The Descent

'Sergeant Jefferson?' he radioed. 'Do you have  your  handgun?'

'Yes  sir,  of  course,  sir,'  she  said.  They  were  required  to  carry  a  firearm  at  all  times on base.

'You will chamber one round, Sergeant.'

'Sir?'  They  were  also  required  never  to  load  a  weapon  on  base  unless  under  direct attack.

Branch  didn't  drag  his  joke  out  any  longer.  'The  man  who  was  just  on  the  radio,'  he said. 'If he proves  wrong, Sergeant,  I want you to shoot him.'

Over  the airwaves,  Branch heard McDaniels snort his approval.

'Leg or head, sir?' He liked that.

Branch  took  a  minute  to  get  the  other  gunships  positioned  at  the  edges  of  the  gas cloud, and to double-check his armament and snug his oxygen  mask hard and tight.

'All right, then,' he said. 'Let's get some answers.'

0425

He entered  from on high with his faithful navigator at his  back,  meaning  to  descend  at his  own  pace.  To  go  slowly.  To  winnow  out  the  perils  one  by  one.  With  his  three gunships  poised  at  the  rear  like  wrathful   archangels,   Branch  meant   to  own  this blighted real estate  from the top down.

But the Stanford forensic chemistry  specialist was wrong. Apaches did not breathe  this gaseous broth.

He  was  no  more  than  ten  seconds  in  when  the  acid  haze  began  sparking  furiously. The  sparks  killed the pilot  flame  already  burning  in  the  turbine,  then,  sparking  more, relit   the   engine   with   a   small   explosion   beneath   the   rotors.   The   exhaust-gas temperature  gauge went into the red. The  pilot flame became a two-foot wildfire.

It  was  Branch's  job  to  be  ready  for  all  emergencies.  Part  of  your  training  as  a  pilot involved   hubris,  and  part   of  it  involved   preparing   for   your   own   downfall.   This particular  mechanical  bankruptcy  had  never  happened  to  him  before,  but  he  had reflexes  for it anyway.

When  the  rotors  surged,  he  corrected  for  it.  When  the  machine  started  into  failure and instruments shorted out, he did not panic. The  power cut out on him.

'I've  got  a  hot  start,'  Branch  declared  calmly.  Fed  by  an  oxygen  surge,  the  bushing above their heads held a fiery  bluish globe, like St. Elmo's fire.

'Autorote,' he announced next  when the machine – logically – failed altogether. Autorotation was a state  of mechanical paralysis.

'Going down,' he announced. No emotion. No blame. Here was here.

'Are you hit, Major?' Count on Mac. The  Avenger.

'Negative,' Branch reassured.  'No contact. Our turbine's blown.'

Autorotation,  Branch  could  handle.  It  was  one  of  his  oldest  instincts,  to  shove  the collective down and find that  long,  steep,  safe  glide  that  imitated  flight.  Even  with  the

engine  dead,  the  rotor  blades  would  continue  spinning  with  the  centrifugal  force, allowing for a short, steep  forced landing. That  was  the  theory.  At  a  plunging  speed  of

1,700  feet  per minute, it all translated into thirty  seconds of alternative.

Branch  had  practiced  autorotations  a  thousand  times,  but  never  in  the  middle  of night,  in  the  middle  of  a  toxic  forest.  With  the  power  cut,  his  headlights  died.  The darkness  leaped  out  at  him.  He  was  startled  by  its  quickness.  There  was  no  time  for his  eyes  to  adjust.  No  time  to  flip  on  the  monocle's  artificial  night  vision.   Damn instruments. That  was his downfall. Should have  been relying on his own eyes.  For the first time he felt fear.

'I'm blind,' Branch reported  in a monotone.

He  fought  away  the  image  of  trees  waiting  to  gut  them.  He  reached  for  the  faith  of his wings. Hold the  pitch flat, the  rotors  will spin.

The  dead  forest  rushed  at  his  imagination  like  switchblades  in  an  alley.  He  knew better  than to think the trees  might cushion them. He wanted to apologize  to  Ramada, the father  who was young enough to be his son. Where have I brought us?

Only now did he admit his loss of control. 'Mayday,'  he reported.

They   entered   the   treeline   with  a  metallic  shriek,   limbs  raking   the   aluminum, breaking the skids, reaching to skin their souls out of the machine.

For a few seconds more their descent was more glide than plummet. The  blades sheared treetops,  then the trees  sheared his blades.

The  forest caught them.

The  Apache braked  in a mangle. The  noise quit.

Wrapped nose-down  against  a  tree,  the  machine  rocked  gently  like  a  cradle  in  rain. Branch lifted his fists from the controls. He let go. It  was done.

Despite himself, he passed out.

He woke gagging. His mask was filled with vomit. In darkness  and  smoke,  he  clawed at the straps,  freed the facepiece, dragged hard at the air.

Instantly  he tasted  and  smelled  the  poison  reach  into  his  lungs  and  blood.  It  seared his throat. He felt  diseased,  anciently  diseased,  plagued  into  his  very  bones.  Mask,  he thought with alarm.