Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

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There was this… ping.

A single, solitary noise that announced itself in the key of C-ping! – and that was that. The noise came from somewhere in the back, at the rear of the fuselage, and for a moment it reminded Mike Burke of his brother’s wedding. It was the sound his father made at the rehearsal dinner, announcing a toast by tapping his glass with a spoon.

Ping !

It was funny, if you thought about it.

But that wasn’t it. Though the helicopter was French (in fact, a single-rotor Ecureuil B2), it was not equipped with champagne flutes. The sound signaled something else, like the noise a tail rotor makes when one of its blades is struck with a 9mm round – and snaps in half and flies away. Or so Burke imagined. Ping !

Frowning, he turned to the pilot, a Kiwi named Rubini. “Did you-?”

The handsome New Zealander grinned. “No worries, bugalugs!” Suddenly, the chopper yawed violently to starboard, roaring into a slide and twisting down. Rubini’s face went white and he lunged at the controls. Burke gasped, grabbing the armrests on his seat.

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