Patriot games - Tom Clancy [253]
As he watched, Jack was being tied up. The Prince-the Captain, Robby thought-already was tied, and was sitting with his back to the pilot. The short one finished Jack next and pushed him back onto the couch. Jackson next watched the man put hands on his wife.
"What are you going to do with us?" Sissy asked.
"Shut up, nigger!" Shorty replied.
Even Robby knew that this was a trivial thing to get angry about; the problem at hand was far worse than some white asshole's racist remark, but his blood turned to fire as he watched the woman he loved being handled by that little white shit!
Use your head, boy, something in the back of his brain said. Take your time. You have to get it right on the first try. Cool down.
Longley was beginning to hope. There were friendlies in the trees to his left. Perhaps they'd come from the house, he thought. At least one of them had an automatic weapon, and he counted three of the terrorists dead, or at least not moving on the grass. He had fired five rounds and missed with every one-the range was just too great for a pistol in the dark-but they'd stopped the terrorists cold. And help was coming. It had to be. The radio van was empty, but the FBI agent to his right had been there. All they had to do was wait, hold on for a few more minutes
"I got flashes on the ground ahead," the pilot said. "I-"
Lightning revealed the house for a brief moment in time. They couldn't see people on the ground, but that was the right house, and there were flashes that had to be gunfire, half a mile off as the helicopter buffeted through the wind and rain. It was about all the pilot could see. His instrument lights were turned up full-white, and the lightning had decorated his vision with a stunning collection of blue and green spots.
"Jesus," Gus Werner said over the intercom. "What are we getting into?"
"In Vietnam," the pilot replied coolly, "we called it a hot LZ." And I was scared then, too.
"Get Washington." The copilot switched frequencies on the radio and waved to the agent in the back while both men orbited the helicopter. "This is Werner."
"Gus, this is Bill Shaw. Where are you?"
"We have the house in sight, and there's a goddamned battle going on down there. Do you have contact with our people?"
"Negative, they're off the air. The D.C. team is still thirty minutes away. The state and county people are close but not there yet. The storm's knocking trees down all over the place and traffic is tied up something fierce. You're the man on the scene, Gus, you'll have to call it."
The mission of the Hostage Rescue Team was to take charge of an existing situation, stabilize it, and rescue the hostages-peacefully if possible, by force if not. They were not assault troops; they were special agents of the FBI. But there were brother agents down there.
"We're going in now. Tell the police that federal officers are on the scene. We'll try to keep you informed."
"Right. Be careful, Gus."
"Take us in," Werner told the pilot.
"Okay. I'll skirt the house first, then come around in and land you to windward. I can't put you close to the house. The wind's too bad, I might lose it down there."
"Go." Werner turned. Somehow his men had all their gear on. Each carried an automatic pistol. Four had MP-5 machine guns, as did he. The long-rifleman and his spotter would be the first men out the door. "We're going in." One of the men gave a thumbs-up that looked a lot jauntier than anyone felt.
The helicopter lurched toward the ground when a sudden downdraft hammered at it. The pilot wrenched upward on his collective and bottomed the aircraft out a scant hundred feet from the trees. The house was only a few hundred yards away now. They skimmed over the southern edge of the clearing, allowing everyone a close look at the situation.
"Hey, the spot between the house and the cliff might be big enough after all," the pilot said. He increased power as the chopper swept to windward.
"Helicopter!"