Page 18 of The Echelon (Spy Girl 7)
T-MINUS:00:09:47
“We’re approaching the border,” the pilot announces.
I look down, thinking about the citizens of Montrovia, knowing how they love the view of the morning sun glittering off the water in the harbor and beyond.
A view that I hope they will be able to appreciate in the future.
A voice comes over the communications channel, so loud that it hurts my ears.
“Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”
Who’s that? I mouth to the soldier sitting next to me.
“Air traffic control,” he says through his headset.
“Can they not hear what we say?”
“No, we have five different channels we can converse on, but ATC supersedes them all.”
“Are we going to respond?” I wonder aloud.
“Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”
I don’t say a word, and neither does the pilot.
It would really suck to make it all this way, only to get blown out of the air.
And, quite honestly, even with all my training, this whole situation is not in my area of expertise.
I guess, worst case, I jump out of the helicopter—with the proof somehow—commandeer a vehicle, and drive to the hospital. Of course, that would mean I couldn’t stop the first of the vaccines given, but maybe I could stop most of them.
“Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”
“Not planning to respond at this point,” the pilot says. “If they get too annoying, we will just shut them off.”
“How are they communicating with you?” I ask. “I thought all communications to the country were down?”
“There are special satellites with military encryption that cannot be hacked. That allows us to maintain coms—”
“But I thought—”
“Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”
“Now, they are pinging us via radar,” the copilot says.
“Is that bad?” Sophie wonders.
“What does pinging mean exactly?” I ask. “Is it like when you send a ping over the internet?”
“Yes. Air traffic controllers are good at tracking what we call rogue signals from the ground. The current system then uses radar to ping an aircraft. Our transponder will send a signal back.”
“Can’t we stop it from doing that?” I ask, feeling a little panicked. I know plenty about armaments and how to kill. I was even trained to fly different aircrafts via simulator, but never in the simulations was I under attack in the air.
And I’m worried that we’re going to be.
And I hope the men on this helicopter understand that.
But they are professionals, and I can tell by the calm control of their demeanors that they most certainly understand the stakes.
“Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”
“Maybe we should respond,” the pilot says. “If we explain the circumstances for our coming into the country—”
“No!” I yell out, still not knowing who I can trust.
“Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”
An alarm goes off in the helicopter, and a pleasant-sounding woman’s voice says, “Laser tracking engaged.”
“We’re being laser-tracked?” I ask, trying really hard to keep my cool. “Are you saying they are going to shoot us out of the sky?”
“No,” the pilot says. “It means, they are tracking us. If they were going to shoot at us, that would be laser-targeted.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good,” Sophie says just as another alert goes off.
“Laser targeting engaged.”
“Don’t fret about it,” one of the crewmen tells us.
“At what point do you take it seriously?” I ask.
“When it’s coming at us,” the crewman says with a laugh, and I realize they are just as crazy as I am regarding my own well-being.
“Laser lock,” the voice says serenely.
“Two o’clock,” the copilot says, equally as calm. “Surface to air missile just fired at us.”
I watch in horror as the rocket takes off into the sky, obviously coming toward us.
“Get buckled up,” the serviceman next to me says.
I do as requested just as the pilot takes the helicopter up higher in the air, quickly putting elevation between us.
“Popping the chaff,” the copilot says as the pilot maneuvers the craft.
“Roger,” the pilot replies. “Breaking contact. Down and left.”
Down and left means we roll sixty degrees in a downward pitch and feel about two Gs of gravitational force on us. Sophie’s eyes are huge, and she’s gripping her seat belt with white knuckles.
I’m just praying I don’t die by missile sent from the very country I’m trying to save.
Especially when the helicopter rolls back in the opposite direction.
“Missile passed our tail,” the crew chief says. “All clear.”
“Did the chaff blow up the missile?” Sophie asks.
“No. It confused the missile’s guidance system, and the missile lost contact with us.”
“And if it hadn’t gotten confused?” she asks.
“We would have continued to get notifications via our warning system,” he calmly explains.
I think it’s time to talk to the ATC,” the pilot says to us before switching channels. “I have aboard the Contessa of Courtney, who is a personal friend of King Vallenta, and it’s imperative she get to the hospital. She is also the fiancée to the First Son of the United States.”
“Aircraft, you have entered Montrovian airspace. Turn around. Country under quarantine.”
“ATC, just so you understand, we’re loaded with sixteen hellfire missiles for anyone who wants to mess with us. We can do some serious damage to your country. I would think, considering your country’s current situation, getting Daniel Spear’s fiancée to the hospital before he dies from the disease he caught in your country would be the least of your worries.”
“Aircraft, you have entered Montrovian airspace, turn around, or we will fire again.”
“Look, no one wants in your plagued-ass country right now. You’re only supposed to be worried about people getting out. Am I right?”
All that fills the plane is the sound of silence.
“Not that we needed their approval,” the pilot says, “but this will certainly make things easier.”
“Or maybe they are just getting out of the way of another country who does wish us harm,” I suggest. “Montrovia is surrounded by them.”
“Either way,” he says, “we’re going for it.”
T-MINUS:00:05:21
“Two minutes until drop,” the copilot says.
“Drop?” I ask.
“If we don’t land in the country, technically, we were never there,” the soldier next to me says with a chuckle, handing me a pair of fatigues. “Put these on over your shorts to protect your legs.” He turns to one of the men. “Baxter, you have the smallest feet. Give the lady your boots.”
Dr. Kate would die of embarrassment if she saw the way I look now. My beautiful designer shorts are looking worse for wear, the side seam ripped halfway up my leg. I slip the fatigues over them and pull on a pair of socks and boots, feeling grateful to have them on my bare feet. I have no idea where my shoes are, but my handbag is still strapped across my body.
I watch as the operators on board ready thick ropes.
“Are we going to fast-rope?” I ask, finally understanding their plan. I’ve obviously gone soft. After all the private jets, helicopter transfers, and black cars, I think I had a different kind of drop-off in mind.
Fast-rope is also known as Fast Rope Insertion Extraction System. It’s a technique often used to deploy troops from a helicopter when the heli
copter is either unable to land or doesn’t want to. I’ve never done it out of a real helicopter, but at Blackwood, we had a shell of one that we used to practice.
It will be a lot more fun than a limo.
And faster.
