to set down or you will be fired upon. Over.”

They cleared the top of the ridge, and Pollack pushed them down. “You gonna reply?” She asked on the intercom.

“Fuck the FBI,” Ducharme said.

“That’s the spirit,” Pollack said. “Except when the Blackhawk catches up, they’ll box me in.”

The radio came alive once more. “Colonel Ducharme. This is Agent Turnbull. This is way beyond your pay grade. Land immediately, give us what you’ve got and you’re free to go.”

Ducharme saw the Blackhawk appear above and behind them. The Apache was directly behind; inching so close he could see the two pilots clearly.

Pollack spoke up on the intercom. “The Sergeant Major said this was important. He’s a lot of fun, but he’s definitely a no bullshit kind of guy when it comes to business.”

“That he is.”

“Screw it,” Pollack said. “Country’s going down the crapper anyway.”

The Blackhawk went by, about a hundred feet higher in altitude. It picked up speed, easily outpacing the older, Vietnam era chopper.

“What’s he going to do?” Ducharme asked.

“Try to stop me,” Pollack said. “Thruway’s ahead.”

Ducharme saw the wide lines of the NY State Thruway about a mile ahead. The Blackhawk suddenly turned and faced them, diving down toward the ground. It flared, directly in their path, hovering. A thousand feet ahead. Nine hundred.

“Ducharme?” Turnbull’s voice was flat, calm. Eight hundred. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

Ducharme keyed the radio. “It needs to be hard.” Seven hundred. Ducharme leaned out of the Huey, trusting the harness to hold him. Six hundred. He put the MP-5 to his shoulder, aiming forward.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Turnbull warned. Five hundred.

It would be ineffectual at this range, but Ducharme fired a sustained burst anyway, emptying half the magazine. Every third round was a tracer, arcing out in a red blaze toward the Blackhawk. Four hundred feet.

On the other side of the cargo bay, Kincannon joined in, firing his sub-machinegun.

“I will fucking shoot you down,” Turnbull yelled, finally some emotion into his voice.

“No, you won’t.” Ducharme aimed. Three hundred feet. “Wood disks burn pretty easily.” Two hundred. He fired, emptying the magazine, seeing sparks as rounds hit the armored front of the Blackhawk. One hundred feet.

Hanging further outward on the harness, Ducharme dropped the magazine out of the well and slammed another one home. Then he dropped it to the end of its sling. He reached into a pocket on the combat vest. The Blackhawk was right in front of them. Ducharme’s stomach lurched once more as Pollock dropped them hard. He didn’t think there was enough room between the bottom of the Blackhawk and the top of the trees.

And there wasn’t, as a branch slapped Ducharme in the side. The Huey stuttered as its nose smashed through treetops. Its blades were scant inches from the Blackhawk’s wheels. Then they were through. Ducharme twisted, and with all his might threw a handful of mini-grenades up and to the rear, barely missing the Huey’s own blades.

They went off, puffs of explosions right below the Blackhawk. Then he lost sight of it as the Huey banked hard, right on top of a railroad track.

“I got an idea,” Pollack yelled into the intercom. “I know this area.”

Ducharme regained his balance and looked back. There was no sign of the Blackhawk, but no sign of a crash either. The Apache was coming, having backed off during the game of chicken.

“I’m ordering the Apache to shoot you down.” Turnbull did not sound pleased.

“I don’t think so,” Ducharme said.

A string of big-ass 30mm tracers sliced across the front of the Huey as the Apache swung wide to get a firing angle.

“You’ve been warned,” Turnbull said.

The Huey rolled right. Ducharme braced for a crash as they went below the rail tracks. Then he realized the tracks were on a long trestle, arcing across a valley. The Huey slowed as Pollock flared it. The Apache flashed by overhead, turning hard away from the tracks.

Pollock turned them toward the long trestle. Massive iron girders reached up from the valley floor to support it. Pollack flew right between two of the supports, blades barely clearing on either side, then swung around to face back the way they’d come. She put one of the sets of girders between them and the approaching Apache. Not the best cover in the world, Ducharme thought, but better than nothing at this point.

“Come on, come on,” Pollack was whispering into the intercom.

Ducharme leaned out and fired the entire magazine at the approaching attack helicopter. Several of his rounds richocheted off the iron girders.

The Apache reached the gap they had just flown, and the pilot must have realized his mistake at the last second, trying to stop. The tips of the blades clipped the iron girders. Sparks flew for several long seconds, then the Apache backed off, losing altitude quickly. Ducharme watched it land hard in the field below.

22 March 1962

President John F. Kennedy, as was the custom for his lunches with J. Edgar Hoover, had the Oval Office emptied of everyone, even his brother Robert. To Kennedy, today was looking to be a particularly odious session, as Hoover was carrying a particularly thick file.

Kennedy had been advised by Eisenhower to continue a tradition begun by FDR: inviting the head of the FBI to lunch at the White House every month. It was under the principle of keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Since taking office, Kennedy had stretched the interval out to every two months, and he was hoping he could eventually go without seeing the grotesque man at all. Bobbie wasn’t happy about the luncheons either, because technically Hoover worked for the Attorney General, although the man never acted like he answered to Bobbie. Or even the President, Kennedy reflected as he sat on the couch across from Hoover, a low, ornate, coffee table between them; Jackie’s choice.