Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior Page 19

  The sound of powerful Apache gunships attacking began in the distance. Hellfire missiles were released, lighting up the entire valley. The missiles arced out of the sky toward the main concentration of drug runners, many of whom began to flee down the road toward the other end of the valley. Brutal noise, like that of a violent thunderstorm, pounded savagely against Roan’s eardrums.

  Salvador jerked up his medical pack and ran, slipping and stumbling, after Roan as he hurried in a long, striding walk to the compound entrance. The rain forest was alive with shouts from excited Brazilian soldiers. Hand-to-hand combat ensued. Out of the corner of his eye, Roan saw Captain Braga running down the slope with a squad of men. In the flashes of light, he saw triumph etched across the captain’s sweaty, strained face.

  Gripping Inca more tightly, Roan rounded the corner of the compound fence, heading directly to the Cobra, which had just landed just outside the gates. Neither he nor Salvador had weapons. Salvador was a medic and they never carried armament. Roan had left his rifle behind in order to carry Inca. Out of the darkness came two drug runners, weapons up and aimed directly at them.

  Roan croaked out a cry of warning. “Salvador! Look out!” He started to turn, prepared to take the bullets he knew were coming, in order to protect Inca, who sagged limply in his arms.

  Just then another figure, dressed in body-fitting black flight suit and flak jacket, helmet on his head, appeared almost as if by magic behind the drug runners who had Roan in their gunsites. The black helmet and visor covered the upper half of his face, but his pursed lips and the way he halted, spread his booted feet and lifted his arms, told Roan he was there for a reason.

  Roan stared in horror and amazement as whoever it was—the pilot of the landed Cobra helicopter?—lifted his pistol in both hands and coolly fired off four shots. All four hit the drug runners, who crumpled to the muddy earth. The man then gestured for Roan and Salvador to make a run for it. He stood tensely and kept looking around for more enemy fire.

  “Come on!” Roan roared, and he dug his boots into the mud. He saw the pilot turn and yell at him, his voice drowned out by the machine gun fire of the nearby Cobra. The pilot lifted his arm in hard, chopping motions, urging them to hightail it.

  Roan’s breath came in huge, gulping sobs as he steadied himself in the mud. Hurry! Hurry!

  Salvador slipped. He cried out and smashed headlong into the ground and onto his belly. His medical pack went flying.

  Roan jerked a look in his direction.

  “Go on!” Salvador screamed. “Corra! Run! Get to the chopper! Don’t worry about me!”

  Roan hesitated only fractionally. He surged forward. Barely able to see the six-foot-tall pilot except in flashes of gunfire, Roan saw him reach toward him. The grip of his hand on his arm was steadying.

  “Stay close!” the pilot yelled, his voice muffled by the shelling.

  Roan’s only protection for Inca as he ran along the compound fence was the wary pilot, who moved like a jaguar, lithe and boneless, the gun held ready in his gloved hand. Roan followed him toward the front corner of the barbed-wire barrier.

  As Roan rounded the corner, he saw the helicopter, an antique Huey Cobra gunship from the Vietnam War, sitting on high idle waiting for them, its blades whirling. Roan followed the swiftly moving pilot back to the opening where the machine gunner was continuing to fire at drug runners. More than once, the pilot fired on the run, to the left, to the right, to protect them. Bullets whined past Roan’s head like angry hornets. Slugs were smattering and striking all around them. Mud popped up in two-foot geysers around his feet. Roan saw the copilot in the aircraft making sharp gestures out the opened window, urging them to hurry up and get on board. The gunfire increased. The drug runners were going to try and kill them all so they couldn’t take off.

  Hurry! Roan’s muscles strained. They screamed out in pain as he ran, holding Inca tightly against him. Only a hundred feet more! The pilot dived through the helicopter’s open door, landed flat on his belly on the aluminum deck and quickly scrambled to his knees and lunged forward into the cockpit. The gunner at the door stopped firing. He stood crouched in the doorway, arms opened wide, yelling at Roan to hurry. All of them were dressed in black flight suits, with no insignias on their uniforms. Their helmets were black, the visors drawn down so Roan couldn’t make out their faces. They looked brown skinned. Indians? Brazilians? He wasn’t sure. Roan thought they must be from some secret government agency. The real military always wore patches and insignias identifying their country and squadron.

