were lousy all over this country. LB studied the men in the cockpit for situational awareness. Were the pilots keeping it together? The squall tossed them around, but Pedro 1 was built to take enemy fire; it could stand a good buffeting. In his twelve years as a pararescueman, LB had seen men and machines outperform any reasonable expectation, go far past what could be decently asked of flesh or metal. He’d been present, too, when machines failed and men broke. It was always a coin toss what was going to happen.
Wally sidled next to him. He made an okay sign with fingers and thumb, asking how LB was holding up. LB made a sour face. Wally bent his helmet’s mike close to his lips so the pilots could hear him clearly.
“How we doin’ up front?”
“The terrain’s taking us up another thousand. Not happy having to climb in this soup.”
“Stay with it, guys. We’ll make it.”
The helicopter lurched in a stomach-churning jump over a wind burst. Pedro 1 was giving her all. Young Jamie blew out his cheeks, no fan of roller coasters. Wally turned on the four PJs, sticking out an upturned thumb. Doc and Quincy looked to each other. Both were experienced soldiers—Doc a former marine, Quincy come over from the SEALs. Neither had been in a crash. Jamie was the newest PJ. This was just his second PR mission. He waited for the others.
Wally waggled the thumb, asking for a vote. As much as LB enjoyed frustrating Wally’s attempts at leadership—they agreed they’d been together too long—he was the first to stick up his own thumb. This time, Wally was right on the money. The safest thing to do in these conditions was to press forward, fly the flight plan loaded into the instruments, prepped for in the briefings. As long as Pedro 1 stayed airborne and performing along this route, and Pedro 2 did the same, they should rely on their avionics. Flying white blind was not as big a risk as losing confidence and faith.
The blowing ropes of fog and snow drew Doc and Quincy to one last, agonized glance out the windows before they voted thumbs-up. Red-cheeked Jamie made it unanimous.
Wally turned forward, toward the cockpit.
“We got a vote back here, Major. We want to push through. There’s a kid up ahead. He needs to meet us.”
The pilot pivoted enough to eye Wally, with LB beside him. Jamie, Doc, and Quincy came to their knees so the pilot could see the entire team.
The pilot’s lips parted to speak. He closed them, nodded, and returned to his instruments and the storm.
Smartly, Wally slid to sit on the shivering floor before the others could grab all the legroom. The PJs settled in with lowered chins and folded arms to await the consequences of their vote. LB kept on his knees. Wally lifted his chin to him, in thanks for the support. LB hit him on the shoulder, too hard.
The weather broke like a fever, after enough shaking and sweats to exhaust everyone in Pedro 1. The perfect sky and troublingly close cliffs reappeared with only a dozen miles left to the village. LB stayed on his knees, watching the pilots until the clouds parted and Pedro 2 corkscrewed out of the mist fifty yards ahead, right where they’d been thirty minutes ago when the storm stole them.
Wally thanked the pilots. He cast another thumbs-up around to the PJs, but no one came out of their own hunker to respond. LB sometimes felt bad for Wally and his sunny demeanor, his cheerful brand of leadership that often fell flat. Not this time. LB was sore and tasting the bile in his throat from the thrashing of the squall. He wanted to be on solid earth, even Afghanistan’s stony ground.
The pair of choppers barreled through a long, deep valley, carved between sheer slopes along the northern ridge of the Hindu Kush. Pedro 1 and Pedro 2 poured on the speed, beating at the flimsy air to put some distance between them and the squall rolling up behind them.
The pilot crackled over the intercom. “Figure fifteen minutes on the ground, boys. That system’s funneling right down the valley. I don’t want to be here when it hits.”
“Roger that.” Wally tapped his wristwatch at the PJs to keep an eye on the time.
The back-end gunner shoved aside his window. He lowered his visor and put both hands on the .50 caliber. On the left, Pedro 2 slowed and stood off,