A giant bright plume of incineratingly hot steam, 50 feet across, gushed skyward. Higher and higher above the island, burning into the rain clouds, 1,000 feet, 2,000 feet, roaring like the oil flame on an old-fashioned boiler. A million old-fashioned boilers.
The noise was an unearthly, unnatural, uncontrollable sound, gushing out of the very core of the earth. Up through the trees Rick Hunter and his men could see the dead-straight, ivory-white tower, like an endless sky-scraper reaching up into the stratosphere, into the heavens, for all they knew.
Aside from the fact that it most certainly signaled the end of China’s Naval base in Burma, the howling tower of steam did the SEALs one other colossal favor. It totally distracted the three PLAN helicopters, two Russian-built ASW Helix-As and a single Helix-B assault craft carrying its full complement of UV-57 rockets. All three of them had been a mere 500 feet away from the power station when it blew, and they swerved instinctively away from the white inferno as it slammed the roof into the sky, showering the local airspace with bricks, concrete, dust and metal beams.
With everything on fire down below, it was difficult for them to land. Also there was no electric power, anywhere. There was no one to consult with. The pilots did not even know if there was anyone left alive. All three of them had managed to get airborne as a result of the last-second message from the late CO of the destroyer, but they had done so at huge risk, flying out and away from the fire in the fuel farm, and then picking up a new signal from the emergency transmitter in the accommodation block.
The officer had delivered the message under immense stress. He was badly wounded and his signal was more like a MAYDAY than an order. He just had time to tell the lead pilot the direction the murderers were headed — down to the marsh — before the radio went dead. As it happened, there were six officers still in the accommodation block, and they were trying to transmit to the helos. There was no one else at this stage to transmit to.
The big red-and-white Helix choppers were all very capable; two of them had the weapons to destroy a submerged submarine, and the other had rockets to outrange the U.S. Stingers. But they were very exposed, and very noisy. With their twin high rotors and four-corner landing wheels, they looked like a cruising flight of pterodactyls.
And now the pilots brought them in to land, out on that rough ground, 200 yards from the stream. And all nine of the occupants, pilots, navigators and gunners, ran for the accommodation block to receive whatever orders there might still be.
And that left the SEALs, for the moment, unthreatened. Commander Hunter told them to keep going. He told them to carry Buster somehow between them, and Rattlesnake and his rookie assistant made a chair with their linked hands. Buster was able to sit in it, and he could lean back into the powerful arms and chest of Catfish Jones. Once they found a regular stride they were able to move fast, with Buster’s weight distributed between them. Much faster than if he had had to walk himself.
They pressed on beneath the trees, struggling forward, dreading the sound of the returning helos. But none came, and Rick led them on down to the inlet, watching the compass, trying to keep on course two-five-five, more southerly than their previous route. And the sound of the roaring steam provided them with an inspiration, a feeling of self-congratulation. They had done what they came to do, and to a Navy SEAL that represents the meaning of life.
At 0440, they noticed the reeds and grasses petering out, and there was a new urgency in the bleeper, sounding out from the inflatable boats. Rick knew they must be close, and then he saw the water, gleaming in a kind of aerial phosphorescence from the snow-white steam towering over the entire island. It was a wide, shallow inlet, probably 50 yards across, and down the inlet, possibly 100 yards away, they could see five black figures trying to drag the boats nearer.
Rick Hunter snapped sharply into the radio receiver, “DALLAS. RIGHT HERE…over.”
“Okay, sir,” the reply came back. “It’s just too shallow. We can’t get the boats nearer, even empty…I’m coming back to the shore now…hold everything…over.”
One minute later, Lt. MacPherson, followed by Mike Hook, came splashing through the shallows. “Sir,” he said, “how about that? What about that steam? Way to go, right!”
“Way to go, kid. What now?”
“The bottom of this creek’s firm. Let’s get Buster inboard. The guys are hiding the boats under that grass. It’s a beautiful overhang — choppers never even saw them. C’mon, Rattles…okay, Buster, ole buddy, let’s go home.”
And now the full team stepped into the water and began to move on down to the boats, Rick now carrying the M-60, all the others holding the MP-5s, one rookie with the second belt of ammunition. Their hoods were up now, wet-suit trousers folded and clipped over the tight rubber shoes, custom-made to fit the flippers. With no Draegers, bombs, explosives or hardware, it was easy going.
Except that out there above the trees there could suddenly be heard the sound of the helos returning, the pilots now firmly briefed as to the direction the fleeing murderers had taken. They have to be down along the shore of that stream. Look for boats…and look for men in black combat suits.
All three of the helos had their square rear doors open, and inside each one a gunner crouched behind a machine gun twice the size of the M-60, aiming it out through the gap. Up front, the navigator, wearing night goggles, sat beside the pilot, calling back target instructions.
This was big trouble. The SEALs were close to the boats, but there was no protection in there. And walking down the bright water of the inlet they were at their most vulnerable point of the entire mission.
“Get into the shore, and hit the deck right now.” Rick Hunter was not joking. And he was not in time, either. The lead helicopter came battering in over the treetops. It was heading west out over the water when the rear navigator spotted movement in the shallows. He snapped out an order to the pilot to bank left, and hover at 100 feet. Then he told the gunner where he had seen movement, and he opened fire, raking the shoreline with a fusillade of bullets, ripping into the grass, making vicious lines in the water.
The first burst hit the last man into the reeds, and Catfish Jones took the full volley in his back and head. He fell dead into the shallows, still trying to hold on to Buster Townsend. Rattlesnake Davies, now left carrying Buster all on his own, saw Catfish hit the water, saw the bullets lashing all around him, and still went back to try to drag him to safety.
By some miracle the bullets missed Rattlesnake, and even though he knew Catfish was surely dead, he would not let go, and he dragged the former North Carolina fisherman out of the firing line, and he kept saying over and over, “C’mon, Catfish, buddy, we’ll be all right. I know we’ll be all right…just keep comin’ buddy…we’re gonna be fine.”
When at last he was under cover, he turned Petty Officer Jones over so the others could not see the terrible effects of the bullets, especially not the gaping hole in the back of his head.
Rick Hunter knew what had happened instantly. And he told them all, “We just have to keep still. Remember that machine gunner has no idea whether he hit anyone or not. Heads down, don’t move. And say a prayer for Catfish. He was a great and brave man. But we have to go forward and save ourselves.”
“Sir, we’re not leaving him, are we, sir?” Rattlesnake Davies was beside himself. “I can’t leave him, sir. I can’t leave him.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid, Rattles. Of course we’re not fucking leaving him.” The Commander knew exactly how to talk to people who were on the verge of losing their grip.