Todd zoomed in on the boat and took a photo. Using the keypad, he sent a text message over encrypted data link with the photo attached to the E-2 controller high above and miles away. He then typed the word
DECLARE
“Stand by for combat checks. This will be a LOBL shot, Mark. Set up for a five-mile run in.”
“Roger that,” Mark replied.
Todd then saw a flashing “M” on the bottom left of his display, an answer from the E-2. That was fast, he thought. With the trackball, he clicked on it.
HOSTILE
Todd typed back an acknowledgment, and keyed the ICS. “Okay, guys, we have a declared hostile. Gunners, you are cleared to lock and load.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Each door gunner answered, their faces covered with a “windshield” mask under their helmet visors that made them look like aliens from another world. On the left side door was the heavy 50 caliber GAU-21. The right gunner operated the smaller M240 using 7.62 ammunition. Over the constant whine of the jet engines and the thumping of the rotors above them, the pilots could hear the breech mechanisms slamming rounds home as the gunners prepared to engage on their signal. Todd lifted the switch over the MASTER ARM button and pushed it.
Allowing Mark to fly the aircraft, Todd continued with his Hellfire checklist: “AVT lock on target, reticle position… let’s pop up to one-fifty… mobility kill.”
“Roger, climb to one-fifty,” Mark replied, then added, “Turning in.”
“Roger,” Todd acknowledged.
The aircraft banked right, deepening the whup, whup, whup sound of the rotor blades as it dug harder into the Caribbean air. Mark placed the boat on his nose and lifted the aircraft to 150 feet. Todd was now head down on the FLIR. As he studied the boat, he was able to pick up contours from the heat contrasts, especially the four white-hot engines on the fantail. With the hand controller, his finger squeezed to the first detent.
“Ranging…six thousand meters.”
“Roger,” his co-pilot replied.
“Give me three degrees left, please—” Todd requested, lost in his concentration as they crept up on the boat, holding course and speed. They haven’t seen us. Good.
“Comin’ left three,” Mark answered. “Slowing to one hundred.”
The range steadily decreased, and Todd transmitted their status to the E-2. “Tango Lima, ten seconds.” He then said over the ICS, “Designate… good heading, good offset… solid constraints box… solid seeker head.”
“Roger, Delta Charlie,” transmitted the disembodied voice of the E-2 controller.
With the laser designating the boat two miles ahead of them, Todd kept up a running commentary for the benefit of his crew.
“We’re armed up, good laser… five seconds.” He concentrated on holding the reticle on the middle engines, and when the range was ideal, squeezed the controller trigger to the second detent. After a familiar and unnerving delay, and sounding no different than a bottle rocket, the Hellfire shot past his shoulder. It left a white plume as it climbed gracefully ahead. He then transmitted;
“Rifle away, now, now, now… fourteen seconds.”
“Roger, Delta Charlie,” the E-2 calmly responded.
While Todd concentrated on reticle placement, Mark watched the missile fly away. It became a white point that abruptly stopped in midair halfway to the boat as the rocket motor burned out. The missile immediately became invisible, and his eyes then went to the boat, bounding northwest as before.
Todd watched the seconds-to-go display count down as he kept the reticle on. “Five seconds,” he whispered into his lip mike, keeping his eyes on the display. They still don’t see us, he thought, transfixed by the infrared image casting off spray from the bow. When the missile exploded on the engines, the display went nearly white, and Todd instinctively looked up to see his target.
“Nice shot,” offered Mark, as if Todd had driven a ball into the fairway on a relaxing Saturday morning round of golf.
Todd watched the boat suddenly stop in the water as a mixture of white and black smoke rose into the air. “Impact. Cease lase.” he transmitted to the E-2.
Enrique, pants down around his ankles and sitting on the toilet, held a lighter flame to the end of his own joint and puffed. A terrific shock, accompanied by an ear-splitting boom, jolted him off the seat. His body bounced against the thin fiberglass of the head as toilet water splashed everywhere. Stunned and on all fours, he felt the boat pitch and roll out of control. His first thought was that Jorge had run into a floating log or some other piece of flotsam. Warm blood ran down Enrique’s forehead into his right eye socket, and he felt pain in his right knee. A loud screeeee emanated from the fantail, and he headed aft as the hull continued to roll. At the hatch opening, he recoiled in horror — the severed leg of Jorge lay on the steps.
Jorge!
Three of the four engines were burning. The one still running on the port side was chugging and bucking hard in its housing as it ate itself trying to provide horsepower to the propeller. Wide-eyed with fear, he stepped over his partner’s leg and entered the cockpit. Jorge was slumped motionless over the wheel, and his head and shoulders, peppered with shrapnel, formed a bloody mess that stopped abruptly where his back met the seat. The deck was awash with seawater as the boat turned to the right under the power of its one malfunctioning engine.
The heat from the fires, coupled with the gore of his partner’s body, drove Enrique over the side, but not before he grabbed a waterskiing vest for flotation. When he hit the water, he frantically backstroked away from the burning derelict.
The blood!
In his haste to get off the boat, he had forgotten he was bleeding heavily, and that fact filled him with more terror than seeing Jorge’s body in pieces. He jerked his head to the left and to the right in search of the shark fins he knew were only minutes away.
Then, he heard a strange noise. From the south and coming out of the sun, he saw a helicopter approaching. Rescue! He thanked God for his good fortune, and as the aircraft approached, he got into the vest, clipped it secure, and began to wave and shout.
“Aqui! Aqui!”
He watched the helicopter veer to the right and continue, not slowing down. It was a military helicopter, painted gray, and it appeared to be an American design. Yes, he had seen helicopters of this type flown by the American Coast Guard, but painted in the characteristic white and orange scheme. He splashed water up in the air to catch the pilot’s attention. As the helicopter flew past, he saw the pilot looking at him. And behind the pilot was a gunner — also looking at him.
As they approached the boat’s burning hulk, Lieutenant Todd keyed the ICS. “Thanks, Mark, I’ve got the aircraft.”
“You’ve got the aircraft,” Mark replied.
Todd now addressed the gunners behind him. “Guys, we are coming inbound for an assessment pass. Be ready to return fire. Bringing him down the right side.”
“Roger, sir,” Petty Officer Mike answered.
On the FLIR Mark saw movement. After a few seconds, he keyed the ICS. “Looks like we have a survivor.”
Todd lifted his visor and spotted splashing in the water near the hulk. “Oh, yeah, visual on the survivor. Don’t see any small arms. The boat looks like it’s toast.”