Annie’s arms were pinned against the canopy as her jet rolled out of control. She was unable to stop the roll, unable to reach for the handle. The horizon spun into sensations of lights and negative G-force, choking, bewilderment, and confusion. Then clarity. She thought of her boy, and Mike, and her mother. The horizon spun again and revealed a dim whitecap in front of her.
She wondered if she had made a difference.
CHAPTER 75
Wilson listened as the sound of the helicopter drew closer. The automatic weapon he had heard outside was new, and it puzzled him. Now what? The rotor sound was coming from two helicopters, and, again he tried — and failed — to identify the aircraft type.
Through the trees, Jill and the Marines saw the Super Pumas come in from the south and circle to land. They could make out the yellow, red, and blue markings on the tail boom. Venezuelan.
“Shit, they’re gonna be here in a minute,” she said.
“We can keep this guy down, ma’am.” Garcia said with a confident nod.
She knew they had to hole up in the cabin. Damn, she shouldn’t have left Doc alone!
“All right, let’s circle back and get Doc. Then we go into the cabin!” The Marines were skeptical.
“Is the pilot going to shoot us? And what about the wounded guy?”
Jill also needed answers to those questions, the sooner the better.
“First, let’s get back to Doc. Then, we’ll identify ourselves to the pilot. We’ll also keep a bead on these guys, especially the wounded one in front.”
They scrambled over the forest floor toward Doc Woodruff as the rotor blades got louder. Like the cartel helicopter, the Super Pumas were setting down or fast-roping soldiers off near the road.
“Doc, where are you?” Jill shouted.
“Here!” the nervous doctor yelled back. “Are they ours?”
“No! C’mon!”
They moved toward the cabin and again saw the wounded man against the tree trunk. He appeared delirious, but the Marines kept their weapons pointed at him as Jill raised her voice to shout over the rotor din 100 yards away.
“Slash one-one. Can you hear me?”
Startled, Wilson turned his head.
“Slash one-one, this is Special Agent Fischer of the American Embassy. We are on foot and not with the helicopters. They are Venezuelan! We need to come inside and help you. Hold your fire.”
Wilson didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t textbook. A woman, who spoke with a Caribbean lilt, who knew his tactical call sign. Could this be a trap? The rotor blades whipped at the air in the distance.
Drawing a full breath, Wilson shouted back. “What’s the number of the day?” He had to verify this woman was friendly, but he also needed help.
Fortunately, Jill Fischer had done her homework.
“Five! It’s five! Now hold your fire. I have three armed men with me.”
Dammit, Wilson thought. Was this a trap? He peered over the sill and saw the wounded man, no threat.
“Show yourselves!” Wilson demanded.
Jill raised her hands and stood, motioning for the others to do so. The aircraft were now idling on the ground, and soldiers would be on them in minutes. Uneasy and vulnerable, they watched the trees.
“What’s the letter of the day?” Wilson shouted again, seeking another correct answer to authenticate them.
“Juliett! Now hold your fire!”
Wilson sighed in relief. “Come in. Come in,” he yelled. He then turned to Father Dan. “Americans are outside to help us. The helicopters have soldiers. It’s going to get hot again.”
Father Dan chuckled. “Again, you say?”
Flying Hunter 407, Weed led a flight of three Super Hornets high over the dark Paria Peninsula as the sun set over his right shoulder. Beyond the gulf, the island of Trinidad awaited, with bright offshore flare stacks dotting the waters around it. The lights of Port of Spain shone off his left nose.
Pressed into service, Weed was glad — and honored — to have CAG’s trust to lead a CSAR to save his friend. Both knew Weed was not Matson’s first choice, but CAG’s strike leaders were busy and/or exhausted and needed relief. And Weed was available.
Once clear of Venezuelan airspace, he would descend and find the two MH-60 Sierras that had sortied out of Tobago. They had eight SEALs aboard, ready for anything.
The intel guys said Flip was holed up in a shack on the island’s southern shore — with a priest! Thankful that Flip was okay, Weed smiled to himself, but he wouldn’t relax until Flip was in a Rustler aircraft and on his way to safety. With Venezuelan agents reported in the area, the combat SAR was to serve as backup to the embassy pickup crew sent from Port of Spain to an unpopulated area of the island.
Now over the gulf, Weed chopped the power and led his wingmen, Dog in 404 and Cisco in 405, down to 10,000 feet. He needed to find the Sierras visually and escort them to the briefed lat/long where they would find the cabin and Flip.
Weed took a heading of 120 to join up with the helos over the island’s eastern shore. A reflection of pink from the west washed both the gray cumulus columns that dotted the gulf and the cloud concentrations over the island. A purple thunderstorm, loaded with lightning flashes, floated north of the capital. Once Weed got them below 10,000, the sun would be down. but it would still be too light for their NVGs — and would be for at least another half hour. His radar searched ahead down low, and he saw no enemy radar warning indications from Río Salta, just 40 miles away.
“Hunter lead, Rustler six-one-two with you. Flight of two. Bullseye zero-two-zero at fifty. Sixteen souls. Four times M240 7.62.”
Weed keyed the mike to answer. “Roger, Rustlers. Hunter four-zero-seven flight of three. Eight minutes out with two by two missiles each and twenty mike-mike. Thirty minutes of play time.”
“Roger,” Sean Sullivan replied. After days of camping at the airport in Tobago, he and Pete Smith were more than ready to affect the rescue and go home. They all were, especially the SEALs, who were missing the action in Venezuela.
A sudden call from Condor increased the tension of the pilots in each cockpit.
“Ninety-nine Hunters. Expect OPFOR on scene. Paradise reports.”
Weed looked over his nose at Trinidad. American ISR assets were reporting an opposing force. Hadn’t the embassy team secured the site? Weed knew the diplomats didn’t have a proper radio to talk to him, and since Flip hadn’t come up on his survival radio, he didn’t expect he would now. But the Rhino jets could monitor certain mobile frequencies. Weed needed info, even if it were only one side of a conversation. He had an idea.
“Condor from Hunter. Can you get Paradise to talk with the embassy team — if they are on scene?”
“Roger, Hunter, we’ll try…. And, Rustlers, bear one-one-zero for sixty.”
Weed rogered him, and his radar searched to find the helos as he worked the coordination through Condor. What kind of opposing force? Where? How many? Has Flip been captured? Weed needed answers, and, by glancing at his fuel, he knew he had less than thirty minutes to get them.