Chapter 2 - The Ascent of the S-92
High above the freezing expanse of Long Island Sound, the cockpit of the Sikorsky helicopter was illuminated by the soft, emerald glow of digital altimeters, weather radars, and encrypted satellite navigation displays.
Arthur Sterling sat in the pilot’s seat, his hands resting lightly on the cyclic control, his posture rigid despite his sixty-five years. His salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed military-short, and his eyes scanned the instrumentation with the cold, focused precision of a man who had flown extraction missions in airspace far more hostile than a suburban Connecticut snowstorm.
Beside him, co-pilot Davis monitored the wind-shear indicators. "Wind’s picking up to forty knots out of the northeast, sir. Visibility is down to zero-point-five miles. It’s a whiteout over the mainland."
Arthur didn’t blink. His expression remained a mask of grim determination. "Adjust the collective. We push through. We don't have a choice."
"Understood, Captain. But landing a bird this size on a residential lawn in a storm like this? It’s risky. The local FAA flight path isn't cleared for heavy-lift turbine craft in Greenwich municipal zones without prior filing."
Arthur’s voice dropped an octave, carrying the absolute, unquestionable weight of command. "We aren't filing a flight plan with the municipality, Davis. Sinclair Global doesn't ask permission to land on its own properties. And make no mistake—that entire neighborhood, from the county line down to the water, sits on land purchased by the Sinclair Trust in nineteen-ninety-eight. Mr. O'Connell is playing landlord in a house his wife's grandfather built with spare pocket change."
Davis whistled softly through his teeth. "She’s really that deep undercover?"
"Miss Sarah wanted to see how the other half lived," Arthur replied grimly, his grip tightening on the controls as a violent gust of wind rocked the heavy aircraft. "She wanted to experience ordinary life, ordinary work, ordinary struggles. She wanted a man who loved her for her, not her lineage, not her trust, not her name. Well, she found out what kind of man she married tonight. And now, the experiment is over."
"And the target?" Davis asked, checking the encrypted data-pad strapped to his knee.
"Derek O'Connell," Arthur said, a humorless, predatory smile touching his lips. "An ambitious little termite who thought he was building an empire on top of a volcano. He handed her divorce papers on Christmas Eve. He threw a pregnant woman out into a blizzard so he could play house with an intern."
Arthur glanced down at his wrist comm-link, which flashed with a secure satellite handshake.
May you like
"She’s waiting," Arthur muttered. "Let’s bring her home."
The twin General Electric turboshaft engines whined louder, pushing the heavy aircraft through the blinding snow, pointing its nose directly toward 442 Highland Avenue.
