A shadow burst from the trees and rushed to a cover position by the vehicle. Wilson squeezed the trigger, and the silhouette was knocked back as if pulled by a rope.
A spotlight was directed on the cabin, and the Venezuelan gunners corrected their aim. Bullets broke out the rest of the glass and hit the walls inside, knocking objects off the shelves. Garcia was driven back by a fusillade of fire, and one round knocked the BAR from his grasp and holed its barrel, rendering it useless.
“Fuck me,” he cursed as he reached for his sidearm.
Jill peered out the back as the Venezuelans poured fire into the front of the cabin. Lying prone, she scanned the tree line for movement and saw none. With her left hand, she pushed open the bin door to open her field of view.
A hand grabbed Jill’s wrist from below. When she yelped, another hand stuck a pistol through the opening and fired two shots. The weapon’s deafening report and its hammer blow to her clavicle stunned her, and she went limp. Through the noise of gunfire and Monique’s screams, Wilson turned to see a soldier stick his head through the opening. Their eyes met in the dim light, and Wilson saw the sharp South American features of a young man. His murderous eyes focused on Wilson as he pulled his pistol up.
With Monique just outside his line of fire, Wilson squeezed off another round.
The young man was propelled back through an explosion of red mist and into the darkness beyond the open door. Woodruff jumped up and grabbed Jill’s ankles to pull her away from the opening. The woman was unconscious, and with the amount of blood flowing from her neck, all feared the worst. The doctor saw that the bullet had hit the edge of her vest by the clavicle. Because most of the force was absorbed by the vest, the bullet left only a superficial wound when it fractured her bone. Woodruff bandaged her while she was still unconscious, assisted by Monique who was grateful for the task.
Weed designated the briefed lat/long on his nav display, and the FLIR slewed to the position. Nothing hot, just the outline of the forest. He opened his field of view and got some white hot return to his right. He slewed the aiming diamond over it and selected NARROW.
Weed saw helicopter rotor blades spinning as the aircraft sat on a road, and faint smoke wafting through the trees to the south. As he waited for the picture to build, he heard a man’s voice.
“We’ve got an agent down, and we’re low on ammo! Yes, alive.”
Weed didn’t have positive identification for anyone involved — except Flip. He didn’t know what was going on down there, but he guessed that Flip and some others — locals or embassy types — were holed up in the cabin. He had to find it and make sure. His training precluded him from going in guns blazing, but it appeared to him that this situation required just that. He looked over the nose to try to discern anything with his naked eye and saw no anti-collision lights from where the helos were located. The absence of lights was an indication of covert behavior.
“Condor, can you get some clarification as to what’s going on? Can you declare?”
“Stand by, Hunter.”
“You stand by!” Weed shouted in frustration as he pounded the dashboard. Always hurry up and wait, but the fuel wasn’t waiting. And his friend was in trouble. Calm down, he told himself.
Weed veered away from the site as the helo bored in, five minutes out. He wanted to hold away and above any small arms. It was almost dark… he couldn’t take it anymore… and keyed the mike.
“Goggles.”
The three Super Hornet pilots reached up to remove their helmet-mounted systems and donned their night vision goggles, a delicate operation as they maintained loose formation on one another. With their anti-collision lights and position lights secured, they used formation “strip” lights on the fuselage to determine the aspect of the jet next to them. They squinted from the light intensification coming from the western horizon, but, being on goggles now was better than not using them.
Drawing closer, Weed identified the helicopters on deck as Pumas, rotors turning at idle. He continued to listen, impatient for an answer from Condor. He keyed the mike.
“Condor, Hunter. We need to get this show on the road.”
He saw muzzle flashes through openings in the trees and was able to pick out the cabin in a small clearing. The building had electricity, but, as he watched, it was cut.
“They just cut the power!” cried a male voice on the cell phone. Weed also heard a gunshot in the background.
Weed sensed he need to act—now. Circumstantial or not, the evidence was overwhelming that Flip was inside with some embassy types, and they were attempting to hold off an attacking force that he guessed came from the two Pumas. The Rustlers didn’t have much more of a fuel cushion than he did, and the word from Condor, who was talking to the ship, who was talking to Miami, could take all night as the staff weenies covered their sixes. Who were the attackers in these military helos? Trinidad? No, the embassy was here. Drug guys? No. The two identical aircraft screamed military, and Venezuela had Pumas.
“Condor, from Hunter. The aircraft are Pumas, and the friendlies in the cabin are taking fire from outside. We’ve got a visual. Request clearance!” Weed transmitted.
“Stand by, Hunter!” the harried Tactical Coordinator replied from his station inside the E-2 “tube” far away.
“Hunter four-zero-seven from Rustler six-one-zero. We’ve got a tally on the LZ.”
“Roger, six-one-zero. We’ve got two Pumas turning on deck north of the cabin and small arms fire observed north and west of it.”
“Looks like one guy is lifting,” Weed heard the Rustler pilot transmit.
The lead Puma lifted up and transited to forward flight, turning north away from the firefight. Weed was over him and could reverse his turn and pull down to pursue him.
“Tallyho,” he transmitted. Pumas were not armed gunships, but if the aircraft circled back toward the cabin, it could pose a threat. Weed wanted to stay with it, but had to lead the Rescue CAP and get Flip out of there.
“Cisco, detach and shadow the bandit helo turning through north. If he turns back to the cabin, engage.”
Cisco, in 405, acknowledged and pulled away from the formation. He took a position behind the Puma that was reversing left to the west. For all Weed knew, Flip could be inside that aircraft, which, at the moment, was not a threat. The aircraft on deck was another matter. Not knowing if it carried soldiers or would be the vehicle to pluck Flip from the island posed a problem. Flip could be inside it or, if captured, could be led to it right then. The Rustlers and their SEALs could deal with the threat, and Weed would be overwatch if the aircraft became a threat to them.
“Rustler, Hunter. You’ve got about two miles to go to the contact of interest. There’s a clear area next to it on the east and it is surrounded by trees on all sides. Fire still coming from the north and west.”
“Roger, Hunter. We’ve got a tally. We’re going to make firing passes on the tree lines and circle back to land our GRE boys.”