Then Razor’s weight suddenly came off his shoulders.
When the flares popped, the Blackhawk crew flipped up their now-useless night-vision goggles. It was an incredibly dangerous transition to make while flying.
When they saw the lieutenant stop moving on the ladder, Jaybird and Magic scrambled back down. They snatched Razor off Murdock’s back and passed him up into the cabin. Then they took hold of Murdock’s wrists and lifted him up. The others grabbed him and pulled him into the cabin. Jaybird and Magic clambered up the ladder.
“Go!” the SEALs in the cabin screamed. “Go, go, go!”
The pilot swung the Blackhawk down the ridge while the SEALs were still pulling up the caving ladder. A few seconds later the ridge masked the Syrian fire. Then the Blackhawk was out from under the light of the flares, and the crew went back on the NVGs.
There was no cheering or exultation in the back of the Blackhawk. There were hurt SEALs who needed to be attended to. Fernandez and Nicholson slammed the cabin doors shut.
The metal floor was slick with blood, and the empty cartridge casings rolled around underfoot like ball bearings. Doc Ellsworth slipped twice trying to get across the cabin. One of the door gunners handed Doc his infrared flashlight.
Magic had already tied a battle dressing onto Razor’s ankle. The bone was broken, so Doc slipped on a splint, gave him a shot of morphine, and started an IV with a bag from Fernandez’s trauma kit.
Murdock sat slumped against the back wall of the cabin. Doc was busy, and enough was enough. He took out one of his own morphine syrettes, jabbed it into his thigh, and squeezed the tube dry. What was that sensation? It couldn’t be the morphine yet. Ah, that was it. It was warm in the cabin. He hadn’t felt that way in a long time.
The Blackhawk sped down the mountain ridge. The crew saw the thermal strips of the circling backup bird and formed up behind it. Far too many warning lights were still lit up on the console. The copilot ran through the systems.
“FLIR is down,” he reported. “So is the radar.”
With no forward-looking infrared or terrain-following-and-avoidance radar, the pilot was going to have to ride the treetops with no aids other than his Mark-I eyeballs looking through night-vision goggles. Well, that was how the first Nightstalkers had done it. So could he. The stick was feeling heavy. He didn’t want to put the Blackhawk through any sudden maneuvers. Something might break.
“Do we have the nav?” he asked the copilot.
“Nothing but GPS, and that keeps going down and coming up. Radar warning is down too.”
At least they didn’t have to sit and worry about being shot at, the pilot thought. They wouldn’t know until they were already hit. He keyed his mike button. “Hammer-Two, Hammer-One, over?”
“Hammer-Two.”
At least the radio worked. “Hammer-Two, we don’t have a lot of systems left. We’ll follow you all the way. Keep an eye on us in case we lose our radio, over.”
“Roger.”
The Blackhawks turned off the top of the ridge and headed west down the slope. They followed a different route from the one they’d taken in.
If the injured Blackhawk could no longer stay in the air it would put down, hopefully without crashing, and everyone inside would transfer to the second ship. No one looked forward to doing that in the middle of Lebanon at night. Of course, if anything happened to a helicopter at that altitude, there wouldn’t be much time to react.
The turbines were screaming too loud for casual conversation. Jaybird got the attention of the door gunners and pantomimed drinking. One of them tapped his hand to his forehead as if to say he was sorry for not thinking of it. They passed around all the crew canteens and water bottles.
Murdock refused a canteen until all his men had something to drink. He finally accepted one, and the flat tepid water tasted delicious. The morphine was providing a wonderful soothing warmth.
The port turbine engine started to give off a knocking sound. Jaybird waved his hand, as if signaling for a waiter, to get the door gunners’ attention again.
Ed DeWitt was sitting near the front of the cabin. He tapped a gunner on the leg and pointed to the back.
Jaybird aimed his thumb up at the engine. The gunner picked his way through the crowded cabin until he was right below the engine. He lifted up the bottom of his helmet so he could hear clearly. Then he began talking rapidly into his microphone.
“If it goes we’ll shut it down,” the pilot replied, still unruffled. “But we’ve got too much weight and not enough altitude to shut it down now and still keep flying.”
The knocking continued. At least it was rhythmic, Murdock thought. He couldn’t fly a helicopter, and he tried not to get agitated about things he had no control over.
The two Blackhawks crossed the coastline between Byblos and BatroOn.
“Feet wet,” the pilot reported.
Murdock motioned for Fernandez and Nicholson to open the cabin doors. If the helicopter died there was no possibility of landing now, only a crash into the sea. And when helicopters hit the water, even gently, they sank. And because the heavy engines and rotors were above the cabin, helicopters flipped upside down when they sank. If that happened, everyone inside would need to get out fast.
“Screw it,” the pilot said. “We’re outside the territorial limits, I’m getting some altitude.” He pulled back on the cyclic and began a very slow, very gentle climb.
The engine knocking became faster. Murdock could see the reflection of the moon on the water below. He really didn’t feel like ending the evening with a swim. This was about the time Razor would say: “Don’t worry, Boss, we probably won’t survive the initial crash anyway.” But Razor wouldn’t be saying much until the drugs wore off.
One of the door gunners was pointing to the front of the helicopter. Those SEALs who could raised themselves off the floor to be able to see out the windscreen. And there was the George Washington glowing in the moonlight.
The lead Blackhawk peeled off to allow the damaged one to land first. The carrier was sailing into the wind, which was how the helicopter would land.
As the Blackhawk dropped, Murdock’s view out the cabin door changed from dark ocean waves to flat black no-skid flight deck.
As soon as the wheels touched down, the copilot instantly shut the engines down. They were finished taking chances for the night.
There was minimal crew on the flight deck, and they had been instructed to forget everything they saw. Or else.
White-shirted and red-crossed medical corpsmen were waiting with stretchers. The SEALs passed Higgins out first, then Razor. DeWitt walked to sick bay, as did Murdock with the aid of the morphine.
The SEALS didn’t kiss the flight deck. But now that his officers and chief were gone, Jaybird Sterling leaned between the cockpit seats and planted a firm wet kiss on the cheek of the pilot. The warrant officer jumped, startled, and then broke into a huge grin. He knew SEALS, and was probably glad he hadn’t been French-kissed. Then Jaybird gave him the traditional, heartfelt, but very unofficial Special Forces crowning tribute. “You sweet motherfucker, don’t you never die!”
50
Blake Murdock would have loved to catch a little shut-eye. But he was lying naked, on his stomach, atop an examination table in the sick bay. And a doctor was giving him the facts of life.
“No, I wouldn’t even think of putting you under,” the doctor said, shaking his head. He was a lieutenant, wearing nice clean khakis. “Not in your present condition.” He pinched the skin of Murdock’s forearm. When he released it the skin stood right up. “See how dehydrated you are? No, we’ll just give you a local and probe for fragments. The big ones, that is. The little ones will work their way out on their own, eventually.”