“JACKAL ONE is channel 50, looking for gas,” Beach Dog said.
“JACKAL ONE, COWBIRD is holding at STARLIGHT, three thousand feet.”
Beach Dog picked him up on the situation display. He punched the data into the flight computer and it confirmed his rendezvous heading. Pulling up on the collective, he pushed the Pave Hawk to match the plane’s airspeed and worked the cyclic so that the helicopter began to climb up to meet the MC-130. He searched the dark skies for the turboprop aircraft. He had lost the beer in the first bet, but he could still win the second round of drinks from his wingman if he could be the first now to make visual contact.
Several minutes passed and he couldn’t spot it, although the radar told him he was getting close. He hated to roll over and ask for an assist, but he squeezed his mike and did it anyway. “COWBIRD, JACKAL ONE. No joy. Request Christmas tree.”
A flash of red and green caught Beach Dog’s eye as the Combat Talon briefly turned on its exterior lights. “Tally the tanker, one-thirty, high, seven miles,” Beach Dog said to his copilot as he spotted it. He leveled his helo out at two thousand feet, a thousand feet below the tanker and a mere three hundred above the highest terrain. Keying the mike, he said, “COWBIRD, JACKAL ONE, you’re seven-thirty, low for seven.”
JACKAL TWO also called in its position relative to the tanker, indicating that it was also below it and seven nautical miles away.
“JACKAL FLIGHT, you are also cleared into the right observation position,” the commander of the tanker said, giving permission for both helicopters to approach.
Beach Dog climbed five hundred feet above the tanker and positioned himself a thousand feet abeam its wing line so that the MC-130’s commander could see him. Then he heard, “JACKAL FLIGHT. COWBIRD has a tally. Cleared into the stabilized position, left hose. Check nose is cold, switches safe.”
Beach Dog turned off his radar and glanced at the panel to confirm that all weapons switches were off. “COWBIRD, JACKAL ONE’s nose cold, switches safe.”
“COWBIRD, JACKAL TWO’s nose is cold, switches safe,” the second Pave Hawk pilot said.
“JACKAL FLIGHT ready,” Beach Dog said as he had hundreds of times before.
“Cleared to plug,” the MC-130 commander said as he banked the aircraft into a tight circle with the helos on the inside so that they could close on the tanker using their smaller turn radius since they didn’t have excess speed to narrow the gap.
Beach Dog and his wingman were about to pull within feet of the airplane, out of sight of its commander who was relying upon intercom reports from observers watching from the aft side doors. The slightest error could cause a collision in the pitch black night.
Pucker time.
Beach Dog lived for these moments.
Holding his breath, he studied the small yellow light on the pod hydraulic system. It was ready to plug and play. He tapped the controls, coaxing a little more speed out of the craft.
“Forward three, down two,” the commander said as Beach Dog moved toward the basket at the end of the long invisible hose trailing from the aircraft. He fought the airplane’s wake as he stabilized the helicopter just below and behind the tanker. The basket was at his one o’clock. He caressed the controls and flew the fixed probe on the front of the Pave Hawk into the basket. It mated and the gas pump started.
Now Beach Dog had to keep it steady for the next seven or eight minutes. At least the air was smooth tonight. This was his most vulnerable time and he trusted the Cobra was somewhere out there, covering his back. He lowered his seat and ducked down so he could keep an eye on the green refueling light. The world faded away as he focused on the slow dance with the tanker. As much as he wanted to use his feet, he forced himself not to touch the pedals and risk overcompensating. When necessary, he lightly tapped the controls, adjusting his position.
Several minutes later, the red light came on and the transfer was complete. He reduced power and drifted aft for disengagement from the basket and to position the helo on the outer edge of the airplane’s wake.
Time for the Beach Dog to surf the wave.
Banzai!
Expecting to come free of the aircraft, he felt a small vibration, then a tug, so he looked outside. The Pave Hawk was still connected to the tanker. Working the controls, he tried to gently move away from the basket. The MC-130’s take-up reel was supposed to retract the hose. Nothing happened. They were stuck together in midair. The basket needed a little more convincing to let go. He cut back on the throttle and lifted the nose higher to cause drag to slow down his helo so the damn hose was jerked away by the faster plane.
He felt a jolt. The helicopter shuddered and he saw the guide lights under the plane move away. The Hawk yawed to the right, then dropped. Something smacked the windshield with a loud clap and he jumped. It whacked again and again.
Beach Dog worked the controls as if they were an extension of his own body. The Pave Hawk stabilized, but something kept whipping the helo, pounding the glass like an out of control dominatrix.
The hose.
With each whack, Beach Dog was sure the window was going to give and send daggers into them. As the helicopter was thrown around and beaten, he suddenly pictured the steel hose flipping into the path of the rotors. If that happened, that would be it. The forward motion had to stop fast. His airspeed was still over one hundred knots. He shoved down the collective and tipped the nose right up to the edge, daring the craft to flip while he used the airframe to brake. His stomach did a somersault, but the Hawk slowed and the thumping stopped. A caution light flashed on the console to his left. He glanced at the center panel and a gearbox chip light winked at him. The controls were responsive, but the light was now glowing steadily. The detector screened for ferrous particles in the system and if it was telling the truth, the tail rotor’s gearbox was chewing itself up.
“JACKAL ONE, declaring an emergency and setting down.”
Beach Dog slowly looked around below him for suitable landing terrain.
Iggy grabbed the extra headset and gave orders as they were losing altitude. That guy was a true operator, never giving up, giving orders even when Beach Dog wasn’t completely sure they were going to make it.
“JACKAL TWO this is TIN MAN. Activate bump plan. DRAGON ONE, hold position and stand by.”
The helicopter descended straight down. Hunter had thought Beach Dog had it back under control, but they were going straight down so fast, he wasn’t sure anymore. Suddenly, the descent slowed and a few seconds later it kissed the ground. Everyone clapped and whistled and Beach Dog reached over and petted his lucky cat attached to the dash.
“Sierra Hotel,” Hunter congratulated him with insider lingo for shit hot.
Hunter and GENGHIS made eye contact with each other and GENGHIS shook his head, closing his eyes as he said, “Dodged another one. You know my big fear is I’m not going to go in combat. I just know it’s going to be some dumb-ass accident like this because somebody packed the fucking apricots and ate the goddamn Charms.”
Hunter smiled. He had never really believed the old WWII myth among mechanized infantry that every time a tank had been blown up, it had been found to have had a can of apricots inside. He told himself that the modern version about the Charms candy was equally untrue and it couldn’t possibly have been the cause of the difficulties earlier. Urban combat legend or not, he wasn’t about to admit that when he’d downed a MRE in Bagram, he did eat a handful of Charms before he realized what he had done. Bad juju was not something he wanted to mess with.
Everyone sat inside the helo waiting for the dust and sand to settle before getting out. The second Pave Hawk would be there any minute and they would swap aircraft according to Iggy’s bump plan. If this helo could be fixed, it would follow with the second chalk as soon as it was airworthy. The delay shouldn’t cost them more than five minutes, Hunter told himself while he tried not to think about how they were down to one Hawk, one Cobra and one team. Thinking about how bad things were could only jinx them further.