With a minimum of fanfare, the Blackhawk shot forward to engage the Huey with its chin-mounted machine gun blazing.
The Huey blindly shot off a salvo of three air-to-air rockets before breaking sharply to the east.
Vince watched as the Huey’s errant rockets streaked by the Blackhawk and harmlessly exploded into a stand of grizzled oaks.
Meanwhile, Marine Two further descended. Vince could feel the Sikorsky’s powerful downdraft as his canoe glided in beside the VP’s. Like a mother hen protecting her chicks, the immense transport helicopter initiated a protective hover above them, while all eyes focused on the Blackhawk’s continued pursuit.
Unable to outrun the Blackhawk, the Huey was headed almost due east, at an altitude of six hundred feet. A towering nine-hundred-foot limestone bluff lay immediately ahead. If the Huey didn’t gain altitude quickly, it would surely strike the bluff, and sensing that they had their quarry cornered, the Blackhawk let loose another round of machine-gun fire.
A thick column of black smoke began pouring from the
Huey’s engine, and it was obvious that it’d never generate enough power to get over the bluff. While the VP traded a high five with Ben Eberly, Vince watched the Blackhawk pass through the oily column of smoke, its machine gun blazing away with the coup de grace.
The Huey appeared to be only a few feet away from hitting the bluff, and just missed striking it by initiating a sharp, heavily banked turn to the north. Still immersed in the Huey’s trailing cloud of smoke, the Blackhawk fought to turn to the north itself, but in the process clipped the bluff with a rotor tip. For the briefest of moments, the Blackhawk appeared to be suspended in midair. But then the forces of gravity took over, and the helicopter, complete with its five-man CAT team inside, began a spiraling, uncontrolled descent.
It crashed and exploded at the foot of the bluff. From the river, Vince clearly saw the red-hot fireball, and knew in an instant that all aboard were dead. He was sickened with this realization, his grief cut short by the return of the Huey.
Their phantom attacker swept in from the north, only a few feet from the river’s surface. Smoke continued to pour from its engine, though that didn’t keep it from making its presence known with a pair of spiraling rockets. While one of these missiles exploded in a geyser of water well short of them, the other detonated in the shallows directly amidships of the VP’s canoe.
A bruising shower of pebbles rained down on both of the canoes.
All of them began paddling with renewed intensity, even with Marine Two’s sheltering presence above.
As they rounded the next bend and shot over another set of rapids, Vince spotted a clearing ahead on the right bank. There was plenty of limestone cover nearby, and he watched as the district ranger pointed to this same outcrop from the stern of the VP’s canoe.
A distance of a good three hundred yards still had to be paddled before they’d reach land, and they redoubled their efforts, taking advantage of the swift current they now found themselves in. The roar of the white water all but swallowed any evidence of Marine Two above, and Vince looked upward to determine its position. The Sikorsky had gained several hundred feet of altitude, and Vince could see one of the Marines bravely standing in the open hatch firing an assault rifle at the Huey, which was headed straight for them from upstream, machine gun blazing.
Vince fought the impulse to pull out his pistol, and he watched Marine Two selflessly position itself between their canoes and the onrushing Huey. The big green Sikorsky had no offensive weapons systems of its own, and displayed remarkable survivability as it took round after round of machine-gun fire originally meant for Vince and his group. In the end, it was a pair of air-to-air missiles that led to Marine Two’s demise, and the Sikorsky exploded and plunged nose-first into the river.
A bare one hundred yards now separated them from the protective wall of limestone rocks on the shoreline. The VP’s canoe was a boat length ahead, and Vince found himself praying that Andrew Chapman would be able to reach cover before the Huey was able to reposition itself.
A quick glance to his right showed that his prayers would never be answered. A single rocket shot out of the Huey’s starboard pod and slammed into the lead canoe. The force of this explosion was enough to split the vessel in half, and Vince looked in horror as Chapman went flying head over heels into the swift moving waters of the main channel.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Vince leaped into the river himself, just missing the rocket that incinerated his own canoe and instantly killed Ranger Ron Wyatt. As he plunged into the icy water, he was suddenly aware of the incredible force of the current. Like a powerful riptide, it sucked him downstream, and Vince fought his way to the surface.
It would be useless to swim, and he rolled over on his back to let the current take him. He shot past a series of large boulders, and was all but oblivious to his sighting of the Huey soaring close overhead, flames and thick smoke pouring from the doomed helicopter’s main cabin. Only one thing mattered, and that was locating the man whom Vince had sworn to protect with his life. He found himself issuing the briefest of prayers before lifting his head upward to scan the frothing white water directly downstream.
And it was then he spotted the body of Andrew Montgomery Chapman, facedown in the current, and the immense waterfall that he was about to be sucked over.
Chapter 13
Thomas picked up a map of the sprawling, 63,000-acre post at the main gate, and his first stop was at the CID field office. They were expecting him, and he was informed that Ted Callahan was waiting for him at Range Thirteen, near Fomey Airfield. With directions in hand, Thomas returned to his car and continued south on Constitution Avenue.
This was his first visit to Fort Leonard Wood, and he was immediately impressed. The tree-lined grounds were spotless, the majority of modern buildings that he could see from the road looking more like they belonged on a college campus. The Maneuver Support Center passed on his left, home to the U.S. Army Engineer, Chemical, and Military Police training schools. He went by the veterans hospital, the billeting office, a barracks area, and a large parade ground. Hundreds of BDUclad soldiers were assembled in formation here, and Thomas could tell from their appearance that they were new recruits, in the early stages of basic training. The Drill Sergeants, in their round campaign hats, looked like they were reading them the riot act, and Thomas noted that a large percentage of the recruits were female.
Two decades had passed since he had experienced his own early military training back at the Air Force Academy. Female cadets were the exception back then. And though it was surely only his imagination at work, most of the recruits, male and female, whom he passed on the way to the airfield looked more like kids who belonged in summer camp rather than people being trained to become soldiers.
The narrow asphalt road leading to the range turned to gravel, and at the third turnoff on the right, he spotted a red pennant flying from a flagpole. Thomas was stopped by a private first class on guard duty, and it took only a brief conversation for his legitimacy to be verified. The road to Range Thirteen further narrowed, leading him through a dense stand of pines and ending at a broad clearing with an earthen berm partially encircling it.