True Valor (10 page)

“AWACs is relaying.”

“I bet they’re a little edgy right now.”

“MiGs. SAMs. Downed men. I wouldn’t trade places,” Rich agreed.

A burst of automated gunfire erupted, tracers sweeping out before the lead gunship. “Let’s hope that sniper decides to slink away.”

“Don’t burn the leather off your gloves,” Rich warned. They had flipped to see who would go down. They both wanted it, but Bruce had won the toss.

“A fast drop and an abrupt stop. The first man will be coming immediately up.”

“The hoist will be ready to spin.”

Bruce picked up the rope that was going out the door as soon as they hovered. They would buddy hug the injured copilot out rather than slow for the basket.

The intercom crackled. “Twenty seconds.”

OPERATION NORTHERN WATCH

How did you not aggravate Syrian fighters? Gracie had no answer. The rescue flights were coming from the north, the Syrian fighters from the southwest. It was a standoff happening at blistering speeds over airspace divided by a thread.

She was tucked in tight beside Peter ready to act, but how to act was not at all clear. If the chopper was down in Iraq, they could be offensive to protect it; if it was down inside Syria, all they could do was argue over the airspace. No one had figured out that critical answer.

“Warn them.”

She lit up the oncoming Syrian fighters at Peter’s order and got hard tone in her ear signaling missile lock.

SYRIA/IRAQ BORDER

Sand stung everything it touched. Bruce could feel it finding ways into his clothing. The helicopter had pancaked, the side door tilted toward the ground. No entry was visible. He would have to swing in from the side as the hovering chopper struggled to hold stationary while the sniper shot at him.
Lord, I’m trying to be brave. Give me Your courage.

Bruce moved onto the skid and stepped off, falling, letting the rope race through his hands. The task was simple. Just get down before he got shot. Striker twisted his hands at the last moment and felt heat burn at the friction; the jerk tore into his muscles as he yanked himself to a stop. He swung like a pendulum into the black opening, hoping the SEALs had a place cleared for him to land inside.

Hands grabbed him.

He landed on his back on the sloped deck of the crashed chopper.

He shook his head and cleared the disorientation. “Wolf, I rarely do house calls.”

The black and green face looking down at him grinned. “Nice entrance.” Not Wolf. Cougar.

Another sniper round slapped against metal, and Cougar swung around to grab the door gun and fire back. Bruce had a feeling there would be holes in his body armor before this mission was done. He pulled himself up and looked forward to see the pilot and Wolf moving the injured copilot toward him. “Let’s go, gentlemen.”

“He goes first,” Wolf replied with a jerked nod to the guest Pup was guarding.

The SEAL already had him in body armor and a harness. “Pup, you’ll have to buddy hug him up.” Bruce pulled the man toward the door and fought the jerking line from the hovering helicopter to get the clasps locked. In the same fashion two parachute jumpers would link together and jump under one canopy, Bruce securely locked the two men for the lift. The defector was smart enough not to try to help. “Are you worth this?” Bruce asked tersely.

“I can stop a war.”

Stop a war or start one. Striker wasn’t sure which was more likely. The last clamp clicked metal on metal. He slapped Pup’s shoulder. “Swing out as far as you can and keep your head down!”

Cougar opened up a burst of fire from the door gun, he paused, and Pup swung out with the man. As soon as the men disappeared with a jerk upward, