"I've got it located just off the coast, sir, in case the MiGs decide to give it another try. I know we've got the F-16s on station now, but I don't want to let anybody close to that helicopter. Wildcard worked better than we expected. Apparently even the tracking radar on the Korean MiGs couldn't pick it up. I'll keep Wildcard there for another twenty minutes and then send them home."
Parker was relieved. The first operational mission flown by the Stealth fighter had proven a success. The two Stealth fighters had been stationed in northern Japan the last three months conducting classified training flights near Russian airspace, testing the aircraft's capabilities against the radar array on the Soviets' east coast. The performance during this crisis had proven the plane's capabilities and worth. Of course, it had also disclosed the aircraft's operational existence to the North Koreans, but Parker felt that was a price worth paying. The Stealth fighter's existence would have come out in the next few months anyway.
Parker keyed the mike again. "Do you have any communications with the helicopter?"
"We haven't tried yet, sir. It doesn't have secure capability."
"Can you talk to it if you need to?"
"Yes, sir. We can broadcast on the guard net, and that will override whatever frequency they're on now."
"Get them on the radio and then patch me in," Parker ordered.
"Yes, sir. Wait one."
Parker heard Ehrlich make the call.
"Army helicopter 579. Army helicopter 579. This is Tango Station. Over."
There was a long pause, then a woman's voice came over the air. "Umm… Tango Station, this is 579. Over."
"579, this is Tango Station on an unsecure link. We're the people who have been looking after you the past half hour. We also control your escort. I have someone in your chain of command who wants to talk to you. Over."
"Roger, we're standing by. Over."
Ehrlich keyed in Parker. "Go ahead, sir. Your transmissions will be relayed through us to 579. Just key your mike when you're ready to talk to them. Let me know when you want me to shut them out. Over."
Parker keyed his mike. "579, this is…" he hesitated and looked at Major Thomas. "What's our call sign?"
"Papa Sierra Twelve, sir."
Parker thumbed the mike. "579, this is Papa Sierra Twelve. What is the status of the personnel you picked up? Over."
"Papa Sierra Twelve, this is 579. We've got four wounded, one critically. The medic says that if we don't soon get him to a hospital equipped with suction he won't make it. The others are all stable. Over."
Parker paused and looked at Thomas and Hossey. "Any ideas?"
Thomas shook his head. "There's nothing closer than here as far as hospitals go."
"They could land on the Rathburne again," Hossey suggested.
Parker contacted 579 again. "This is Papa Sierra Twelve. The only place we have that is closer than coming here is the same place you refueled. Over."
"This is 579. We understand. Heading for that location now. Could you check to see if that location has the facilities to handle our patient? Over."
Commander Lemester couldn't believe it. "Say again. Over."
The speaker on the bridge crackled. "I say again. Reverse course and assume a heading of three-five-four degrees at maximum speed. You have an inbound helicopter with wounded on board. Over."
Lemester rubbed his forehead. He had a hell of a headache. The caller had identified himself with the classified call sign of the commander of the U.S. Eighth Army in Korea. Lemester wasn't sure if the commander of Eighth Army could order him around, not being in the direct chain of command of the Rathburne. On the other hand, that fellow was a four-star general. What the hell, Lemester decided. They were getting pretty good at picking up mysterious helicopters. One more wouldn't make much difference.
"Roger. We're coming about. Over."
"Do you have medical facilities to handle…," there was a pause, "a pneumothorax? Over."
"Wait one. Over." Lemester grabbed his intership phone and dialed the dispensary. "Doc, can you handle a pneumothorax?"
"Not really, sir. I don't have the right equipment. I could probably stabilize it."
Lemester keyed his mike. "That's a negative. Over."
Riley was conscious now. At least his eyes were open. His overall situation was deteriorating. Comsky had redone the bandages and tried to fashion a valve to allow air to get out, but it wasn't working well. Riley's skin was turning blue and the veins in his neck were distended. Mitchell watched as Comsky forced his finger into the bullet hole to release some of the air that was building up between the outside of the lung and the chest cavity, desperately trying to prevent the lung from collapsing.
Jean gave them an estimated time of arrival at the Rathburne of 6:30 a.m. Another two hours.
The team's successful mission and exfiltration was now overshadowed. Mitchell shook his head. He wasn't sure what they had accomplished, and he certainly wasn't sure that the price they were paying was worth it. Blood was a valuable currency.
They'd gone this far and now everyone had run out of ideas. He gripped Riley's hand. "Come on. Don't quit now."
In the front, Jean Long had taken the controls from Lassiter. They were down at a hundred feet and she had the throttle wide open.
"579, this is Tango Station. Over."
Lassiter keyed the mike. "Tango Station, this is 579. Over."
"Your present destination doesn't have the facilities to handle your most serious casualty. Over."
Lassiter looked at Jean. "What now?"
General Parker looked around the room. "Any bright ideas?"
Major Thomas was already dialing the phone. "Yes, sir. Tell the helicopter to keep on heading for the Rathburne. If I remember rightly we ought to be able to work something out."
"579, this is Papa Sierra Twelve. Continue on course for refuel point.
We've come up with an alternate plan. Over."
Jean Long looked distrustfully at the radio. She called over the intercom to her husband. "What do you think, Mitch?" "Go for it. We don't have much choice." Jean keyed the mike. "This is 579. Roger. Over."
Jean Long expertly flared the Blackhawk over the fantail of the Rathburne. She settled the bird down and slowed the engine to idle. Everyone sat still. In the dawn's dim light she could see some of the crew of the frigate staring at them from the edge of the large helipad. The chronometer on the instrument panel said 0614.
Two figures approached the helicopter. Mitchell slid open the right door and Sergeant Major Hooker and Chief Trapp climbed into the crowded back.
"Who was hit?" Trapp asked anxiously. Mitchell pointed at the body that Comsky was preparing for the move. The medic was tightening down the bandages, especially the ones across the chest. "A lot of people would have given up by now," Comsky whispered. Still, they knew that willpower could do only so much.
Trapp shook his head. What a screwed-up mission. Dave Riley dying would be a hell of a way to end it. Trapp looked out the open door as another helicopter roared in from the west with all its lights on and settled down twenty feet away from 579. Its side doors slid open and two men carrying a stretcher raced over. Comsky opened the door closest to the other aircraft and waved the men in. As he rapidly helped them strap Riley to the stretcher, he yelled in one of the men's ears, giving him Riley's status. As soon as they got him tied in, Comsky leapt out and helped them carry Riley to the other aircraft. He got in with the stretcher. Both aircraft lifted off and headed to the southwest.