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A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
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Chapter 50
"I used to work as a flying doctor, way up north, before I got my chair at the Institute," Joyce explained vacantly.
She settled herself in the pilot seat and went over the instrument panel. Parry and Abram dragged away the dead pilot and dumped the corpse on the ground. The door-guard, supporting himself against the rear wall of the cargo cabin, stared fearfully at them. He looked up at Abram, very pale.
"Are you really a CIA agent?" he asked.
"No," Abram sighed, "I'm just a consultant. I write classified stuff, though."
Joyce put on the pilot's headset, turning to the others with icy calm.
"May I suggest, gentlemen, that we at least send out an emergency call to the state police?"
"Check the radio," Parry said shortly.
Joyce switched it on, tried a few frequencies. Nothing happened.
She gave him a suspicious eye: "Did you..."
"Didn't have to," he droned. "This death squad was so secret, they weren't even allowed to use a radio or phone."
He turned serious again, pointing the Uzi at her: "Take us to the nearest radio station. I want to see what happens, if the dinosaur we awakened is stomped on its tail. Start it up!"
Joyce warmed up the engines, turning her gaze out through the windshield: "This old Sikorsky is a piece of junk -- it'll never go up to top speed. But the fuel meter's adjusted for an expansion tank -- it can go very far. The WRBC station is a mile away -- we can be there in a few minutes."
The rotor made a metallic cough-like sound and started to spin.
"Can't you just please let me off?" the door-guard whined from the cargo cabin.
Parry went back, grabbed the slide-door and began pulling it to a close.
"Scram," he snapped.
The guard stumbled out, and rolled away as the chopper lifted above him.