Miguel Fernandez and Red Nicholson cocked their Squad Automatic Weapons. The door gunners were crouched behind their miniguns.
“I’m going to come up along the ridgeline,” the pilot informed the crew over the intercom. “Otherwise we’ll never see that strobe. When we hit the LZ I’ll turn and point the nose east. That way the hoist will be on the side away from the enemy. Jimmy,” he said, talking to one of the door gunners. “Your side will be clear, you’ll work the hoist. Stan, the enemy will be on your side so you’ll be gunning. You SEALs handle the ladder.”
The pilot pressed the mike button on his stick. “Hammer-Two, Hammer-One, over.”
“Hammer-Two,” the second Blackhawk replied.
“Hammer-Two, when we go in I want you to hold back a half klick down the ridge. I’ll call you if I need you. When we come off the zone I’ll form up behind and follow you out, over.”
“Affirmative,” the second pilot replied. “Hammer-Two, out.”
The lead Blackhawk came up the side of the ridge and then made a hard left turn. Now he was skimming low over the top of the ridge, following it up.
Fernandez and Nicholson opened the sliding cabin doors. The freezing wind blasted through the cabin.
The copilot was working the forward-looking infrared turret. “I’ve got tracers in the air farther up,” he reported. “There’s the firefight.”
The pilot was flying on night-vision goggles. “I see it. Okay, there’s the strobe in the rocks.”
“I’ve got it too,” said the copilot.
The pilot keyed the microphone button. “Seven Oscar, Hammer-One. I have your strobe.”
“Roger,” Doc Ellsworth replied. “Hurry up, we’re down to our last rounds here.”
The Blackhawk tore up the ridge. With the FLIR the copilot could easily pick out the hot human bodies among the cold rocks. He identified the SEALs in their small perimeter around the strobe by the thermal tape on their clothing.
“Jesus Christ!” the copilot exclaimed. “The bad guys are right on top of them.”
The pilot rose up over the strobe and turned the helicopter sideways. As soon as his side was unmasked, the door gunner opened up. The minigun gave off a high-pitched whine as the six Gatling gun barrels fired at two thousand rounds per minute. That much 7.62mm coming in that fast would turn solid rock into gravel. Anything that got in the path of a minigun’s bullet stream had a tendency to go away. The door gunner worked his fire right across the Syrian front line.
The other door gunner pushed the stretcher out the opposite door and lowered the hoist cable.
Fernandez and Nicholson kicked the caving ladder out the other side.
Pinging sounds reverberated inside the helicopter.
“We’re taking rounds,” the copilot shouted.
Fernandez and Nicholson threw themselves onto the cabin floor and opened fire with their SAWS.
As the Blackhawk reached the zone, the SEALs on the ground tossed the last of their grenades to put the Syrians’ heads down.
The Blackhawk turned and dropped until it was only seven feet or so above the ground. The wheels were almost touching the rocks. That took some flying.
When the metal-frame Stokes stretcher came down the hoist, Doc Ellsworth grabbed one end of Higgins’s stretcher and Ed DeWitt the other with his good hand. They slid Higgins into the Stokes, and Doc cinched the webbing straps tight. Doc waved and the stretcher rose. It spun around as it went up. The door gunner grabbed the stretcher, worked the control to give the cabin some slack, and yanked the stretcher into the cabin.
DeWitt raced around to the other side of the helicopter where the caving ladder was flapping back and forth in the rotor wash. He made a running leap at it, trying to hit as high up as he could. He climbed one-handed, almost falling as the helicopter shook, but made it high enough for Fernandez and Nicholson to reach down and grab him. As they dragged him roughly into the cabin, DeWitt screamed from the pain in his broken arm. But once in, he still got up on his knees and emptied his last AKM magazine out the door.
After DeWitt went up, all the SEALs fell back toward the ladder.
A Syrian with a PKM machine gun rose up in front of Jaybird Sterling and fired at the Blackhawk. Jaybird cut him down with his last few rounds rapid-fire. When the magazine ran out, he threw the AKM in the direction of the Syrians. He pulled out his Makarov pistol and sprinted for the helicopter.
Murdock saw the caving ladder flapping free. He knew that if it got blown up into the rotors their ride was going to come crashing down. He made a diving grab for the ladder and hooked an arm around one rung. He put his weight on it and brought the AKM up to his shoulder. The minigun was screaming just above his head. Jaybird came running up. “Go, go, go!” Murdock shouted. Jaybird hesitated a brief instant, then went up the ladder.
The belt on Miguel Fernandez’s SAW ran out just as he saw a Syrian stand up from the rocks with an RPG-7 launcher on his shoulder.
Fernandez screamed at Red, but couldn’t be heard above all the noise. He forced himself to take his eyes off the RPG gunner and tear off the old belt box, get a fresh one out of his vest, and snap it in. Too slow, too slow. The feed cover was open — he laid the new belt over the feed tray.
The RPG rocket came out of the launcher with a tremendous flash. Fernandez saw it heading straight for him.
The rocket passed right over the top of the rotors. Fernandez hammered the feed cover down.
The Syrian stood staring at the helicopter as if he couldn’t believe he’d missed. Fernandez let fly with a continuous fifty-round burst that left the SAW barrel smoking. The Syrian fell back into the rocks. Unlike Jaybird, Fernandez wasn’t dehydrated, and he did piss his pants.
Warning lights were blinking in the cockpit. The pilot held the Blackhawk steady. They weren’t going anywhere.
Magic Brown shot another Syrian soldier as he backed toward the helicopter. The Syrians were pushing forward. Magic had just reached the ladder when two Syrians appeared near the tail of the helicopter. Magic dropped one of them, then the hammer clicked on an empty chamber as the second Syrian reared back to throw a grenade. Rounds cracked past Magic’s shoulder. The Syrian fell, and lost his grip on the grenade. Magic ducked. The grenade exploded beside the Syrian.
Murdock had fired from the base of the ladder. He gestured frantically for Magic to get up. Magic did.
Razor Roselli killed a Syrian who’d made it all the way up to the perimeter, only to hesitate fatally when confronted with someone wearing the same uniform. Razor bolted for the Blackhawk.
A round hit him in the ankle and took him off his feet. Razor tried to get up off the ground, but couldn’t.
Murdock released the ladder. He got over to Razor and dropped to his knees. Razor threw his arms around Murdock’s neck. Murdock strained to his feet with Razor hanging onto his back. The pain was blinding.
Murdock staggered over to the ladder. He dropped his AKM and grabbed the rungs. He pulled himself up one step, and it seemed like lights were flashing before his eyes.
Six 120mm mortar illumination rounds popped in the air above the helicopter. The effect was like being on the field of a football stadium during a night game.
Murdock made it up another rung, and then couldn’t make his legs move any more.