The Chimera Sanction (17 page)

The black, angular shaped, carbon-fiber clad Comanche RAH 66 B surged into view, hovered before Dulac’s still unbelieving eyes, and lowered itself quickly onto the tarmac. At least it’s not an F-16, he thought. The pilot alighted and walked towards the Guidonia’s Air Force base main administrative building. Dulac rose dejectedly from the worn leather seat and walked out to meet him.

‘I’m Dulac.’

‘
Guten tag
, my name is Gerhard Klein,’ said the pilot, offering an immense right hand. ‘Sorry to be late.’

Dulac suppressed a smile. The man was well over six feet tall. He was anything but klein. ‘Not late enough,’ said Dulac.

Klein gave him a quizzical look.

They regained the chopper, and Dulac caught sight of Lescop, dressed in his worn beige gabardine jacket, seated in one of the back seats. Lescop barely acknowledged him.

‘You’re blaming me for this?’ said Dulac as he grabbed the hand hold and boarded the chopper.

‘Of course not,’ said Lescop, unconvincingly.

‘Why can’t I stop thinking that your brilliant rescue in the Briand case has something to do with you being here?’

‘Flattery I don’t need,’ said Lescop, a scowl on his unshaven face.

As Dulac settled into the front beside Klein and fastened his safety harness, Lescop poked his bald head between them. ‘Is it too late to request a transfer?’

Dulac turned to respond. ‘And miss all the fun? Request denied.’

The twin LHTEC T802 motors wailed in protest, the
helicopter
lifted from the tarmac and, nose down, accelerated into the pale remnants of the evening dusk. Moments later, the dense brightness of Rome’s lights disappeared, giving way to the occasional white dots in the Campania countryside. Suddenly two balls of fire burst on either side of the Comanche, streaked headlong in front of the chopper and disappeared into the night.

‘What the hell was that?’ Dulac asked Klein.

‘Our Italian escorts,’ replied Klein. ‘They kick in the afterburners to show how much faster they are. That just cost the Italian taxpayers about 10,000 Euros.’

‘Where are they headed?’

‘Probably Tripoli. They’ll play games with the Libyan MIG 23s to distract them.’

Dulac could feel his right palm start to sweat over the arm rest. ‘How much longer?’

Klein looked at the GPS. ‘About two and a half hours. There’s 721 km left to Benghazi.’ Dulac tried to relax into the uncomfortable seat. Soon, he was being lulled into a dull semi-consciousness by the rhythmic whump, whump of the blades, as random thoughts drifted erratically through his mind. Had de Ségur kept his bargain? Or was the Pope dead? If he was alive, would Gazzar keep his word and not interfere? Had Kargali found out and secured the perimeter? Were they flying into a Libyan trap? The odds were anything but good. More likely would be his nanosecond perception of the explosion when one of the Libyan MIG’s missiles would blast him and the intruding helicopter into
eternity
. I won’t feel a damn thing. He nodded off, his head dropping onto his chest.

A soft beeping sound jarred Dulac from his sleep. He looked up, to see the Comanche’s GPS blinking in red over the yellow screen map, indicating ‘waypoint arrival’.

‘We’re over our target,’ said Klein.

‘I don’t see anything,’ said Dulac, looking out the right window.

‘Below, and to the left,’ said Klein, pointing downwards from his side window.

Dulac leaned over toward Klein and saw two pinpoints of light barely visible in the sea of darkness. ‘That’s it?’ Dulac said.

‘Must be. There’s nothing else around.’ Dulac felt the hairs of his arms stand erect.

‘We’re going in. Behind that dune,’ said Klein, as he angled the
joystick
downwards and to the left. The Comanche quickly lost altitude and moments later, settled slowly onto the desert dust. ‘You’ll have to be quick,’ said Klein as Dulac fumbled with the ’copter’s door latch. ‘We are at the limit of the fuel range and I have to keep it idling.’

‘Understood,’ said Dulac. Then turning towards the back to Lescop. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

They stepped out of the helicopter and, feet sinking in the soft sand, climbed their way to the top of the dune. Breathing heavily, Dulac crouched on the still hot sand and signaled Lescop to do the same. A few hundred yards away, they could make out a small, flat roofed one-story house, a soft yellow light coming from its two small windows. Dulac unlatched the safety of his .38 Benelli short-nosed B80S Parabellum pistol, and they guardedly made their way towards the low, earth-brick building. As they neared, the remnants of de Ségur’s Alouette helicopter came into view.

