It’s time for some fun.
Time to kill.
SIXTEEN.
“Wizard, this is Tomcat. Over.”
Lee reached for the radio handset. Traffic was opening up on the state highway with Boston falling behind, and the column was starting to make good time. They had survived every engagement with the Klowns, though not without paying for it. He had been in contact with Sergeant Major Turner, who was overseeing the recovery operations toward the rear. Turner had sent the XO and his team on their way after reporting in that they had eighteen KIA and two wounded from the Huey attack. Lee made a mental note to buy the battalion NCO more than his share of beer when they finally made it back to Drum. Because of the sergeant major, the two Hueys that had made it past the Apaches had been splashed before they could inflict even deeper wounds on the lightfighters.
“Tomcat, this is Wizard Six. Over.”
“Wizard, Tomcat. We have a tally on the second flight of Hueys. Definitely approaching the airport, and a scout unit reports they are carrying combat troops. Over.”
Oh, hell. The cavalry unit at Worcester was there to hold the fuel supplies so the helicopters could fly in and out to refuel and rearm as necessary. Establishing that as an airhead was critical to the battalion’s continued survival, as it meant the convoy could keep moving without having to pull the fuel tankers out of formation to service the thirsty helicopters. Losing the airfield would seriously degrade the effectiveness of the battalion’s top cover.
“Roger that, Tomcat. Any estimate on when they’ll arrive? Over.”
“Wizard, Tomcat. They’ll be on station in less than four minutes. Wizard, this looks like an air assault mission—we should consider sending some support their way. Over.”
“Tomcat, this is Wizard. How many attack units do you think you’ll need? Over.”
“We have two rotating in now, but they’re low on fuel—they won’t have much station time. There’s a hotel about two miles up the road. If you can have one of the tankers pull off there, we can use the parking lot to refuel two more birds and send them in to clear the airfield and keep the cavalrymen covered. We’ll still have sufficient assets to maintain top cover for the column. Over.”
Lee considered that for a moment as he went through the maps in front of him. He had zero problem with chopping some Apaches away from the column to give the cavalry troops some close air support, but he was uneasy at fragmenting the convoy further. They’d already taken some losses, and the next phase line was still several miles away. Stopping the entire convoy was out of the question, but he’d have to leave a security element with the tanker and the helicopters to keep the Klowns off them. The fact that Fleischer’s chosen landing zone was a hotel made matters a bit more complicated. The building could potentially house dozens of Klowns, and if not, then it could have dozens of civilians in need of assistance. Try as he might, Harry Lee was finding it increasingly tough to turn his back on Americans in need. Getting to Drum was a priority, but abandoning the nation was not part of his master plan.
“Tomcat, this is Wizard. How long will you need? Over.”
“Wizard, this is Tomcat. We’ll need ten minutes to hot refuel then ten minutes to travel. Over.”
“Roger that, Tomcat. Send some of your guys ahead to secure the landing zone, and I’ll follow up with a truck of lightfighters. Once the LZ is secured, I’ll send in the tanker. Over.”
“Wizard, this is Tomcat. Roger all.”
SEVENTEEN.
A voice crackled in Dekker’s radio headset. “Six, this is One. Hueys are inbound, single file formation. I can see them over the terminal building. Over.”
Dekker heard the characteristic racket the Hueys generated over the buzzing rumble of the final Black Hawk as it lifted off. He turned toward the passenger terminal building, but he couldn’t see anything. Nomad One was the tactical designation of the MRAP at the entrance to the helicopter assembly area, and the gunner there had elevation on his side. His sightline was superior to what Dekker had, standing on the deck.
“Can you hit them, One? Over.”
“I can try, Six. Over.”
“Light ’em up! Fire for effect!” Dekker shouted as he ran back toward the MRAP. The Air Force guys in the M249 SAW nest were hunkering down, getting ready for action. Farther downrange, a second machinegun position was also getting squared away, not that there was much to do in the way of preparation. Everyone was cocked and locked, and a final radio check had been conducted. Everyone could talk to each other, and the aviators were staying within range.
Even though the Black Hawks weren’t outfitted with heavy weapons, every helicopter had two pintle-mounted M240 machineguns, one on each side. Dekker and the aviation commander agreed that the UH-60s shouldn’t be used as attack platforms, but they could certainly provide covering fires if required, as well as airborne surveillance. Avoiding the Hueys wouldn’t be terribly difficult for them, since the Black Hawks enjoyed a fifty-knot speed advantage. Dekker was thankful the helicopters were remaining nearby. He was sure Nomad could use their assistance.
EIGHTEEN.
As the formation of Hueys draws closer to the airport, the lead helicopter bucks slightly. BANG! The engine begins winding down. Fire lamp snaps on. Copilot laughs and pulls on the fire extinguisher plunger as N1 winds down. Fire lamp goes out, but the engine isn’t responding. The pilot rolls off the fuel as the windscreen on the left side of the cockpit puckers inward for an instant before shattering. Something strikes the copilot in the neck and shears his head off. A fountain of scarlet splashes across the overhead console as the man bleeds out. The pilot titters as warm crimson droplets splatter him. The copilot was been shot, and the Huey is still receiving fire as it leads the others toward the airfield ahead. It’s all funny as hell. Death is a laugh a minute.
With power falling off, the Huey doesn’t have a lot of air time left. Rotor RPM is decaying, falling past 260 rotations per minute. The pilot pushes forward on the cyclic, lowering the chopper’s nose, sending it into a shallow dive, using his airspeed to keep the main rotors turning. The helicopter wouldn’t make it to the airfield proper, but it could definitely make the parking lot in front of the terminal building.
As the Huey swoops in and the pilot prepares to make the autorotation, movement at the terminal building catches his eye. Civilians emerged from the structure, watching the helicopters approach. Even from a few hundred feet out, the pilot can see their faces, all turned toward the approaching flight. Waiting to be saved.
The pilot laughs so hard he almost blows the approach, and the UH-1 makes a short run-on landing, scraping across the mostly empty parking lot on its landing skids for thirty feet before coming to a halt.
This is gonna be fun.
NINETEEN.
“Six, Nomad One. First Huey is down! Rest of the formation is breaking up. Over!”
“Roger that, One. Keep up the fires. All units are clear to maneuver as needed. Over.” As he spoke, Dekker ran across the pavement, heading toward the Air Force machinegun emplacement closest to him.
He heard the pounding of Hueys drawing closer, their thick blades slapping through the hot summer air. One of the tadpole-shaped aircraft thundered right over the terminal building, so low that its skids ripped an antenna off the roof and sent the metal pole tumbling to the jet way. Dekker was caught out in the open. He raised his M4 and ripped off a burst on full automatic, discharging the weapon right into the Huey’s belly just before it began to descend for a landing. Dekker slowed and turned with the aircraft, hosing it with burst after burst, none of which seemed to make any difference to the helicopter or its pilots.