Page 57 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)
A NOTHER BUFFETING OF the chopper that threw them all sideways—harder even than before—was followed by a sickening drop and then gravel blowing against the helicopter’s Plexiglas canopy that sounded as violent as birdshot.
Abruptly, the pilot spoke through their earphones.
“We’re close to Gallina, but the terrain is such that we’re in for a lot more turbulence. These freak dust storms, coming out of nowhere, can wreak havoc with everything from navigation to rotor lift. Our comms have been dropping out, too—I’ve been in and out of touch with base. I’m going to try an approach from another angle. But we may have to abort.”
“That’s not acceptable,” said Sharp, opening his eyes.
“As captain, it would be my decision,” came the chilly response.
“We’ve got an agent out there in trouble.”
“I’m acutely aware of that, Agent Sharp.”
“You said it yourself: we’re almost there.”
This clipped exchange ended when the pilot didn’t reply.
Nervous as he was, Watts hoped to God they didn’t abort.
He had a bad presentiment about what might be happening in Gallina Canyon right now, his imagination made all the darker by his feelings for Corrie.
The helicopter continued over the dark terrain, pitching and yawing—sometimes to a terrifying degree—but always managing to recover.
Watts didn’t know how much longer he could take this endless battering.
He tried forcing himself to think of other things besides pancaking in a ball of fire.
Cleaning his revolvers.
Riding his horse. Eating a hot chili.
When none of those worked, he escalated: a toga party at Hugh Hefner’s mansion, with champagne fountains of vintage brut.
That didn’t distract him, either.
The headphones crackled, then the pilot’s voice came on again.
“I just received a report from our ground team. A haboob is now being tracked in the badlands.”
“A what?” Watts asked.
“It’s an intense dust storm that pushes on ahead of a weather front. Very dangerous and unpredictable.”
Wasn’t this weather unpredictable already?
“No abort, I hope.”
“Not yet. They’re monitoring it and updating us constantly. When they can get through, that is—our comms are cutting out more and more frequently.”
Ten minutes of tense silence passed, then the pilot’s urgent voice broke across the intercom once more.
“Base just reported that Agent Swanson’s cell phone was destroyed.”
“When?” Watts cried.
“Just two minutes ago,” said the pilot.
“How do you know?”
“FBI cell phones are equipped with a sat connection and emergency reporting software,” Sharp told him.
Every minute counted, Watts thought—maybe every second.
“Circling back around toward the LZ,” said the pilot.
At that moment, the chopper was buffeted so hard it was turned ninety degrees on its side.
The rotors squealed in protest against the violent change in air pressure, and the engine seemed to cough as dust and sand were sucked into its turbine intakes.
Watts clung to his restraints in a panic as the bird began to spin, slowly at first, engine grinding, and then faster, whirling them around.
“Brace, brace ,” came the captain’s voice.
“Autorotation! We’re going down!”
Watts could hear fresh waves of gravel breaking loudly against the fuselage.
He took a grip on the restraints as the tail boom whipped around and around, beginning to spin uncontrollably.
There was a horrifying jerk, followed by the sound of tearing metal, as a shower of sparks whipped by outside the canopy.
Then the cockpit tilted upward, and tilted still further, until with a groan like that of a dying beast, it flipped onto one side and went into a sudden, sickening free fall that—even before Watts could prepare for impact—abruptly ended in a tremendous, jarring crash.