It hit him then that he was in real trouble. Did Dengler and Sijan know they were in trouble? If so, they showed incredible wilclass="underline" the standard he had to uphold. Bud Day nearly made it to freedom. Even after being captured, he had had the fortitude to endure five years of prison and brutal torture. Medal of Honor. Wilson tried to imagine being imprisoned that long. In five years, Derrick would be driving a car.
He had to stop thinking like this, but it was a struggle not to in his dire predicament. As much a struggle as it was to stay warm and to get as comfortable as possible so sleep would come. The underbrush crackled nearby, another disconcerting reminder that he was not alone.
While trying to will sleep, Wilson came to grips with the fact that he needed human help and that exposing himself to the Venezuelans might be the only way to save his life. He would have a chance at survival at least. The United States was engaged in military action with Venezuela, but would it be for five years? He couldn’t remember if Venezuela had signed the Geneva Convention. He kicked himself for not knowing for sure. No excuse. But it didn’t matter. It seemed every signatory was on their own program anyway, and American airmen could always expect the harshest of treatment.
Wilson needed help. From the time he had fallen through the tree, he had prayed to God for deliverance, asking for and expecting to receive — praying and hoping for — the sudden appearance of a Seahawk overhead that would lower a SEAL with a rescue hoist to pluck him from his living hell. He had asked for strength; he had received, instead, increased weakness. Deep down, he knew that an occasional prayer was not going to get him through this ordeal.
He huddled under the fern, his weakened body again shivering in a reflexive effort to stay warm. Looking up through a break in the trees, he saw the three stars of Orion’s belt. The Hunter. Now, Wilson was the hunted. The fact that he hadn’t yet had to avoid Venezuelan soldiers tramping through the bush to find him, or hadn’t yet heard FAV helicopters searching overhead, was little solace. He rolled, as best he could, to his left side. Exhausted, he craved sleep, but the discomforts he felt in every part of his body prevented it. For a moment, he saw the shadow of a soldier who stared at him as he smoked a cigarette. Wilson froze. Maybe the soldier hadn’t seen him. Wilson tried to focus on the soldier, but as he faded away, Wilson realized he was just a mental image. Hallucination. At that point, part of him would have welcomed capture — the part Wilson now had to fear: a malfunctioning mind.
The night dragged on. Every ten minutes seemed like an hour. He couldn’t get comfortable: pain, covered by itching from dirt and insects, all covered by a blanket of cold. He could feel his foot tightening in his boot. He would have to cut the boot off — tomorrow. Too exhausted now.
Wilson heard a far-off mechanical sound, a faint, throbbing hum. He turned his neck to hear better… a helicopter. He sensed it was coming from the east. He tried to find the North Star, Polaris, through the trees to verify the direction, but he could not. The sun had gone down on his right. This noise was coming from the east. Doesn’t matter. A helicopter, finally.
Maybe they could blow down the trees and land right next to him. The SEALs would then come to him with a stretcher, while Mary and the kids followed carrying an apple pie. After an acupuncturist fixed his leg, they would go to the beach, camp out with a fire, and roast marshmallows. Then ride a jet ski. Like they did back home, when they were young… and free.
The whup, whup, whup of the rotor blades grew louder. As Wilson strained to see the craft through the dark branches, the noise, rising and falling in pitch, continued to get louder. Is that a Seahawk? Wilson asked himself, and struggled to match the sound with the familiar sound of the helicopter he had spent his entire career around. He reached for a flare but hesitated. What if it was FAV? Do it! he thought. This is what you wanted! Deliverance! But he could not. Even as human beings drew closer, his training and his instinct — not knowing what kind of human beings they were — told him to evade. Wilson was surprised by his sudden surge of mental strength.
The helo drew closer, fast, and the rotors seemed to tear at the treetops. He could then make out the background whine of the jet engines, but his ears picked up the sound of another helicopter in the distance, also closing fast. He couldn’t see it, but it was coming right at him. They must have my position! he thought and let out an involuntary “Yes!” as the aircraft barreled toward him. The sound of the rotors cutting through the air just above the trees was deafening, and it registered with Wilson: This was a big helicopter, a Seahawk! And the sound of another helo nearby confirmed, in his mind, they were American military aircraft.
Wilson struggled in the darkness to find his pencil flare. In a frenzy, and despite the danger, he placed the flare in his teeth so he could screw in the launcher with his one good hand. Hurry! The vibrating roar of the aircraft was right on top of him. Oh, God, please! He had to fire the flare straight up to get their attention, but, if it was too close, it would scare the pilots. Fuck that, Wilson thought. His real worry was that he would hit the aircraft or its rotors with the flare on a lucky — or unlucky — shot.
As Wilson lifted the pencil flare and aimed at Orion’s belt, a speeding black mass roared over. The rotorwash shook the trees and swirled the debris on the forest floor into a confused cyclone all around Wilson. Dust drove into his mouth and nostrils, and pain stabbed into his bad arm as he tried to steady himself. The thunder receded, along with the screaming of the jet engines that propelled the lights-out MH-60 along its course.
“Stop, dammit!” Wilson cried amid the din.
The flare was now useless, if shot behind the speeding aircraft where none of the aircrew could see it. Wilson shot it anyway, hoping the wingman might see it. The miniature rocket shot from the launcher and careened off a branch and back into the trees where it quickly extinguished. An opportunity had presented itself and was lost, all in a matter of seconds. Fuck! Wilson cursed his hesitation, writhing in pain as he thrashed about in the dirt, beating himself up mentally if not physically. He collapsed into frustrated tears when he grasped that rescue—deliverance—had come and gone. As the aircraft had continued on course, he had heard no indication of a turn. Sonofafuckingbitch! he cried out loud. He would not get another chance like that, and realized he was not ready, the fault his and his alone.
Breathing hard, he strained his ears as the Seahawks faded away. After five minutes, he could no longer hear the rotors, and the multiple miseries of his resting spot returned. He lay looking up at Orion, The Hunter, so named by ancient men, ancient men who, no doubt, were fighters.
Flying Flintlock 612 from the left seat, Sean Sullivan eased the helicopter to 100 feet as he crossed the surf line. “Comin’ left,” he said on the ICS to his co-pilot, Sandy. Behind them, 614 maintained position. Sandy checked in with them on the radio.
“Six-one-four from six-twelve. What luck?”
“Negative, twelve,” the pilot in the trailing Sierra responded. Neither aircraft had seen any sign of Commander Wilson.