Roger reached up and flipped the switch to activate hydraulics and lower the cargo ramp at the rear of the helicopter — a much appreciated improvement over the typical clamshell-style doors. Both side doors were open, but they weren’t sure which direction the SEALs would come from, and every second counted. The quicker they were aboard, the quicker they could lift off and return to the safety of the sea.
“Point one,” Roger said.
Charlie glanced to his right and saw an increase in the gunfire breaking through the jungle. It was going to get really interesting really quick.
Charlie keyed the switch to speak over the intercom. “We need someone on the guns.”
“On it,” came a SEAL’s reply.
Without taking his eyes off the approaching landing zone, Charlie knew what was happening behind him in the main cabin. Each of the four SEALs had been trained in operating the miniguns before taking off from the Reagan, and two were taking up positions at the side doors and preparing to rain hate down on the enemy. After clipping the safety tethers’ carabiners to their rigger’s belts, the SEALs would remove a cotter pin to unlock the pivoting system and swing the guns out over the water.
The electrically driven six-barrel rotary machine guns were capable of firing 7.62 x 51mm rounds at a rate of over three thousand rounds per minute. Though there were no optics or lasers on the guns, they were loaded with a three-to-one tracer mix that would allow the operators to walk their fire onto the targets. Both SEALs flipped their switches to turn on the guns’ power supplies, then free-spun the barrels.
“Dusty One…” There was heavy breathing on the radio. “We’re thirty seconds out.”
“Mark yourselves with IR strobes,” Charlie replied. “We’re in the flare.”
Within seconds, flashes of light from separate IR strobes began blinking through the dense foliage. Two were directly in front of the helicopter, and two were to Roger’s left, further up the beach. He craned his neck to keep sight as the Mi-17 crossed the beach line and flared to stop its forward movement with the nose pointed at the first two strobes in the jungle. Charlie gave it left pedal and pivoted the helicopter to give the SEAL on the starboard GAU-17/A the widest field of fire.
“They’re on our heels,” a voice said over the radio, just as two blinking IR strobes broke through the tree line. Within seconds, Charlie was able to make out two men leapfrogging toward the waiting helicopter, taking turns to stop, pivot to the jungle, and fire several rounds into the trees while the other bounded ahead. He heard the minigun spool up behind him.
As the first two SEALs reached the open door of the Mi-17, two additional strobes broke through onto the beach to their left. Charlie could tell they were carrying a heavy load between them and was about to key the intercom switch when he heard Dave shouting.
“I’m going to help!”
Charlie looked over his shoulder in time to see the senior chief — who had just climbed aboard — leap from the port door and sprint up the beach toward the second pair of blinking strobes.
Ting!
He snapped his head right as a round plinked into the Mi-17’s armor plating aft of the side door. Fortunately, the SEAL manning the starboard minigun needed no other encouragement to respond, and Charlie heard the satisfying zipper of hot rounds flying through the night air. The SEAL pivoted the gun slowly from right to left and walked the rounds across the trees where only moments before two of his brothers had exited the jungle. Charlie looked away and focused on the two remaining SEALs struggling to drag the rescued spy across the sand forward of the helicopter.
Come on! What’s taking so long?
“One minute,” Roger said, letting him know they had already been on the ground longer than either wanted.
Charlie wanted to fire back an acerbic reply but knew it was pointless. All he could do was listen to the minigun laying down covering fire and wait for the last of the frogmen to carry the rescued Agency officer onto the helicopter.
Dave sprinted toward the others while firing his rifle into the jungle behind them, doing his best to keep their pursuers at bay. He saw Ron turn and stumble in the deep sand, almost dropping his single-handed grip on the litter, but he regained his footing and continued shuffling toward the waiting helicopter.
“Come on!” Dave yelled.
Over his shoulder, he heard a second minigun open up on the jungle to give them a heavy blanket of covering fire. He reached Ron and Graham and took one of the handles at the front of the litter, turning to help them drag the battered operations officer. With the added muscle, they moved quicker through the sand and reached the Hip within seconds. Dave leaped aboard and pulled the litter up onto the helicopter’s sloping ramp. Graham followed half a beat behind and helped him tow her deeper into the helicopter and hopefully better protected by the sparse armor plating.
Ron stepped up onto the ramp and shouted, “Last man!”
Dave watched him collapse in a heap next to the Agency officer, then moved quickly through the cabin to complete a head count. The last thing he wanted to do was leave anybody behind.
“All aboard,” Dave shouted, tapping Charlie on the shoulder. The pilot nodded and raised the collective, lifting the Russian-made helicopter from the sand. Less than ten seconds after the last SEAL stepped onto the ramp, the air branch pilot had the helicopter nosed over and accelerating away from the island. Exhausted, Dave slid to the floor and watched the SEALs on the door guns continue to spew thin tails of fire into the darkened jungle behind them.
Slowly, the gunfire ebbed, and the SEALs flipped off the miniguns’ electric motors and locked their mounts in place. As the sound of the beating rotor blades and wind whipping in through the open doors replaced the sound of gunfire, Dave plugged his Peltor headset into an intercom jack on the bulkhead. He surveyed his surroundings and saw bullet holes pocking the fuselage and brass casings and steel links littering the aluminum floor.
“Scar Nine Nine, Dusty One, the package is secure, proceeding to mom,” Charlie said.
Dave breathed a sigh of relief, thankful to be out over the water and heading home. But his relief was short-lived.
“Copy all, Dusty One.” The voice paused. “Chatter indicates the Chinese have launched fighters to intercept.”
“How long—”
Roger’s voice chimed in. “Looks like we’re leaking fuel.”
Well, shit.
33
Colt groaned and shifted his weight to try to find a modicum of relief from the discomfort caused by his parachute harness digging into his thighs after four hours strapped to the ejection seat. He brought his Garmin Fenix in front of his face and pressed the button to light it up so he could read the time.
Only ten more minutes, he thought.
He had come to regret his decision to volunteer for a second back-to-back shift and gave up on his Kindle in favor of staring out into the pitch-black nothingness to pass the time. He looked over at the jet on the catapult next to him and saw what looked like the flicker of a screen lighting up his wingman’s face.
“Hey, Ducky, how’s your night vision?”
Ducky looked up and glanced in Colt’s direction. “Great. You still over there?”
He shook his head and reached down to further dim his cockpit lighting, but no matter how dark he made it, he still couldn’t make out a defined horizon. It was just one of those nights.