There was another pair of booms and two more flares appeared in the sky overhead. The enemy probably thought that lighting up the sky would level the playing field, removing the technological advantage of the Delta team’s night vision. And maybe it would do that, but stealth and darkness weren’t the only tools in the Delta toolbox. One Delta operator was easily worth ten…twenty…or even fifty insurgents.
Sigler tried to do the math as he dropped to the prone once more, rolled left, and then squeezed a pair of shots in the direction of a distant muzzle flash. His eyesight was almost back to normal, and he could easily distinguish at least twenty separate jets of flame. Maybe fifty to one was pushing it a bit. He didn’t know how many hostiles they were facing, but it was evident that someone had put a lot of thought into this trap, which meant these weren’t run of the mill durka-durkas sprayin’ and prayin’.
Inside job.
He bounded up and made another rush. He was close enough to the crash site to see men huddled behind the wreck, popping up every few seconds to provide covering fire. Two more rushes would get him there, maybe one if he didn’t stop…he was close enough now that the wreck would cover his approach.
Someone in Beehive Six-Six was working with the enemy. Klein. It had to be Klein. The Company man had sold them out, sacrificed them…but why?
He reached the downed helicopter and went immediately to the nearest man. It was Lewis Aleman. The Delta sniper had his H&K PSG 1 sniper rifle beside him, but his left hand was clutching a Beretta M-9 handgun. It took Sigler only a moment to realize why Aleman had opted to use the pistol; his right hand, cradled protectively against his abdomen, looked like a mass of raw meat.
Sigler took a mental step back and assessed the situation. The Black Hawk sat upright on the desert floor, but the crash had crumpled its frame like a beer can. The doors had sprung open, leaving an open space through the middle, and two men — one wore an olive drab flight suit, marking him as a surviving crewmember, and the other was a Delta sniper — were working the fixed machine gun on the far side. Sigler also saw a body inside, a crewman impaled on a piece of metal.
There were two other motionless forms on the ground outside the Black Hawk. Both wore desert camouflage, torn and dark with spilled blood. Sigler couldn’t tell if they were alive or not. He turned back to Aleman. “Sit rep?”
The sniper grimaced. “Pilot’s alive…at least he was…trapped in the cockpit. Co-pilot has a broken leg…maybe some ribs.”
“Our guys?”
Aleman motioned to the still forms on the ground. “Bell’s hurt bad. Broken back, I think. Martinez is done.”
“Did you get a look at the other side?”
“Yeah. There’s a whole fucking lot of them.”
The rest of Sigler’s team reached the wreck and fanned out to join the Black Hawk’s defenders. Sigler took charge. “Danno, Jess…get that second 240 back in action. Jon, I need an LZ. Casey, Mike, get the wounded ready for transport.”
As the men quickly went to their assigned tasks, Sigler called up to the remaining Black Hawk, which continued to circle high above them. “Beehive Six-Four, this is Cipher. We’re establishing a casualty collection point fifty meters from my location. Will pop white smoke when ready for pick-up. How copy?”
“Good copy, Cipher. Stay on this channel. Have requested CAS, but no word on ETA.”
CAS — close air support — was exactly what they needed right now, but Sigler wasn’t going to hold his breath and hope for someone to come pull their asses out of the fire. He turned back to the wreck, where Parker and Strickland had succeeded in liberating the M240H from its pintle mount. Strickland cradled the machine gun in both arms, while Parker gathered up full cans of ammunition — two in each hand. Sigler gestured for them to set it up at the nose end of the helicopter, and then he moved forward to the cockpit door.
The pilot sat unmoving in his chair, the control panel closed over his legs like the jaws of a devouring monster. His head lolled to the side and blood dripped from the bottom edge of his helmet. Sigler turned away.
He joined Parker and Strickland just as the latter opened up with the M240. Parker was right next to his teammate, ready to slap in a fresh belt of ammo as soon as it was needed. Sigler dropped down next to him.
“How many?”
Parker craned his head to answer. “I make out three different groups…at our ten, twelve and two.”
The mortars boomed again, throwing another pair of flares into the sky, and this time Sigler was able to mark their location, positioned behind the line of riflemen.
“I don’t like this, Danno. Pretty soon, they’re gonna figure out they can do more with those cannons than just pop flares.”
“So we can’t stay here. What’s the play?”
Sigler did a rough head count. There had been ten men aboard the Black Hawk. Even if they left the dead behind, a thought that galled him, he didn’t think the remaining bird could get them all out. “We evac the casualties, then fall back to the original objective. Buy some time until another bird gets here.”
Parker nodded, but before he could say anything, the ground in front of them erupted in a spray of dust. Sigler instinctively dropped, but just as quickly, he rolled into a prone shooting position and triggered a few shots of suppressive fire. He expected to hear Strickland jump in with the 240, and when that didn’t happen, he called out: “Danno, Jess, still with me?”
“Jack,” Parker called. “Jess is hit.”
Sigler muttered a curse and spider-crawled back to the impromptu machine-gun emplacement where he found Parker with both hands pressed to the Strickland’s neck in what seemed like a futile effort to stanch the rhythmic spurts of blood.
“Keep pressure on the wound,” Sigler instructed. “I’ll pull him behind cover.”
At a nod from Parker, he grabbed the stricken soldier’s legs and began hauling him back behind the shadow of the helicopter. Parker kept one hand on the wound and dug a field dressing from his tactical vest with the other. It was probably a wasted effort, but Sigler didn’t tell Parker that; Delta operators never gave up, especially when it came to saving one of their teammates. Braving the kill zone once more, Sigler crawled out to retrieve the 240.
“Jon! Where’s my LZ?”
From about fifty meters away, Jon Foley on one end of a litter carrying an immobilized Delta sniper, shouted: “Open for business!”
Sigler helped Parker carry Strickland to the casualty collection point, and then he keyed his mic. “Beehive, this is Cipher. Watch for smoke.”
The Black Hawk set down, practically on top of the hissing smoke grenade, once more shielding the Delta team while they loaded their wounded men and dead. Sigler kept a mental tally; the score now stood at three dead, including the pilot whom they’d been unable to free from the wreckage, and three seriously wounded. He realized someone was missing. “Where’s Aleman?”
He spied the lanky sniper, still in position at the wrecked bird, and somehow firing an assault rifle one-handed. Sigler switched to the Delta team channel. “Aleman, get your ass on this bird!”
Aleman’s voice came back, crystal clear. “Sorry, did not receive your last.”