The hulking shape was heading west, and Hernandez pushed the throttle all the way up. He heard the engine rumble increase and felt the aircraft buck from the airspeed. Inside five miles, he saw a bright light shoot from his target and observed small lights coming from one end. He thought he saw a flash from a ship on the horizon, followed by another, but he put the images out of his mind. The carrier was turning away from him, and he saw lights again flash from the back of it and then whip over his canopy. Bullets!
Unseen by Edgar Hernandez, an SM-2 Standard missile launched from the vertical launch tubes of USS Gettysburg four miles away and exploded its proximity-fused warhead over him, shredding his fuselage and pushing his nose up. Hernandez gasped at the sudden ten g’s on his chest and saw he was climbing. He would get another ch—
His Viper tore itself apart as the relative force of 700-knot air molecules gushed into the jagged holes that appeared on the smooth airframe skin, the supersonic aluminum dashing itself headlong into the transonic “wall.” A Rolling Airframe Missile launched from the carrier entered the maelstrom of metal and detonated, while CIWS 20mm bullets finished the job on unrecognizable masses of hurtling debris, chopping them up further as they plummeted into the sea off Coral Sea’s fantail. The Viper’s engine, still in burner as the fuselage was ripped away from it, devoured the last bit of fuel in the flaming lines and arced over Coral Sea with wild fiery oscillations, seeking something to control it, someone to command it. It’s hot turbine blades exploded into spray and steam once they met the cool surface of the dark Caribbean swells on the other side of the carrier.
What was left of Mayor General Edgar Hernandez also splashed into the sea, his final resting place unmarked.
CHAPTER 80
A dazed Wilson felt 610 enter a hover. He sensed the rotors and engines change pitch and felt the floor beneath him twitch as the pilots maneuvered the Sierra over the embassy landing pad at Port of Spain.
When the gunners opened the side doors, he wasn’t sure where he was but noted a tree and a building through one of the openings. The Marines, Garcia and Smith, and Doc Woodruff got out, as did Jill, who was now ambulatory. They each, in turn, reached down to where he sat on the floor and patted him on his good shoulder. Wilson returned a weak smile. When Monique got out, Sackheim held her arm so she would not stray into trouble beneath the rotors of the still turning helicopter. While Sackheim waited for Father Dan so that he could escort them both inside, a barrel of aviation gasoline was wheeled over to the helo. An embassy employee helped Petty Officer Souza pump the helo with fuel sufficient to get to Coral Sea over 200 miles away.
Father Dan scooted past Wilson to the door and grabbed Wilson’s right hand. “Good luck, lad,” he shouted. “I hope you are reunited with your family soon.”
“Father,” Wilson spoke over the din.
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” Wilson croaked. “Thank you—”
The priest made a sign of the cross over Wilson and brought his hands together in a blessing. “Now go and spread the good news of the Lord!” he shouted.
Wilson nodded, and Father Dan swung his legs over and hopped down to the ground to join Monique. Sackheim took them both forward of the nose and away to safety.
“Father?” Wilson called out, but the priest was gone.
Within minutes the refueling was complete, and the gunners jumped inside and closed the doors as the helo lifted. Wilson gazed at the lights of the city until they receded from view, replaced by the black Caribbean waters. The vibration of the machine lulled the cabin passengers to sleep, and the SEALs dozed head down on their gear during the long transit to the ship.
Wilson stared at the darkened cabin overhead. Its wire bundles and bare frames, exposed as in all military aircraft, were bathed in the faint green glow of the cockpit lighting. Alive. He was alive… against all odds. How did he get out over San Ramón? How did he survive the terror of the thunderstorm, the broken limbs as he crawled through the jungle, the firefights with cartel thugs and the Venezuelan Army? He had shot several men — and killed two. In his Hornet cockpit he was seldom sure if he had killed. Today he was.
He thought of all those who had rescued him. Jill, Doc, and the Marines. The SEALs dozing next to him, men he had never met. People on the ship, no doubt, like Annie and CAG and Admiral Davies. They hadn’t abandoned him but had ordered these men and this Rustler crew to risk their lives. And Wilson knew they had done so willingly, eager to risk all to save him — even though none of them had a personal relationship with him. Wilson was an American fighting man. That was good enough for them.
He thought of Father Dan. The priest had saved him, fed him, bathed him, defended him, and ministered to him. Harboring Wilson was a sure risk, and the arrival of the drug thugs had confirmed it. Father Dan was only a missionary serving the inhabitants of The Devil’s Woodyard. Until I showed up, Wilson thought. He knew he would contact the priest somehow once he could write. Maryknoll. They could get him a letter. Wilson would return one day, too, once things with Venezuela got back to normal.
Wilson saw lights far to the east, an island. He motioned to a crewman to ask what it was. The petty officer keyed his ICS to ask the pilots. A few seconds later, he spoke near Wilson’s ear. “Grenada, sir.”
They droned on, and Wilson saw another Sierra in formation with them. He looked at his combat watch. It had stopped. No matter, he thought. We’ll get there when we get there.
Wilson then thought of Mary. He wanted to be next to her, to hold her, to forgive her — and to ask her to forgive the fact he had ignored her with his preoccupation with command — even when ashore. Derrick. He needed a dad to care for him, a dad who was just there listening, not smothering. They all needed balance.
His leg was killing him.
Another 30 minutes passed, and Wilson sensed the descent of the helo. The SEALs did, too, and by the activity of the swimmers, he knew the ship must be near. They entered a turn, followed by another one, and Wilson could make out the ship a mile abeam. A Hornet was crossing the ramp; they were in the middle of a recovery.
More turns followed, and Wilson watched through the window when he could. He caught sight of an E-2 rolling out in the landing area and knew they would be given a signal to land next. They flew aft of the ship and turned right to final, the aircraft jerking and twitching as the pilots maneuvered it on the ball. One of the swimmers opened the right door as the pilot lifted the nose higher, and Wilson saw Hornets parked on the starboard shelf. The Sierra slowed along the landing area, past the island, to its landing spot at the edge of the angle. Wilson saw a medical team on the foul line and spied CAG in among them. After the aircraft weight transitioned from the rotor blades to the landing gear tires, the swimmers hopped out. Blue shirts then scrambled to the Sierra with wheel chocks as squadron personnel followed with tie-down chains.
Wilson was home. Safe. Alive.