Gilmour was screaming.

“It’s all right,” the medic said. “You’re hit, but it’s all right.”

The guy with him yanked away Gilmour’s armor. There was blood everywhere. Something had been cut to ribbons.

“Aw, Jesus!” the medic said.

The chopper began to spin crazily. The pilot was trying to regain control—the chopper spun hard left, then spun all the way back again hard right. The desert was coming toward them with frightening speed. The chopper was spinning, but seemingly under the pilot’s control.

“My rudder’s going. It’s shuddering. I’m about to lose it.”

Everything seemed like a bad dream. The chopper moved horizontally at fantastic speed, maybe fifty feet above the ground.

“Stone!” Ed Newsam said in Luke’s ear. “You guys are hit.”

Luke shook his head. “I know that.”

“Put it down!” one of the pilots shouted. “Just put it down!”

It dropped with a sickening lurch, three stories in one second.

The pilot’s voice was resigned. “Mayday, mayday. Assume crash positions.”

Luke stared up at the safety straps dangling. There was no way they could any of them could get there and tie themselves down in time. He reached down and hugged the floor as hard as he could. His fingers gripped metal slats. This was his crash position.

The world zoomed by with dizzying speed. They were twenty feet from the ground.

The pilot’s voice: “Prepare for impact.”

“Be cool,” Ed’s deep voice said. “It looks okay.”

A burst of gunfire hit the tail of the chopper. Thunk—thunk—thunk—thunk—thunk. Bullets ripped up metal.

They were closer to land now, much closer.

The chopper dropped out of the sky.

It fell like a brick. SMACK. The impact was hard, the jolt going up Luke’s spine and through his body. His face bounced off the floor.

Everything stopped.

Another burst of gunfire strafed the chopper somewhere.

That wasn’t too bad.

“He’s dead,” the medic said, shaking his head. “Dammit!”

* * *

The fight had turned.

The militia had started with the element of surprise, and all the initiative. But in wide open desert, they were no match for the overwhelming firepower of the two remaining Black Hawks. Big Ed Newsam was the door gunner for his chopper, standing there like a mountain, tearing up the pickup trucks and jeeps.

Luke and the SAS men bounced out of the downed chopper. They ran from one ruined, smoking vehicle to the next, killing whatever opposition they encountered. Most of the militiamen on foot were running away across the desert to the north and west. They wouldn’t get far.

The metallic rattle of the big guns from the choppers came from over there.

Duh-duh-duh-duh.