“Those are the remarks of an insolent and very misguided officer,” replied the ex-CO. “I have the lives of the one hundred seven officers and men on this ship very much on my mind. And I am aware that in order to save your friend Hunter, you are quite prepared to sacrifice the lives of every one of us.”
“I suppose it would never occur to a man like you that we can fight and win this thing, down the Chinese helicopters flying out of their burned-out base. And then save the lives of perhaps ten of the bravest men ever to have operated on behalf of our country. I don’t suppose it would have occurred either to that French creep you so admire, or think you once were, or whatever crackpot thoughts go on in your mind.”
“You’ll damned well pay for this, Headley. I’ll have you court-martialed the moment we return to an American port.”
“You may try; of course that’s your prerogative. I’d be surprised if you didn’t have a few questions to answer yourself, about the death of yet another SEAL you flatly refused to help. Charlie Mitchell was his name, and I can tell you now, Commander Bennett is not pleased.”
At that point, Master Chief Fisher arrived with a group of seamen. “Take him below, Drew,” ordered the XO. “Lock him in his quarters until further notice. If he resists, carry him. Just get him out of my sight.”
“And what am I supposed to do shut up in there until you feel inclined to release me?”
“I neither know nor care. Why don’t you ask your dead friend Captain Grigory Lyachin. He’d probably help. I wouldn’t bother to contact Villeneuve. He’d probably tell you to commit suicide, as he did.”
Commander Reid departed under escort, hissing venomously, “You out-and-out bastard, Headley.”
The two fast inflatables, throttles wide open, raced across the flat sea. Out to the east, the skies were colored rose-pink, but the sun had not yet risen out of the endless rice fields of the delta. No sun, no sign of the helicopters returning.
They made a course change, heading now roughly west nor’west, two-nine-zero, directly toward USS Shark. If the submarine remained at the rendezvous point, they had a run of 15 miles and perhaps 40 minutes. But everyone hoped against all hope that Shark was on her way in to try to save them. One of the rookies was balancing, standing up in the inflatable, holding an aerial way above his head, while Lt. MacPherson attempted to raise the submarine’s comms room on the VHF radio. So far they were receiving nothing.
They raced on for another mile, and then the lookout in the rear boat spotted them — the two Chinese Helix-A choppers battering their way across Burma’s western headland, slowly, making a search along the shore, under strict instructions now from the gathering of surviving officers at Haing Gyi to hunt down and destroy the criminals who had blown up the base.
Instantly, Commander Rick Hunter shouted, “Man both the M-60s…don’t waste your ammunition by firing too soon…they’ll probably come in right on our six o’clock and then bank away…all three of us go for the cockpits first…then, Dallas, go for the rear doors…try to take out the gunners…Mike, you again go for the engines…I’ll keep banging away at the pilots. FIRE on my command.”
Moments later, the Chinese pilots spotted the little boats, almost two miles away now, holding a steady course, separated by a distance of only 30 yards. Commander Hunter then ordered the boats to split up. “Just make sure neither helo can fire at both boats at the same time.”
Thirty seconds later the Helix-As were on them, coming in low, dead astern. “FIRE!!” yelled Rick Hunter, and the SEALs opened up, but it was very difficult in the bucking inflatables. They drove them away, neither helicopter managing to get a clean burst of fire at the boats.
But now they came around again, and the leader banked right, giving his gunner a clear shot, and he raked the water and then the inflatable with bullets, ripping four large tears in the rubberized hull, and hitting Commander Hunter in his upper thigh and one of the rookies in the chest. A blistering fusillade of bullets from Dallas and Mike Hook drove the other one away, but neither chopper was damaged, and with blood pouring from his wound, Rick Hunter swung his machine gun around and turned to face them again.
But now the two pilots flew back to the east. One of their machine gunners was badly wounded, and they needed to caucus. That gave the SEALs three more minutes to restore order. Buster Townsend, using his good arm, tried to get a tourniquet around Commander Hunter’s thigh but it was not very successful, and the blood kept flowing.
And then they saw it, the black hull of USS Shark barreling in over the horizon, a huge bow wave flooding blue water aft down the hull, splitting at the sail, and cascading off port and starboard.
Commander Hunter, gritting his teeth, shouted, “Steer straight for the submarine. GO-GO-GO!”
There was about a mile distance between them now, and they were closing at 47 knots. That represented only a little over a minute’s running time. Too long. The Helix-As were heading back toward them, and they had the hang of it now. They came in low at an angle, the machine gunners now firing at will.
Rick and Dallas both went for the rear door, and again they hit one of the gunners, but the Chinese fired four lethal bursts, and again they hit the lead boat, which was now shipping water. A vicious line of bullets ripped through the little craft, hitting Buster Townsend three times in the chest, and killing him instantly as he tried to bandage the Commander. One of the rookies was also killed, and Rattlesnake Davies took a bullet in his upper right arm.
The SEALs could not possibly survive such an onslaught. And now both helos were on their way back again. Dallas and Mike Hook were still trying to clip in a new ammunition belt, and Rick Hunter, his hands sticky with blood, tackled them alone, blasting away at the cockpits. But this time the lead helo changed tactics, kept going forward and then swung hard to port, right across the bow of the sinking inflatable. Big mistake. Because it flew right into the range of one of Shark’s missile men, waiting patiently on the deck behind the twin dry-dock shelters, the only one not up on the sail.
He aimed the five-foot tube straight at the helo, hit the buttons the infrared homing, heat-seeking Stinger needed, and then fired it dead straight at 600 yards range. It blasted out of the tube, almost knocking the operator flat, adjusted its flight, and then streaked in at Mach-2 straight at the Helix.
It slammed into the starboard engine and blew the entire aircraft to shreds. The second Helix banked around, determined to loose off a depth bomb against the hull of the submarine. But he was not in time. The missile men up on the sail had two more Stingers in the air before it could adjust height and course, and the astounded SEALs watched both engines explode in one single raging fireball, right below the rotors, before it joined its cohort, crashing into the waves right off Shark’s portside bow.
And now more boats were being launched off the deck to pick up the SEALs who were in the water and the crew of the second inflatable, which was still floating by some miracle, since its entire starboard side had been split open by the bullets.
Rick Hunter and Rattlesnake were hauled out first, and assisted up on deck. Stretchers were produced immediately for both the wounded SEALs. Body bags were brought up for Catfish, Bobby, Buster and the young SEAL Sam Liefer. And they hauled Mike Hook, Dallas MacPherson, the two drivers and the four rookies back aboard.