Flood stuck in the lollipop. “There you go, give it a minute, you’ll feel better. Help is on the way. I’ve got to check the other guys. Hang tough, good buddy, and I’ll be right back.”
With more distant screams ringing in his ears, Flood moved off in a tormented search.
On the move he barked into his radio headset, asking Captain Barton for an ETA on further medical help. The answer wasn’t great. There were casualties from the precision grenade attack against First and Second Squads taking up available resources, and further medics weren’t due for another five minutes.
Disgusted with the answer, Flood reached the next injured man. Private Ted Henry lay whimpering, bleeding heavy from a dart in the thigh. Blood squirted in the air with the dying rhythm of the man’s beating heart. Flood recognized the signs, the femoral artery severed, and his hopes sunk. But he went to work.
On a knee next to the private, Flood procured a bandage from his medical kit, ripped it open, and tried to apply it around the wound. But the damn dart was in the way, and a bandage couldn’t repair a torn artery. Near panic, Flood tossed it aside and considered applying a tourniquet when the private convulsed. Before Flood could react, the young man stiffened and stopped breathing. Flood tried to save the soldier’s life, tore off the young man’s head protection system, and gave CPR. Both hands pumping on the man’s chest, Flood tried to revive the failing man. Blood still pumped from the wound, but not as much, and the soldier wasn’t responding. A change of tactic was needed. With one hand pumping Henry’s chest, with the other, Flood ripped at his own belt, trying to get it off and use it as a tourniquet. Frantic, after fumbling for a few seconds, he got it loose and cinched it above the frightful wound.
Although blood no longer pumped from the torn artery, Private Henry lay lifeless. Flood stared into the vacant eyes of his fallen solider and knew he’d failed the young man. Part of it, he knew, was the lack of body armor below the waist. Too often, the soldiers didn’t connect or test that portion of their liquid armor as compared to the torso, thinking the upper body more susceptible. Besides, the armor, procured from the ROAS years before, was older, and maintenance was a pain in the ass. Now, it had cost Henry his life.
He looked to the heavens for relief, tears of frustration forming, and noticed stars twinkling above. The sight juxtaposed against the man beneath him magnified the loss and made the sense of loss and guilt even worse. And then his headset crackled with the voice of Captain Barton.
“Squad Three Actual, gather up your combat effectives and fall back to the original target house. Wait there for revised mission orders. Do you copy? Over.”
Disgusted and demoralized, Flood considered not replying, but there wasn’t a choice.
“Catcher Actual, Catcher Squad Three Actual has multiple WIA and at least one KIA. Where the hell is our medical assistance? Over!”
“Squad Three Actual, help is on the way. But we need you and any combat effectives to rally at the target house. Now. Do you copy?”
With hands drenched in the blood of his troops, Flood struggled to his feet. He considered ignoring the captain’s order, but all that would do was cause more headaches.
“Catcher Actual, Catcher Squad Three copies. Out.”
Flood then switched to the Platoon Net and ordered each man in his squad to report in, one by one, and provide a status. As the calls came in, he ascertained the horrible reality. Of the eight men entering the desert with him, only three remained combat effective: five men down, three wounded and pleading for help, and two others, including young Private Henry, didn’t report in at all.
No way could he leave his wounded until the medics arrived. About to inform Captain Barton of his decision and take the heat, he heard beating rotors in the far distance. The sound sent shivers down his spine. Turning south towards the noise, he tried to ascertain the threat but was unable to see beyond the nearest high brush.
He decided to call it in when another sound emerged, this time coming from the north. He spun back around and, straining his neck, caught sight of two Custers slowing into a fast hover. The sight angered him.
The ancient ROAS Chinook CH-47F came in flying low, hugging the Virgin River, cruising at its top speed of 170 knots. Covered in the latest stealth material, the large transport helicopter was difficult to detect by radar. The big machine had a large carrying capacity, well within the parameters of the mission, and contained a myriad of defensive weapons. But getting in and out in one piece wouldn’t be easy.
To avoid detection, before reaching the outskirts of town, the Chinook veered away from the river and flew south and east over the unoccupied desert. After reaching a position due south of the target, it turned north and headed for the river again. The planners expected the enemy to detect the bird on its final approach, but it was all about speed.
As the Chinook approached the landing zone, skimming low over the dark desert terrain, the big bird locked onto its landing zone. With side doors opening, the machine descended the last few meters until its wheels touched down on the soft bank. Rotor wash sent sand scattering, and already, it was time to leave.
Lieutenant Colonel Paulson guessed right.
To set the trap after the ill-fated rocket attack, he’d ordered the offending Custer to fly far north, away from the river, to lure in the prey. Simultaneously, the replacement reconnaissance UAV finally arrived on station high above the original target location. Paulson directed the drone to put eyes on the Virgin River towards the south and to feed observation video to the battalion command network.
Sure enough, perched over his monitor, watching the video feed, less than a minute later, Paulson grinned as a big transport helicopter came into view. Excited, he viewed his victim with intense satisfaction. It came flying in just above the deck, crossed over the river, came to a hover, rotated, and landed.
Not waiting, Paulson contacted the Custer, its crew eager to make up for the prior mishap. By now, the second vertical-lift aircraft had joined the mission. The colonel fed both aircraft the UAV video along with the associated target coordinates.
While keeping an eye on the UAV feed, Paulson reached into his pocket and felt the strip of cloth. Comforted, smiling, he ordered the Custers to attack.
The ROAS exfiltration Chinook never stood a chance.
It had been on the ground for less than thirty seconds when, at a speed of three hundred knots, the two Custers approached from the north. After locking on and going into a hover half a kilometer out, Paulson gave the green light to engage, and each bird fired a JAGM missile.
Although the Chinook missile warning system appeared to detect the attack and launch a couple of flares in response, it wasn’t enough. The old bird was a sitting duck. The first missile ignored the pathetic decoys and struck the front half of the Chinook, burrowing deep into the superstructure, where it detonated in a thunderous explosion. Split in half by the force, parts of the big helicopter hurled high into the air. Within two heartbeats, a second missile slammed into the burning stew, adding its own lethal mix, ripping and tearing everything anew.
Tossed into the night air, burning fuel, chunks of twisted metal, and body parts flew everywhere. Seconds later, the wreckage came crashing down, some landing in the surrounding desert while other pieces fell with a hiss into the nearby Virgin River.
Even before the raining debris settled, the Custers moved in, firing cannons, shredding anything and everything around the wreckage. Not even a small rabbit could have survived the terrific onslaught.