“I’ll alert the military and try to convince them to leave you alone,” Molton said to the mayor. “Just stay on this side of the mountains, inside the first containment ring.”
“That’s my plan.”
Mickey spoke up. “Your Honor, let me go with you.”
“This isn’t a joy ride,” Ramirez said. “The fuel situation is dodgy.”
“I know. But you need me. River and Christina are running from the cops. If you hunt them down with a police helicopter, they’re going to hide. I can reassure them it’s okay.”
Ramirez didn’t like bringing a civilian, but the kid had a point.
“The commander is here,” Molton said.
“All right, Mickey, you’re with me,” Ramirez said, and they left City Hall together.
A police commander accompanied them to the heliport. Mickey trotted behind the two senior officials as they jogged the one mile from City Hall to LAPD’s downtown Hooper Heliport, the world’s largest rooftop helipad.
“Breaking my own curfew. How about that?” Ramirez said as the moon shone down on the deserted street.
“I’ll issue a citation when you come back,” said the commander.
Two workers—the only two left—met them at the police department’s Air Support Division facility.
“We need a chopper that hasn’t flown since before the outbreak began,” Ramirez said.
“One of our Aerospatiale ASTARs fits the bill.”
“Take me to her.”
A sliver of dawn light was perceptible in the eastern sky as Ramirez strode across the concrete roof toward his craft. She was beautiful, looked to be brand-new with a killer black-and-white paint job. “LAPD” and “To protect and to serve” were emblazoned on her side. He choked up as he touched her nose.
“Can you handle it, sir?” the commander asked.
“I flew Apaches with the 82nd Airborne’s Attack Helicopter Battalion. I can handle this sweet little girl.”
“Let me orient you,” the air support technician said.
Ramirez climbed into the pilot’s seat and powered up the controls. Digital panels and LCD screens covered the interior like wallpaper, except for the expansive clear windows that provided excellent visibility.
“This isn’t a helicopter, it’s a video game,” he said when he looked around the cockpit. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the basics hadn’t changed. He could fly it.
The technician pointed out the key readouts and control interfaces.
“Fuel tank reads full,” Ramirez noted.
“That’s a good sign,” the tech said. “We noticed that several of the choppers lost fuel just sitting here. We figured that was proof of contamination.”
“Agreed. I’ll assume this thing can fly and only worry about not getting shot down.”
Grace under fire. He fought back the sense of urgency, the desire to set the blades spinning at once. With forced calm, he familiarized himself with the aircraft. Minutes ticked by. Mickey, standing on the concrete, cleared his throat. Ramirez looked up.
“You ever been in a helicopter before?”
“No.”
“Then get in, but don’t touch anything.”
He waved his thumb at the copilot’s door, and Mickey dashed to the other side of the aircraft. Mickey struggled with the door’s latch; Ramirez let him in.
“On second thought, I want you to run the tracking computer,” Ramirez said. “Find your friends’ car. I need to focus on flying.”
“Have you flown a lot?” Mickey asked, his anxiety trumping politeness.
“Used to, but I’ll tell you, the last time I flew one of these babies, I ate Arabian desert sand for lunch.”
“You crashed?”
“Like Dumbo with his ears pinned back.”
The tech introduced Mickey to the LoJack system while Ramirez finished his preparations.
“Do you know where you’re going?” the commander asked Ramirez.
“San Fernando and the two-ten. Last known location of the missing vehicle. Ready, Mickey?”
“I’m ready,” Mickey replied, fastening his seat belt.
The technician freed the helicopter from its restraints and stepped clear, giving Ramirez a thumbs-up. The rotor began to turn, swaying the cockpit and filling the occupants’ ears with noise.
“Put this on,” Ramirez said, handing Mickey a helmet with ear protection and a communicator. “Here we go.”
The helicopter lifted off and hovered a few feet above the rooftop. Ramirez nudged it forward—or so he thought—but the aircraft bucked. His passenger looked at him in alarm.
“Ever switch from a clutch to an automatic?” Ramirez said.
“Yeah.”
“Just getting used to how she reacts,” he explained. Molton was right, it had been a long time, but familiar patterns and sensations were coming alive in his brain after years of disuse. The rush of memory made Ramirez feel almost super-human, as if he were downloading data like a computer. He steered the chopper away from the heliport.
“Looks like we’ve got fuel,” he said. “In case Molton can’t convince the enforcers to leave us alone, the plan is to fly close to the ground to avoid detection. As a bonus, that might help us if the engines fail.”
They were only ten miles from their destination. With the unfamiliar controls, Ramirez didn’t dare spare any of his attention scanning the ground but when they reached Sylmar, he noticed early morning sun glinting off floodwaters from the Pacoima Reservoir.
“I’ve got a signal,” Mickey announced, bouncing excitedly in his seat. “That way, toward the mountains.”
“Roger.”
The signal transmitting from the X-car drew them north of the two-ten to the edge of the city. Ramirez held the chopper motionless about ten feet over a lake that yesterday was a park. The wind from the spinning blades stirred the water and filled the air with spray.
“Looks like they were trapped by the flood and headed up into the mountains,” he said, pointing to a road that cut into a narrow canyon in the wall of the San Gabriel range.
“LoJack agrees,” Mickey said.
Ramirez hesitated. It was one thing to test his rusty reflexes piloting over the wide, flat San Fernando Valley. It was something else entirely to take this unfamiliar aircraft into the dangerous and unpredictable air currents of the mountains. And this was the border of the first containment ring. Once they crossed it, they’d be forced to stay low to avoid getting blasted out of the sky.
He’d have to fly the canyon.
“No choice,” Ramirez said. Slowly, he took them in.