  The blast of the rotor wash just about knocked him off his feet. His arms tightened around Inca. The pilot was powering up for a swift takeoff. The violent rush of air slapped and slammed Roam repeatedly as he ducked low to avoid getting hit by the whirling blades. The gunner held on to the frame of the door, the other hand stretched outward toward them. He was screaming at Roan to get on board. An explosion on the hill rocked him from behind. Fire and flame shot up a hundred feet into the air. One of the attack choppers must have found an ammo dump! Thunder rolled through the narrow valley, blotting out every other sound for moments.

  By the time Roan made it to the doorway, his arms were burning weights. The gunner wrapped a strong hand under his biceps and hefted him upward, then moved aside and made a sharp gesture for Roan to place Inca on an awaiting litter right behind him in the rear of the small helicopter. Wind whipped through the craft. As Roan gently lay Inca on the stretcher and quickly shoved several protective, warm covers over her, the gunner placed a pair of earphones across Roan’s head so he could have immediate contact with everyone else in the helicopter.

  “Get us to the nearest hospital!” he gasped to the pilot as he knelt over Inca. “She’s got a basal skull fracture. Time’s something we don’t have. She’s gonna die if we can’t get her stabilized. Let’s get the hell outta here! Lift off! Lift off!”

  The gunner went back to his station, and in seconds, the machine gun was firing with deep, throaty sounds once again. Red-and-yellow muzzle light flashed across the cabin with each round fired. Roan heard bullets striking the helo’s thin skin as the craft wrenched off from the ground and shot skyward like a pogo stick out of control. He bracketed Inca with his own body, the gravity and power of the takeoff a surprise. This old machine had a lot more juice in it than he’d thought. The ride was violent and choppy. Everyone got bounced around. The pilot took evasive maneuvers, steering the aircraft in sharp zigzag turns until they could get out of the range of gunfire from below, moving swiftly up the valley, to gain altitude and head for Manaus.

  The instant they were out of rifle range, the gunner stopped firing. He slid shut the doors on each side of the Cobra so that the wind ceased blasting through the aircraft. The helicopter shook and shuddered as it strained to gain altitude in the black abyss surrounding them. Before Roan could ask, a small, dull light illuminated the rear cabin where they were sitting on the bare metal deck, allowing him to see in order to take care of Inca. Quickly, he tied the green nylon straps of the litter snugly around her blanketed form so she couldn’t be tossed about by the motion of the chopper.

  “Give him the medical supplies,” came the husky order from the pilot over his earphones.

  Roan was in such shock over Inca’s condition that it took him precious seconds to realize the ragged voice he heard was a woman’s—not a man’s. Surprised, he jerked a look toward the cockpit. He saw the pilot, the one who had shot the two drug runners and saved their lives, twist around in her seat and look at him for a moment. She pushed the visor up with her black glove and gazed directly at him and then down at Inca, the expression on her face one of raw emotion. Her eyes were alive with anger and worry as she stared at Inca.

  His mouth dropped open. Even with the helmet and military gear, Roan swore she was nearly a carbon copy of Inca! How could that be? The light was bad and her sweaty face deeply shadowed, so he couldn’t be sure. The shape of her face was more square than Inca’s, but their nose a
nd eyes looked the same. The pilot’s expression was fierce. Her eyes were slitted. There were tears running down the sides of her cheeks. She was breathing heavily, her chest heaving beneath the flak jacket she wore.

  “How’s Inca doing?”

  Roan blinked. Clearly this woman knew Inca. His mind tilted. He opened his mouth. “Not good. She’s stable for now, but she could dump at any time.”

  Nodding, the woman wiped her eyes free of the tears. “She couldn’t be in better hands right now.”

  Stymied, Roan saw the depth of emotion in her teary eyes. Tears? Why? The stress of combat? Possibly.

