The pain would be brief, and then it would all be over. Only one tiny moment of agony, he kept telling himself. Funny how two weeks ago he’d expected to leave the navy, and now he was about to die on a forgotten island at the hands of some terrorist. He was going to die in the service of the same navy he’d detested all these years. Lake almost chuckled at the irony of it all. As the helo drew within fifty yards of the beach, it started to turn to the side to expose its lethal machine gun, and Lake closed his eyes to wait for the inevitable.
But then, an earth shattering roar much louder than the Huey’s rotors suddenly filled the air. It resembled the sound of a low jet engine buzzing the ground, but this noise was even louder. Lake felt it coming from the jungle behind him, increasing with such volume and intensity that Lake instinctively dropped to the ground, anticipating his eardrums were about to break.
Then a streak of white smoke and flame appeared over the jungle. It shot low across the sky, skimming over the treetops before heading out to sea. It was obviously a missile, and Lake watched with quivering awe as it headed straight for the Huey. Musa and his men had about two point four milliseconds to pray to Allah before the missile slammed into their helo’s left windshield at one thousand knots, almost certainly impaling the co-pilot before exploding in a tremendous fireball that blew out the helo’s backside along with the aircraft’s internals and a few incinerated body parts. A thousand pieces of burning metal, fabric, and flesh rained down on the sea below, followed closely by the big blackened shell, its rotors still spinning as they impacted the glistening surface and snapped like fragile twigs, ricocheting in all directions.
Lake clutched the cold sand in his hands to make sure he was still alive, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Just as he began to wonder where the timely missile had come from, a distant jet engine roared above the island behind him. Holding his hand up to block the sun, he caught a glimpse of an F-16 fighter dropping flares at regular intervals as it maneuvered sharply in and out of Bunda’s high mountain peaks. The jet was the wrong color to be U.S. Air Force, and Lake quickly deduced that it was most likely the same Indonesian warplane that had been hunting Musa’s helo all day. The fighter loitered for only a few seconds more before it hit its afterburner and disappeared into the sun, its pilot apparently satisfied with his kill.
As the helo’s swirling remains sank into the shallows, Lake suddenly felt numb. The terrorist leader, Musa Muhammad, was dead, but at what cost? Michaelson, Whitehead, and Reynoso. Was it worth losing those good men to kill that terrorist madman? How does one come out on top in such an exchange?
Ahmad would accomplish his mission now, though Lake cared little. Teresa was safe, and that was all that really mattered. Somehow he had managed to convince himself over the last few days that it was his personal duty to get her through this thing alive. Perhaps that duty had given him the strength to go on.
As the dinghy shoved off again from the distant Mendar to retrieve him, Lake walked up the sloping beach and came upon Michaelson’s mutilated body. He forced himself to go though the chief’s bloody pockets and pick out anything his family might want to cherish, for they would not be getting his body back. There were more Al Islamiyyah fighters on this island, and once they realized their leader had been reduced to atoms, they would all converge on this spot.
The Mendar needed to leave, and leave quickly, before any new threats popped up. Strangely, Lake actually smiled at the thought of returning to the waiting Providence lying submerged somewhere beyond the reefs. For the last three years he’d been counting the days until he got off her, and now he couldn’t wait to be aboard her again.
Chapter 21
“Diving Officer, submerge the ship to two hundred fifty feet.”
“Submerge the ship to two hundred fifty feet, aye, sir.”
The klaxon sounded throughout the ship, and Edwards watched through the periscope as the main ballast tanks vented their air volume and filled with water, the resulting geysers shooting fifty feet into the air. Through the misty spouts in the fading light, Edwards took one last look at the fishing boat, now cast adrift. He breathed a sigh of relief that Providence’s surviving shore party members were now safely back aboard.
Providence had rendezvoused with the Mendar just as it emerged from Bunda’s reef barrier over three hours ago. Not wishing to attract the attention of any onlookers ashore, Edwards had kept the Providence submerged until the two vessels were well beyond visual range of the island’s coast, all the while keeping a sharp eye and ear out for any pursuers. It wasn’t until the sun had set behind the just visible peaks of the distant Bunda Islands that Providence finally surfaced to transfer personnel from the fishing boat. Edwards remembered seeing the worn-out and beaten faces as they came down the forward hatch one at a time. Whitehead’s daughter, the operative called Ahmad, and a barely recognizable Lieutenant Lake. Lake’s face spoke volumes without ever having to utter a word, and Edwards knew that the young officer who had stepped off his ship four days before was gone forever, replaced by this hardened, wiser, and much more mature man. As much as Edwards ached to know what had happened, he had refrained from asking him any questions. The whole lot of them were beaten and exhausted, and rest was the only remedy to restore their spirits. On the long trip back to Pearl there would be plenty of opportunities to discuss the events that had transpired ashore.
His plan had worked thanks to the trusty Mendar and her shallow draft. Finding the drifting vessel that morning had not been difficult. Thankfully, the Indonesian Coast Guard hadn’t yet gotten around to retrieving the abandoned vessel. Chief Louis had one hell of a time getting the Mendar s aging diesel engine to cooperate, but he worked one of his miracles with the ancient engine and forced it to put out the needed horsepower, eventually making a good sixteen knots. But despite his efforts, the Mendar still arrived over an hour late. An hour that proved to be fatal for Chief Michaelson. Edwards couldn’t help but think what might have happened if Providence had been able to use both her main engines, instead of the one she limped on now. It was a simple math problem. The extra fifteen or so knots put out by the second main engine might have made the difference. Providence would have found the drifting Mendar earlier, and Louis would have had more time to get her back to Bunda to pick up the shore party. Perhaps he would have arrived on time, perhaps even early. The thought haunted Edwards, but there was nothing he could do about it now. It was all over. The rest of the shore party was safe. The Mendar, for all her shortcomings, had served them well. Of course, Louis deserved most of the credit, and Edwards made a mental note to decorate the chief the next time he had the opportunity.
“Forty-five feet,” the diving officer called as Providence’s deck tilted down. “Five-five feet… five-six feet…”
The periscope soon went under, and Edwards turned the hydraulic ring in the overhead to lower it.
“Helm, ahead standard. Steady on course zero seven five.” The helmsman acknowledged the order and Providence’s bow swung around to steady on the first leg of her voyage home.