Someone near the pickup shouted in Farsi, and a second later a big explosion lifted the truck in the air. Crocker watched it hit the ground grill first, explode in flames, and turn over. It reminded him of a bucking bronco. He swung left around the truck, firing his HK416. Phit-phit-phit. One enemy cut down. Phit-phit. Two. Phit-phit-phit. Three.
The second truck caught fire and exploded to his right, knocking his feet out from under him. Crocker rolled over, assuming a prone position, reloaded, and continued to fire. When he couldn’t see any more of the enemy through the smoke and flames, he stopped and inhaled fumes and dust.
His mouth and nostrils were clogged and his ears were numb. That didn’t stop him from loading another cartridge into the HK416 and watching the light dance on the side of the Predator, which was strangely beautiful and reminded him of a Navajo rite he’d witnessed in the Arizona desert.
Hot air churned around him. He half-wished it would pick him up and pull him into the sky. Looking up, he saw a bright light approach and readied his weapon.
Through the sight, he saw a grinning Mancini hurry toward him, cradling an M4. “You okay, boss?” he shouted.
Crocker didn’t hear him at first, but saw the tribal tattoo on his neck and his smile. “Stop grinning,” he snarled.
Mancini said, “I like the way you took care of business.”
“There’s nothing to fucking smile about,” Crocker said. “Ritchie, the pilot, and the copilot are dead.”
He watched the expression change on Mancini’s face.
“Cal’s badly injured.”
“No…”
Next thing he remembered was sitting in the rear door of the Israeli helicopter watching the Predator burn in the distance. A warm wind slapped his face and tore at the little hair he still had on the top of his head. He’d let God take all of it and his right arm, if he promised to bring Ritchie back.
He was trying to remember where they had come from and where they were going when he heard Akil’s voice over the headset radio.
“Help! Taking fire from two directions! Need backup a-sap!”
“Hold on, Akil. We’re on our way!”
The Israeli Yas’ur 2000 helicopter (a variant of a Sikorsky CH-53 Sea Stallion) was banking right, away from Akil and the downed Black Hawk, which was on the other side of the hill. Crocker looked back into the helo, spotted Davis by the door, and shouted urgently, “What the fuck is going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re going in the wrong direction.”
“The medevac helo had to pull back. They were taking fire. The Israelis have called in another assault team to clear the area around the Black Hawk first.”
“Where is it?”
“Don’t know.”
Crocker was already on his feet, climbing over the gear in the cargo bay. He squeezed between the fold-up seats, one of which was occupied by Mancini, then held on to the bar in front of the center console with his right and grabbed the pilot with his left. The pilot, who wore a green helmet, matching green flight suit with an Israeli patch on the shoulder, and goggles, vigorously signaled to Crocker to move back.
The helo was about 150 yards off the ground, flying blacked out.
Crocker didn’t move. This time he slapped the pilot on the helmet. “Where’s the assault team?” he asked.
“It’s deploying now. Move back!”
“We left some men back there!” Crocker shouted, pointing behind him. “We’ve got to go back and get them!”
The pilot turned to his right, shouted something to the copilot in Hebrew, then placed a hand on Crocker’s chest and shoved him. “Sit down!”
Crocker stumbled, caught himself on the back of Mancini’s chair, then pushed forward aggressively. All the while, Akil screamed through the headset in his helmet, “I’ve got five minutes max! Soon I’ll either run out of ammo or be overrun!”
“Listen-”
“Get back. That’s an order!” the pilot shouted.
When Crocker didn’t move, the copilot got out of his seat and met him in a half-crouch. “You heard him,” he shouted in accented English, his face splashed with red instrument light. “The flying here is dangerous. We can’t talk now! Sit down!”
Crocker grabbed him by the front of his flight suit and shouted into his blue eyes, “You don’t understand. I’ve got a man trapped down there. We’ve got to turn this goddamn thing around.”
“We don’t take orders from you.”
“Fuck that!”
He was about to lean past the copilot and grab the pilot when he felt something hit him in the throat and lost consciousness for several seconds. When he came to, he felt big bodies grappling around him.
Davis had the copilot pinned against the seat while Mancini pounded him in the stomach as the helo rocked from side to side.
Crocker heard the pilot scream something in Hebrew, then saw him raise a pistol and point it at Mancini’s head. Not waiting to see if he was going to pull the trigger or not, Crocker grabbed the pilot’s wrist and slammed it against the forward console. The pistol sprang loose, flipped in the air, crashed against the reinforced-glass forward window, and hit the floor.
The bird banked sharply right, throwing Mancini, Davis, and the copilot into a jumble of bodies against the cockpit side panel.
Crocker held on to the pilot bar, pulled his SIG Sauer P226 from its holster, and pressed it against the side of the pilot’s face. “You either turn this fucking thing around and land it, or I’ll put a bullet in your head!”
“Go to hell!”
“I’ll take you with me.”
When the copilot lunged for his arm, he clocked him with his elbow and then smashed him in the nose. Blood flew throughout the tight space.
Crocker pushed the pistol up to the pilot’s cheekbone again. “I’m not fucking around!” he shouted. “Turn this thing around, now!”
The pilot swore up and down in Hebrew as he glanced at his wounded colleague, then up at Crocker. “You’re out of control!”
With his free hand, Crocker grabbed hold of the flight director. “I’ll do it myself if I have to.”
The pilot tried to push his hand away. “No.”
“Then turn this fucking thing around!”
“Okay.”
Crocker kept the pistol pointed at the pilot’s head as he slowed the helo and made a sweeping left turn. Within seconds, he spotted the burning flares on the hill ahead and tracers like little angry fireflies buzzing around the downed U.S. Black Hawk, reminding him of a bonfire on a beach.
“There it is!” he shouted.
“I see it.”
“Akil, you still there?” he shouted into his headset.
“Yeah, boss! But I’m surrounded!”
“Hold on! We’re coming!”
“Quick!”
Turning to Davis, Crocker shouted, “Strap the copilot in one of the fold-up chairs and zip-tie his wrists and ankles together! Then keep an eye on the pilot and give him directions. Mancini, come with me.”
Together they readied the twin 7.62 machine guns mounted on the side windows and started directing fire at the enemy, kneeling around the downed U.S. Black Hawk. Through his NVGs Crocker saw Akil pinned down behind some boulders about twenty yards above where they had placed the flares.
Ducking inside the cabin and shouting at Davis, Crocker said, “Tell the pilot to circle around once, so we can lay down fire. Then I want him to land this baby on the patch of land near where the flares are burning.”
“Got it!”
Yellow-and-white tracers flew up at them, and several bullets slammed into the reinforced metal fuselage. One glanced off the barrel of the machine gun Crocker was holding, making a screeching sound and sending up long white sparks, one of which burned his lip.