‘Won’t go far with that.’ Dulac said, pointing his Benelli at the
helicopter
. He turned and whispered to Lescop. ‘Go to the rear and try and see inside. I’ll take a peek through the front. Come back and we’ll assess.’

Lescop made a wide arc and disappeared behind the house. Crouching low, Dulac approached the front. Suddenly, he sensed danger, behind him. He half-turned, only to see the dark, turbaned shadow a split-second before he felt the blow to his left temple. For a millisecond, all of the stars of the Libyan Desert danced crazily before his eyes, then nothing.

When he awoke, the only thing Dulac could feel was the angry
jackhammer
pounding relentlessly inside his skull. He was lying down. He opened his eyes. Two rows of gold and yellow teeth were grinning down at him. He tried to get up and a sharp pain shot through his head. ‘What…? Where the hell am—?’

‘Salaam aleikum. You OK?’ said the woman dressed in a dark blue jellaba.

‘Aleikum salaam, I guess so.’ Dulac looked at the Berber woman and cautiously felt the large lump on his left temple.

‘So sorry. We think you Senussi bandits,’ said the woman, looking skeptically at Dulac’s lump.

‘Where is—’

‘Right here,’ said Lescop, standing behind Dulac. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Better than you. And de Ségur?’

‘According to her, they left this morning in a couple of trucks,’ said Lescop.

‘Undoubtedly with the Pope. Damn. And we trusted the bastard,’ Dulac said, feeling his lump again carefully.

‘Not so,’ said Lescop. ‘His Holiness is—’

Suddenly, Dulac became aware of the presence of someone in the doorway of the adjoining room. The man, dressed in a white jellaba, his head bandaged, his hands outstretched, started walking towards him.

‘Your Holiness!’ said Dulac.

‘Mr Lescop here has given me the details. Thank God you’ve come,’ he said as he clasped Dulac’s hands, then Lescop’s. ‘Thank God you’re here.’

Dulac felt a surge of relief. ‘Your Holiness, are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’

‘We’ve come to take you back, your Holiness. Where is Dr Bruscetti?’

‘I haven’t seen my dear friend since Sicily. We were taken aboard a boat. Later in the night I remember being caught in a storm. It was terrible, terrible. People were in the water, screaming for help. Many drowned. May God have mercy on their souls. I don’t know how I survived. I—’

‘We must leave now, your Holiness.’ interrupted Dulac. ‘We don’t have much time. I’ll explain later.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I’m ready.’ He joined his hands in prayer and bent towards the forever smiling Berber woman. ‘Salaam aleikum. God bless you.’ Hands still joined, he eyed the other Berber in the room and said, ‘Salaam aleikum.’

Led by Lescop, they made their way out of the small house.

As Dulac stepped into the cool of the moonlit night, the slight, sweet smell of Artemisia plants tickled his nostrils briefly. They headed towards the helicopter, its angular shape contrasting with the roundness of the dunes around it.

‘Your Holiness, you have to turn sideways to get into the seat of these helicopters,’ said Dulac as they reached the door of the chopper.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Of course,’ said Dulac, feeling embarrassed. ‘I forgot. You pilot the papal helicopter.’

‘Sometimes. When it’s not busy kidnapping me.’

Dulac closed the door and secured the latch. Klein punched the
throttle forward, and the Comanche lifted abruptly in a swirl of desert sand. Soon, the lights of the small house disappeared.

Klein turned briefly towards the rear and said, ‘Make yourself
comfortable
, your Holiness. Our trip will last about two and a half hours.’

Fifteen minutes later, Klein drew Dulac’s attention to the radar screen. ‘We have company.’

‘Great,’ said Dulac. ‘Are they—’

‘Libyans. We’re still in their airspace. Damn, they’re coming in.’

‘Jesus, so much for Gazzar’s promise.’

Suddenly there was a crackle on the Comanche’s VHF radio and some incomprehensible command came through.

‘What did he say?’ Dulac asked Klein.

Klein grabbed the microphone. ‘I didn’t copy that. Please repeat, over.’

‘…Tripoli. You must land Tripoli now,’ said the nervous, high-pitched voice. Dulac looked quizzically at Klein.

‘Doesn’t make sense,’ said Klein. ‘We’re only a few minutes away from leaving their airspace.’ He pressed the VHF button again and spoke into the microphone. ‘We are leaving Libyan airspace now. Please confirm.’

‘Alter course immediately to Tripoli or we shoot,’ said the highstrung voice.

‘Jesus,’ said Dulac, ‘they mean business.’

