Four down, six to go. And they were approaching the LZ.
Weed ignored Dog’s fuel plight and was back in with his second missile, his target a hot Hind against a “cool” backdrop of forest. From inside a mile, he fired. The missile wiggled as it accelerated and blew the rotor disk off the aircraft, which rolled flaming into the trees and was followed by a large fuel-air explosion. He then aimed for the farthest aircraft when a band of bullets shot in front of him and caused him to pull up hard. Horrified, Weed realized he could not keep the attackers away from the Rustlers. He had to warn them.
“Rustlers, we’re trying, but some are going to get through! Do you have everyone?”
“Survivors coming inside now, sir. Shit, looks like more than we thought!”
“Well, the gunships are going to be there in less than a minute!”
Cisco rolled in for a second time — Weed didn’t have track of Dog — and another helicopter, a Hip, was shot out of the sky. Five down.
“Dog, where are you?” Weed snapped on radio.
“I’m bingo, sir. Holding max endurance!”
Weed lost his patience. “Get down here and keep firing until you’re Winchester!”
“Aye, sir!” the chagrined pilot answered.
The Venezuelans were splitting up. Weed could now see one Sierra on deck near the cabin and another orbiting to the east.
“Rustlers, they’re coming from the south. Doing our best to pick them off!” Weed warned. He rolled in on a Hind and blasted it with 20mm, leading it better this time, and saw flashes pop up all around the fuselage and rotors. Another enemy helicopter pulled away to the east, wounded but still airborne. Weed ignored it. Four left.
“Here they come, Rustlers!”
“We see ‘em,” Sean transmitted back. He saw the wounded Hind that one of the Super Hornets had winged and determined it no factor. Behind it was another one, and he swung his Sierra low over the trees and down the right side of the Hind to get behind it. It then occurred to him one of the fighters could confuse him for enemy, and he transmitted, “Hunters, Rustler six-one-two is rolling in on a Hind southeast of the LZ, trailing the one you guys drove away.”
“Tally! Visual!” Cisco sang out, and turned his attention to another gunship — one that posed a direct threat to the Sierra getting ready to load survivors near the cabin.
In 612, Petty Officer Second Class Mark Ryan, a rescue swimmer manning the left door M240, saw the same enemy threat that Cisco did. Inside 1,000 meters, he noted the enemy flight path converging on him with little drift. He looked over his right shoulder at Sean in the cockpit right seat. “Sir, I’ve got a Hind at our nine-thirty, about 500 meters!”
Sean, his “bucket” of situational awareness overflowing, concentrated on the Hind in front of him and keyed the ICS. “Open fire!” he blurted out as he maneuvered above the tree tops behind his gunship — a target that did not know Sean’s Sierra was behind it.
Mark energized the weapon and, with adrenalin coursing through him, squeezed the trigger hard. The 7.62 rounds flew out from the Sierra under the rotor arc as he assessed lead, while tracking his target five football fields away. The Hind ahead of Sean rolled right, maybe warned by the guy Mark was shooting at, and, as Sean reacted, Mark’s round flew high over the Hind.
“Fuck,” Mark cried over the ICS.
Just then, Rustler 610 radioed, “Fucking A, Sean, your gunner hit that guy comin’ for us. He’s smokin’ and heading west!”
“Sierra Hotel!” Sean answered, then keyed the ICS. “Way to fuckin’ go, Petty Officer Ryan! That’s your kill!”
A surprised Mark smiled under the plastic screen that protected his face from windblast. The Sierra lurched again, and Sean had another job for him.
“All right, Ryan, we got a Hind ahead of us, eleven o’clock, about 800 meters! You have a tally?”
Mark swung the gun to the forward stops and stuck his head outside. On his goggles, he could see the thin silhouette of a gunship in a slight left turn.
“Tallyho!”
“Open fire!”
Mark squeezed the trigger again as Sean maneuvered the Sierra above and behind the Hind to lag it and give Mark a clear shot. Mark aimed for the tail rotor of the armored gunship, the weakest part of the airframe, and unloaded on it with short bursts. Sensing the threat from behind, the Hind reversed hard right.
Sean saw an overshoot coming. “Petty Officer Young, get ready. Hind comin’ out our one o’clock. Three hundred meters!”
“Tally!”
“Open fire!”
The right door gunner unloaded, from near point-blank range, a long burst from his M240 into the Hind as it turned hard and traversed down the Sierra’s right side. Through their goggles, the aircrew saw scattered impact flashes along the fuselage and rotor arc. Sean lifted his aircraft into a high yo-yo to stop the overshoot and to give his door gunner the best field of fire. Now looking down on it, Young poured fire into the top of the wounded gunship. Within seconds it was out of control and exploded as it went into the trees.
“Splash one Hind!” Sean crowed on the radio. “Nice job, guys!” he added on the ICS.
When Weed saw the gunship explode to the east, he figured the Sierra trailing it was 612. But he was losing situational awareness, The Rustler on deck near the cabin accounted for one of the Sierras, but the other was now mixed in with three—Or is it four? — enemy gunships. He had to get SA back, fast.
Two enemy helos bore down on the LZ, and none of the fighters were in a position to stop them. The gunships were in a stepped up tac wing formation and were right on top of the site. Weed’s heart was in his throat as he transmitted, “Rustler six-ten. Two are right on top of you!” The Hinds could shred the Sierra, the cabin, and everyone in them in one pass. He pulled his Rhino left to track the lead aircraft, which appeared to be a Hip. He winced, expecting multiple bands of killing fire to explode from the gunships in a slashing attack. To his shocked surprise, the helicopters shot past without firing. Maybe they missed the site or were unsure.
A reprieve.
Weed was filled with professional admiration for the Venezuelans, men with little combat experience or representative threat training, who came in against heavy odds. However, he had a job to do, and more brave men would have to die for him to accomplish it.
Bingo. Bingo.
The passionless voice of Tammy sounded in Weed’s headset. Mission fuel was gone, but he had no choice but to stay. Fuck it! Weed thought. They would land in Port of Spain or Grenada if need be. The Venezuelans split, and Weed took the leader turning through northwest.