aircraft floated down the ridge low enough to put stars on the tops of the hemlocks and white pines it skimmed.
As in Iraq, Paul Haber sat in the skid seat of the helicopter poised like a bronco-busting cowboy in the chute. He had aviator sunglasses perched atop his head and the butt of the M4A1 held jauntily off his hip, right hand in front of the trigger guard, in a textbook field-manual ready position.
Devine knew that the real authority of military men and leaders lies in the half-magical, half-insane ability to lead by example, to dive headlong into combat with calm and confidence. How many times had he seen Haber expose himself to devastating fire without hesitation?
Haber could do anything, Devine thought, his doubts and fears long gone. Haber wasn’t like regular men.
As in Iraq, when Haber was his hero, Devine watched closely what he did, how his hunter’s eyes tracked into the boughs of the endless trees.
“Sir, three o’clock,” said Willard, on the aircraft’s other side.
The bird swung to the right. On Sweetheart Mountain, the opposite hill of the river valley beyond the swamp, there was movement up an old logging road. It was a faded blue pickup. Dirt spat out from the rear tires as it struggled up the steep grade.
“Is it him?” Haber called over the intercom.
“I can’t tell,” Devine said, trying to make out anyone in the cab. It was practically impossible with the vibration of the chopper.
Haber grabbed the glasses and looked himself.
“It has to be. Get after the truck.”
The chopper’s nose tilted downward and they sped forward over the swamp. Reaching the opposite side, they could see the blue pickup make the top of the hill. Instead of continuing on the logging road down the other side, the truck lurched to the left and continued along the top of an exposed rocky ridge, bouncing up and down off the bumpy rock face crazily as it picked up speed.
“What the hell is it doing?” Devine said.
“Who cares? Get up on that damned ridge and give me a clear shot.”
They’d just reached the top of the ridge, coming up behind the truck, when it happened. The driver’s-side door of the speeding truck opened and a man slid out, tumbling, skidding, and kicking up a cloud of rocks and dust. Into the air on the other side of the ridge, like Evel Knievel trying to jump the Grand Canyon, the still-speeding driverless truck sailed straight off the other side of the cliff and disappeared nose-first from view.
“What the—?” Haber said, and laughed. “Get me down there! Get me down there now!” The helicopter touched down in the tight clearing at the top of the ridge, where the truck’s driver had landed and was still sitting. As they jumped out and approached, Devine saw he was an old man, dressed in an orange vest and waders.
“Who the hell are you?” Haber said to him.
“I’m Joe Walke,” he said. He held his glasses in both hands and looked over the cliff, where the truck had shattered against the boulders far down below. “It wasn’t my fault. He wouldn’t jump. I told him.”
“Who wouldn’t jump?”
“That New York cop you’re chasing,” Walke said. “I thought we could bail and shake you, but he didn’t get my gist, I guess.”
“That cop is down there in the truck?”
Walke nodded.
“Poor fella,” he said.
Devine stood over the old coot, while Haber sent Irvine and Leighton down in the chopper to check out the truck.
“There’s nobody in there,” Irvine radioed up after another three minutes. “The old fart’s lying.”
“What?” the old man said, looking down at the truck again. “No? That’s funny. I could have sworn I seen him right there next to me. He must have jumped after all.”
Haber looked out down the ridge, the thin silver filament of the river in the shadowed land in the distance. It was past sunset now, getting dark.
“I wanted to wrap this up before dark, but now that won’t happen, will it?” Haber said, and hit the old
As in Iraq, Paul Haber sat in the skid seat of the helicopter poised like a bronco-busting cowboy in the chute. He had aviator sunglasses perched atop his head and the butt of the M4A1 held jauntily off his hip, right hand in front of the trigger guard, in a textbook field-manual ready position.
Devine knew that the real authority of military men and leaders lies in the half-magical, half-insane ability to lead by example, to dive headlong into combat with calm and confidence. How many times had he seen Haber expose himself to devastating fire without hesitation?
Haber could do anything, Devine thought, his doubts and fears long gone. Haber wasn’t like regular men.
As in Iraq, when Haber was his hero, Devine watched closely what he did, how his hunter’s eyes tracked into the boughs of the endless trees.
“Sir, three o’clock,” said Willard, on the aircraft’s other side.
The bird swung to the right. On Sweetheart Mountain, the opposite hill of the river valley beyond the swamp, there was movement up an old logging road. It was a faded blue pickup. Dirt spat out from the rear tires as it struggled up the steep grade.
“Is it him?” Haber called over the intercom.
“I can’t tell,” Devine said, trying to make out anyone in the cab. It was practically impossible with the vibration of the chopper.
Haber grabbed the glasses and looked himself.
“It has to be. Get after the truck.”
The chopper’s nose tilted downward and they sped forward over the swamp. Reaching the opposite side, they could see the blue pickup make the top of the hill. Instead of continuing on the logging road down the other side, the truck lurched to the left and continued along the top of an exposed rocky ridge, bouncing up and down off the bumpy rock face crazily as it picked up speed.
“What the hell is it doing?” Devine said.
“Who cares? Get up on that damned ridge and give me a clear shot.”
They’d just reached the top of the ridge, coming up behind the truck, when it happened. The driver’s-side door of the speeding truck opened and a man slid out, tumbling, skidding, and kicking up a cloud of rocks and dust. Into the air on the other side of the ridge, like Evel Knievel trying to jump the Grand Canyon, the still-speeding driverless truck sailed straight off the other side of the cliff and disappeared nose-first from view.
“What the—?” Haber said, and laughed. “Get me down there! Get me down there now!” The helicopter touched down in the tight clearing at the top of the ridge, where the truck’s driver had landed and was still sitting. As they jumped out and approached, Devine saw he was an old man, dressed in an orange vest and waders.
“Who the hell are you?” Haber said to him.
“I’m Joe Walke,” he said. He held his glasses in both hands and looked over the cliff, where the truck had shattered against the boulders far down below. “It wasn’t my fault. He wouldn’t jump. I told him.”
“Who wouldn’t jump?”
“That New York cop you’re chasing,” Walke said. “I thought we could bail and shake you, but he didn’t get my gist, I guess.”
“That cop is down there in the truck?”
Walke nodded.
“Poor fella,” he said.
Devine stood over the old coot, while Haber sent Irvine and Leighton down in the chopper to check out the truck.
“There’s nobody in there,” Irvine radioed up after another three minutes. “The old fart’s lying.”
“What?” the old man said, looking down at the truck again. “No? That’s funny. I could have sworn I seen him right there next to me. He must have jumped after all.”
Haber looked out down the ridge, the thin silver filament of the river in the shadowed land in the distance. It was past sunset now, getting dark.
“I wanted to wrap this up before dark, but now that won’t happen, will it?” Haber said, and hit the old
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