  “I know you have a lot of questions, Senhor Storm Walker. In time, they’ll be answered. Welcome aboard the black jaguar express.” She made a poor attempt to smile. “I’m Captain Maya Stevenson. My copilot is Lieutenant Klein. Take care of my sister, Inca, will you? We’re heading for Manaus. My copilot’s already in touch with the nearest hospital. There’ll be an emergency team waiting for us once we land. We brought some help along.” She jerked a thumb in the direction of her door gunner. “Sergeant Angel Paredes has a lot of other skills you can use. We call her the Angel of Death. She pulls our people from death’s door.” Her lips lifted, showing strong white teeth. “Get to work.” She turned back to her duties.

  “Here,” the door gunner said, “IV with glucose solution.” She pushed up the visor into her helmet, her round Indian face in full view beneath the low lighting.

  Stunned, Roan looked at her. Paredes grinned a little. “This is a woman’s flight, senhor. Tell me what else you need for Inca.” She gestured toward a large medical bag nearby. “I’m a paramedic also. How may I assist you?”

  Shaking his head in stunned shock, Roan had a hundred questions. But nothing mattered right now except Inca and her deteriorating condition. “Put the IV in her right arm,” he rasped. Leaning out, he pulled the IV bag over to him and hung it on a hook so that the fluid would drip steadily into her arm. “You got ice on board?”

  Paredes nodded as she knelt down and wiped Inca’s arm with an alcohol swab. “Yes, sir.” She pointed to it with her black, gloved hand, then took off her gloves and dropped them to the deck. “In there, senhor. In that thick plastic container.” She skillfully prepped Inca’s arm to insert the IV needle.

  Roan found the containers and jammed his hand into the pack. This was no ordinary paramedic’s pack, he realized. No, it was like a well-stocked ambulance pack. It had everything he could ever want to help save Inca’s life. The helicopter shook around him. His ears popped. He heard constant, tense exchanges between the pilot and copilot. Both women’s voices. A three-woman air crew. What country were they from? He picked up the plastic bag of ice and struck it hard against his thigh, then waited a moment before gently placing it beneath Inca’s neck. It was an instant ice pack, which, when struck, mixed chemicals that created coolness. The door gunner handed him some wide, thick gauze.

  “To hold the ice pack in place,” she instructed.

  Nodding his thanks, Roan began to feel his adrenaline letdown make him shaky. Inca lay beneath the warming blankets, her beautiful golden skin washed out and gray looking. Reaching for the blood pressure cuff, he took a reading on Inca. To his relief, her pressure was holding steady. Ordinarily, on a wound like this, the person dumped and died within minutes because the brain had been bruised by the broken skull plates and began to swell at a swift rate. So far, her blood pressure was remaining steady, and that was a small sign of hope.

  “How’s Inca doing?” Stevenson demanded.

  Roan glanced forward. The captain was flying the helicopter as if the hounds of hell were on her tail. They needed all the speed this old chopper could give them. Time was of the essence, and she seemed to share his sense of haste. The aircraft shook and vibrated wildly as the pilot pushed it to maximum acceleration, tunneling through the clouds.

  “Stable,” he croaked. “She’s remaining stable. That’s a good sign.”

  “I could use some good news,” Stevenson growled.

  And then Roan noticed that the helicopter was following another one, at less than one rotor length. Stymied, Roan saw the red and green, flashing lights on the underbelly of the copter in front of them.

  “What’s that chopper doing so close?” he demanded, terror in his tone.

  Stevenson gave a bark of laughter. “This old bag of bones doesn’t have any IFR, instrument flight rules, equipment on board to get us through the clouds or for night flight, Senhor Storm Walker. The chopper ahead of us is a state-of-the-art Apache gunship. She’s equipped with everything we need to get the hell out of here and get Inca to Manaus. I’m following it. If I lose visual contact with it, we’re all screwed. I’ll lose my sense of direction in this soup and we’ll crash.”

  Roan’s eyes narrowed. She was doing more than following it, for there was barely a hundred feet between them. One wrong move and they’d crash into one another. That kind of flying took incredible skill and bravery. No wonder the Cobra was shaking like this; it was in direct line of the rotor wash of the far more powerful Apache. Yet he knew the gunship was a two-seater and had no room for passengers.

  “Shove this old crone into the redline range,” the pilot ordered the copilot. “Tell them to put the pedal to the metal up there. Squeeze every ounce of power outta her.”

  “Roger.”

