“Two’s in on the lead!” Dog called, back in the fight.
Concerned, Weed scanned the horizon for his wingman… and could not find him. He then craned his head up and, in one motion, pulled up and right before his heartbeat could even increase from the shot of adrenaline pumped into it. Coming down like a safe next to him was Dog, who, concentrating on the Hip, had lost track of his lead and not done a belly check. But for Weed’s defensive driving, both aircraft would have occupied the same piece of sky. An unnerved Weed pulled off the Hip.
“You better shoot him, Dog!”
The Hip was zipping along the treetops in a left-hand turn with Dog high and to the inside. The young pilot had to make another high-deflection crossing shot — in a dive — and had to keep altitude in his scan to avoid flying into the ground. Dog was diving, tracking, and turning as the Hip pulled hard into him. Dog squeezed a burst, then another and saw no impacts on the fuselage or blades. The aircraft grew larger in his HUD and he couldn’t miss…
“Watch your altitude!” Weed shouted on the radio. Dog snatched his jet up at over eight g’s. The Hip survived, and the nugget pilot escaped 100 feet over the trees as he pulled up and away. His heart pounded when he realized how close he had come.
“Dog, come off right. Lead’s in. Cisco, can you take the other guy?”
“Which is which!?” the confused lieutenant shot back. He had lost SA in this free-wheeling rotary-wing shell game.
Weed came at the Hip head on and hosed it as he passed one mile in range. Sparkling flashes appeared on the nose and rotor disk as Weed steepened his dive, keeping one eye on altitude so he would not make Dog’s error. His gun stopped firing—Winchester! — and Weed pulled off left as the wobbling and burning Hip staggered into the trees and exploded.
One left, a Hind. And it was circling back to exact revenge on the most vulnerable American asset.
CHAPTER 79
Rovelli and another SEAL helped Wilson as the Marines and Doc Woodruff dragged Jill into the Sierra. Two other SEALs and the door gunners covered them with fire into the tree line. Wilson noted the familiar Seahawk airframe, and, when the M240 fired, it illuminated the USS Coral Sea stenciling above the cabin door. Rotor wash swirled dust and leaves about them, and, without earplugs or a helmet, the roar of the helicopter engines and spinning rotors overhead was deafening. He saw the pilot motion for them to hurry up, and the SEALs picked him up to carry him, rather than help him, over the ground.
They pushed Wilson inside, and he sprawled on the cabin floor next to Jill. His pain returned as the SEALs shouted, fired, and jostled for position inside the cabin. Numerous 7.62 rounds exploded from their barrels on either side of him, and he sensed the change in the whine of the high-pitched engine and felt the airframe lurch amid the confused noise and swirling air. He wasn’t strapped in and realized he didn’t care.
In the cockpit of 610, Lieutenant Justin “Oscar” Meier heard the fighters’ crosstalk on the radio about a Hind circling to the southwest and posing a threat. He figured it was the same one that had over flown their position minutes ago. He didn’t know why the Venezuelan gunships hadn’t fired as they roared over and didn’t want to know. He picked up the attack helicopter through the trees at his two o’clock. Moving right to left in front of them, it was turning left and would soon come back. Frickin’ jet guys! It was their job to keep the threat away! What are they doing? he thought. They need to shoot that sumbitch!
“They’re all aboard, sir!” the door gunner sang out over the ICS. Two metal punches were heard from somewhere behind them in the tail boom. “Get us outta here!” he cried as he hosed down the tree line near the priest’s shack.
“Okay! Hang on! Comin’ up.” Oscar answered.
With a death grip, he lifted the collective and felt the aircraft rise. He also felt the extra weight of thirteen souls in back and fed rudder to keep the aircraft aligned as he pushed the cyclic forward while increasing collective. The Sierra’s nose pitched down as the rotors dug into the air to propel it forward. On the climb out, Oscar picked up the Hind inside a mile, rolling in for another run. He keyed the mike.
“Hunters, Rustler six-one-zero lifting with fifteen souls and a Hind on my nose!”
“Roger. Visual. Tally!” Weed radioed back. “Cisco, Dog, shoot it!”
Oscar heard the desperation in Commander Hopper’s voice and sensed he could not depend on his escort fighters to help. Sean was not in a position to help, and while his own M240 pea-shooters were not designed to bring down an armored helo, they were something. The two helicopters were going to a merge, and, for now, his only chance was to defend himself.
With his mind racing, Oscar increased speed and charged at the threat. At the same time, he keyed the ICS to direct his co-pilot, Lieutenant Junior Grade Alison “Cheese” Kirkman.
“Cheese, lase him! Target the Hind, now!”
Head down in the cockpit while Oscar flew, Cheese brought up the laser designator on the nose and slewed it toward the approaching aircraft. At the same time Oscar tapped right rudder and informed his left gunner.
“Petty Officer Sackheim, we got a Hind on the nose at eleven-thirty. Open fire! Bringing it down the left side!”
With the sound of a chainsaw,the M240 spit a stream of bullets ahead of the Sierra and toward the nose of the onrushing gunship. “Are you lasing him, dammit?” Oscar cried to Cheese.
“Yes, shit, yes!” she blurted back.
Both pilots were anxious as they flew at the growing menace. The gunners behind them detected in their pilots’ voices, and of the two, only Sackheim on the left door gun really knew the danger they were in.
Flickering light appeared on the Hind’s nose, flame from the muzzle flash of the twin Gsh-23 cannon barrels slung under its nose. The horrified aviators flinched as the bullet stream passed below them. Sackheim continued to pump 7.62 rounds into the flying tank coming at them and heard himself release a primal scream as if any second a cannon round would take his head off. It went against every one of Oscar’s instincts to keep themselves “skinny” by flying at the threat. However, looking down their barrels presented the enemy gunner with the least amount of rotor cross-section to hit and allowed Oscar to close the distance and thereby escape their cone of fire as quickly as possible. The enemy rounds were missing right and Oscar heard Sackheim’s gun go silent — Winchester. He then pedaled left to give Petty Officer Souza, the right gunner, a clear shot and avoid flying into the 23mm buzz saw. The gunner got off a few bursts as Cheese worked to keep the laser on the enemy cockpit. Oscar lifted the aircraft to get above the Hind and restrict its field of fire. He felt an explosion next to his right shoulder.
In the cabin, Wilson felt the aircraft lurch this way and that as the door gunners blazed away at something. Despite the violent maneuvering, it didn’t faze Wilson that he wasn’t strapped in; he was surrounded by bodies. In the low light, he saw Rovelli’s impassive face. Powerless to act, Rovelli stared ahead at nothing, knowing that worry could not make the situation better. It was up to the aviators now.