The Charm School

put the craft into a steep right bank and headed southeast, into the rising sun, back toward Leningrad.
    Mills asked, “What are you doing?”
    Hollis began a steep descent. Ahead, he could make out the lights of Leningrad about fifteen kilometers away.
    Mills repeated, “What are you doing?”
    Hollis replied, “I’m going on two assumptions. One is that the freighter did not reach the rendezvous point in time and is still steaming out of the harbor. Two, if that holds true, then the skipper of that boat feels some sense of failed duty, and if he sees us, he will do what any sea captain would do for a seacraft or aircraft in distress—he will come to our aid.” Hollis leveled the helicopter at less than one hundred meters above the churning sea and cut the speed to a slow forty kph.
    O’Shea said, apropos of nothing, “I feel fine. We did good.”
    Mills concurred. “We beat most of the odds, didn’t we? We’re here.”
    Brennan said, “We stole this chopper, got into the Charm School, rescued Dodson, kidnapped Burov, shot our way out, flew cross-country over Russia, and got to where we were supposed to be. Shit, as far as I’m concerned, we made it.”
    Hollis said, “I find it hard to refute that logic, Bill. If we had a bottle of champagne, I’d say pop it.”
    Mills said, “Damn, Seth was supposed to buy champagne at the Trade Center.”
    At the mention of Alevy’s name, there was a silence during which, Hollis thought, everyone was probably cursing him and blessing him at the same time. Such was the fate of men and women who move others toward great heights and dark abysses.
    Lisa said to Mills, “Change places with me.” She got out of her seat and knelt on the floor to the side of Hollis. She said to him, “I know you can’t hold my hand now. But if you don’t have to hold the controls in a minute or two, can you hold my hand then?”
    “Of course.”
    O’Shea took the controls. “I’ve got it, General. Take a stretch.”
    Hollis released the controls and took Lisa’s hand.
    The helicopter continued inbound, toward Leningrad, and no one spoke. The steady sound of the turbines filled the cabin, and they listened to that and only to that, waiting for the sound to stop.
    O’Shea cleared his throat and said in a controlled voice, “Twelve o’clock, one kilometer.”
    Brennan, Mills, and Lisa stood and looked out the front windshield. Steaming toward them was a medium-sized freighter, and on its fantail were three yellow lights.
    Hollis released Lisa’s hand and took the controls. He figured they needed about thirty seconds’ flying time if he brought it in straight over the bow. But if they flamed out, they could smash into the freighter, and neither the freighter nor its crew deserved that.
    He banked right, away from the oncoming ship, then swung north, approaching the freighter at right angles, flying into the strong wind for added lift. He noticed that the three yellow lights were off now, which probably meant they’d seen him making his approach.
    O’Shea said, “General, we have to get some altitude for a steep approach.”
    Hollis knew that a shallow approach from a hundred meters was not the preferred way to land a helicopter on a moving deck. But a flame-out during an ascent was no treat either. All his instincts and what was called pilot’s intuition told him that his remaining flight time could be measured in seconds. “Relax.”
    “Your show.” O’Shea scanned the instrument panel as Hollis concentrated on the visual approach. O’Shea called out airspeed, tachometer readings, torque, and altitude. He said, “Ground speed, about thirty.”
    Hollis saw that the freighter’s stern was going to pass by before he reached it, so he put the helicopter into a sliding flight toward port as he continued his shallow powerglide approach.
    He adjusted the rudder pedals to compensate for the decreased torque, keeping the nose of the helicopter lined up with the moving ship, while continuing a sideways flight.
    He tried to maintain constant ground speed by use of the cyclic pitch, coordinating that with the collective pitch and the throttle.
    O’Shea called out, “Ground speed, forty.”
    Hollis pulled up on the nose to bring down the speed.
    O’Shea said, “Altitude, fifty meters.”
    Hollis kept the nose lined up amidships. The distance to the freighter was about one hundred meters, and he estimated his glide angle would take him over the stern for a hovering