  Roan shook his head disbelievingly. He looked down at Inca. Her face was covered on one side with mud. Taking a dressing, he tried to clean her up a little. He loved her. He didn’t want her to die. Moving his hand over Inca’s limp one, he felt the coolness of her flesh.

  “Pray for her, senhor. Prayer by those who love someone is the most powerful,” the door gunner said as she got up and crawled forward toward the cockpit.

  Roan touched Inca’s unmarred brow with trembling fingertips. She looked so beautiful. So untouched. And yet a bullet had found her. Why hadn’t he realized she was vulnerable just like any other human being? Why hadn’t her spirit guide protected her? Squeezing his eyes shut, Roan ruthlessly berated himself. Why hadn’t he shot first before Faro Valentino had fired at her? His heart ached with guilt. With unanswered questions. Again he stroked Inca’s cheek and felt her softness. Gone was her bright animation. Inca’s spirit hung between worlds right now. Roan didn’t fool himself. She could die. The chances of it happening were almost guaranteed.

  “Another hour, Senhor Walker,” the pilot murmured. “We’ll be there in an hour….”

  How could that be? Roan twisted to look toward the gunner, who was crouched in a kneeling position, her hands gripping the metal beams on either side of her as she hung between the seats of the two pilots. They were a helluva lot farther from Manaus than an hour! What was going on? Roan felt dizzy. He felt out of sync with everything that was going on around him. He realized he was in shock over Inca’s being wounded. He was unraveling and everything felt like a nightmare.

  “An hour?” he rasped. “That can’t be.”

  The pilot laughed. “In our business, anything is possible, Senhor Walker. Just keep tending Inca. Be with her. I’ll take care of my part in this deal. Okay?”

  Who are these women? The question begged to be asked. Roan watched through the cockpit Plexiglas as they rose higher and higher. Suddenly they broke through the soup of thick clouds. He gasped. The Apache gunship was just ahead of them, and he felt the hard, jarring movement from being in the air pockets and rotor wash behind it. Captain Stevenson was within inches of the Apache’s rotors. Marveling at her flying skills, Roan turned away. He couldn’t watch; he thought they’d crash into one another for sure. The woman was certifiable, in his opinion. She had to be crazy to fly like this.

  His world was torn apart and tumbling out of his control. Roan felt stripped and helpless. He leaned close to Inca and placed a kiss on her cool cheek. All he could do now was monitor her blood pressure, her pulse, and simply be with her. And pray hard to the Great Spirit to save her life. She was too young to die. Too vital
. Too important to Amazonia. Oh, why hadn’t he taken out that drug runner first? Roan hung his head, and hot tears squeezed beneath his tightly shut lids.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. “You did all you could, senhor,” Paredes said gently. “Don’t be hard on yourself. Some things are meant to be…and all we can do is be there to pick up the pieces afterward. Just hang in there. Manaus is nearby….”

  Roan couldn’t look up. All he could do was remain sitting next to Inca, his bulk buttressing the litter against the rear wall of the aircraft so that she had a somewhat stable and stationary ride. He felt Paredes remove her hand from his shoulder.

  His world revolved around Inca. Never had he loved someone as he loved her. And now their collective worlds were shattered. All the secret hopes and dreams he’d begun to harbor were now smashed. Closing his eyes, Roan took Inca’s hand between his and prayed as he’d never prayed before. If only they could be at Manaus right away. If only they could get her into emergency surgery. If only…

  Roan sat tensely in the waiting room on the surgery floor of the hospital in Manaus. There was nothing else he could do while Inca was being operated on. Forlornly, he looked around at the red plastic sofas and chairs. The place was deserted. It was one in the morning. The antiseptic smells were familiar to him, almost soothing to his razor-blade tenseness. An emergency team had been waiting for them when the woman pilot landed the Cobra on the roof of the Angel of Mercy Hospital. And just as soon as Inca was disembarked by the swift-moving surgery team, Captain Stevenson had taken off, her Cobra absorbed into the night sky once again. He hadn’t even had time to thank her or her brave crew. Instead, Roan’s attention had been centered on Inca, and on the team who rushed her on a wheeled gurney into the hospital. He gave the information on Inca’s condition to the woman neurosurgeon who was to do the surgery. Her team hurried Inca into the prepping room, while he was asked to go and wait in the lobby area.