Stone Barrington 06-11

Sixth Avenue, now, and Seventh was coming up fast. Five more crosstown blocks, and he’d make the water. Stone pushed the throttle farther forward and adjusted the trim to keep the chopper level, so it would pick up speed. He watched the airspeed climb from eighty-five to a hundred knots.
    Billy Bob rapped him sharply on the head with the barrel of the assault rifle. “You’re not paying attention,” he said.
    Stone felt a warm trickle of blood run down his scalp to his neck. “There’s something I’ve got to do before we go back to Rockefeller Center,” Stone said.
    “What do you mean, there’s something you’ve got to do?” Billy Bob demanded. “This is my party, and we’ll go where I say.”
    “Yeah, well you’re going to have to say it to that police helicopter on our tail. Those things are equipped with rocket launchers, you know, but if we can get across the Hudson, they can’t touch us. They’ll have to scramble Jersey State Police choppers on the other side, and that will take time.” He was coming up on Twelfth Avenue, now, and the river was just ahead.
    “What police chopper?” Billy Bob asked. “I don’t see it.”
    “It’s dead behind us, and gaining,” Stone said. “But we can make Jersey, and we’ll be okay. The chopper crossed the banks of the Hudson at a thousand feet, and then Billy Bob did something that Stone would always be grateful for.
    He stepped back, transferred the assault rifle to his left hand, grabbed a handgrip bolted to the airframe and stuck his head into the slipstream, leaning out and looking behind them for the police helicopter.
    Stone yanked back on the throttle, whipped the stick to the right and the chopper went into an impossibly steep right turn. He looked back to see Billy Bob hanging out of the helicopter, still gripping the rifle, hanging on to the handgrip for dear life. Stone kicked the right rudder, and the chopper’s roll became even steeper. It was more than Billy Bob’s grip could handle. His grip failed, and Stone watched him begin his plunge toward the icy Hudson a thousand feet below.

    But Stone had no time to relish the moment, because the helicopter continued to roll. Stone could see the George Washington Bridge, in the distance, and it was upside down. Stone had a sensation of falling from the sky, and he closed his eyes. Then a huge explosion rocked the helicopter, and Stone knew Billy Bob had tested his grenade.

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    THE HEAT from the explosion caused a huge thermal, and the helicopter rode it upward, threatening to roll again. Stone got hold of himself and got hold of the stick. The airspeed had bled off to sixty knots, and he was afraid of stalling again. He shoved the throttle forward, and held the stick centered between his legs, hoping aerodynamics would do the rest. But now there was something new—a thumping vibration that rhythmically shook the chopper.
    The instrument panel was a vibrating blur, so he looked outside to orient himself. He was flying up the river toward the George Washington Bridge, and he didn’t have enough altitude to clear it. He pushed the stick down, and a moment later, the bridge passed over him. He eased back the stick, trying to gain altitude without advancing the throttle. He thought he must have lost a rotor tip in the explosion, and he didn’t want to put any more strain on the machine.
    Finally, he was at the top of the Palisades, the high cliffs overlooking the Hudson, then he managed to gain another couple of hundred feet. He remembered that Teterboro was southwest of the bridge, and he eased the chopper into a shallow left turn. The vibration increased, but soon, he was on the right heading. Then he saw a big business jet a few miles ahead, making an approach, and he followed its line of flight toward the runway. He had the airfield in sight.
    He found a radio in the panel, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the frequency for Teterboro tower, so he tuned in 121.5 mhz, the emergency frequency, and pressed the push-to-talk switch. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he said. “Helicopter approaching Teterboro from the northeast for emergency landing. Teterboro tower, if you can hear me, clear the way, because I’ve never landed a helicopter, and I think I have a broken rotor tip.”
    “Stone?” A familiar voice
    “Dino?”
    “Right behind you, pal.”
    “Helicopter, Teterboro tower,” an urgent voice said. “We have you in sight; cleared to land anyplace you want to put her