‘Bloody Libyans. I know their game,’ said Klein. ‘They did it last year with a Sudanese reconnaissance plane that had veered off course. They lured him into getting closer to Tripoli then shot him down, claiming he was attacking the Libyan people’s capital. Those guys never had a chance.’

‘Great. Just pissing great. What do we do?’ said Dulac.

‘We’re close to Benghazi. We’ll make a run for it and hope our infrared antimissile system works,’ said Klein, as he turned to the rear. ‘Everyone get strapped in tight.’ Klein steered hard right and the Comanche banked into a 120 degree turn.

‘Merde,’ said Dulac as his stomach lurched into his throat. Seconds later, he could see a city’s lights as Klein punched the stick forward and forced the Comanche into a steep dive. There was a loud pinging sound accompanied by a red flashing light overhead and Dulac’s piano-wire
nerves wound even tighter. ‘Jesus.’

The city’s lights were coming up fast when Dulac felt the Comanche shudder. ‘They’re strafing us,’ said Klein.

A Libyan MIG 23 Flogger whooshed past and banked steeply.

‘At least they won’t fire missiles this close to Benghazi,’ said Klein.

‘Great,’ said Dulac.

Klein glanced at the radar. ‘The second one’s coming in for the kill,’ yelled Klein, as he pulled up steeply and banked 90° to the left. The Comanche shuddered again as 23 mm armor-piercing bullets slammed into the chopper’s fuselage, bits of carbon fiber flying about and dust filling the cockpit. Dulac cringed and grabbed the armrests.

‘
Sheisse
,’ exclaimed Klein.

‘What?’ said Dulac.

‘Nothing.’

Klein took off his helmet and wiped the side of his face with his hand. Dulac saw the damaged helmet. Blood dripped from just above Klein’s right eye.

‘Holy Christ, you’re hit!’

‘Just a scratch. I … I …’

Klein’s head fell forward and the chopper started to dive.

‘Merde,’ exclaimed Dulac. The chopper dove steeper, setting off the alarms again. Dulac shook Klein hard. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’

Klein came to, raised his head slowly. Gradually, he pulled back on the stick and steadied the chopper. ‘Get the medical kit. It’s behind you, to the right,’ said Klein.

Dulac unfastened his seat-harness, turned and reached back for the medical kit inside the small compartment. He caught a glimpse of the rear passengers. Both men sat upright, frozen in their seats, speechless. ‘Are you OK, your Holiness?’

‘I’m all right,’ he said, his voice barely audible.

‘And you?’ said Dulac, eyeing Lescop.

‘So far.’

‘Get me some gauze and tape,’ said Klein.

Dulac faced forward, opened the medical kit, took out a swath of gauze, and tore a piece of tape. He pressed them to Klein’s forehead.

‘Thanks. If I pass out, throw the autopilot on here,’ said Klein,
pointing
at a toggle on the control panel. ‘Then set the heading at 77 degrees,’
he said, indicating the knob below the computerized compass.

‘Got it,’ Dulac replied.

Klein pressed the tape on either side of the wound. ‘That should hold me till the next round,’ said Klein.

‘What do you mean?’

‘These bastards aren’t through with us yet.’ Klein leaned forward and threw a toggle on the control panel.

‘Alpha India, Alpha India, this is Unicorn Delta Unicorn, do you copy?’ said Klein, his voice calm.

‘Who are you calling?’ asked Dulac.

‘The Italian Air Force. We’ve got to get these sons of whores off our back.’

‘Can’t we fire back at them?’ asked Dulac.

‘With what? Your Benelli?’

‘I thought I read this thing has air-to-air missiles and a 20 mm Gatling gun?’

‘They took it all off to increase the chopper’s range and make it completely undetectable,’ said Klein.

‘Great. Tell that to the MIG pilots.’

Suddenly, Dulac saw a red light flash on the cockpit display panel indicating ‘IML’, accompanied by a loud intermittent beeping sound.

‘
Sheisse
!’ said Klein.

‘Does IML stand for what I think it does?’ asked Dulac, his voice panicked.

Klein pushed the joystick hard right. ‘Those fockers want us dead.’

The Comanche lurched and veered into a banking turn. Dulac,
compressed
into his seat, winced, expecting the impact of the explosion.

Klein veered hard left. ‘Missed, you bastards.’

The red light went out. A few seconds later, it started its ominous flashing again. ‘Incoming Missile Lock,’ said Klein.

Klein shoved the stick forward and the Comanche dove towards the lights of Benghazi again.

‘Jesus, we’re going to—’ said Dulac, as he saw the top half of a tall building rushing up to meet the Comanche.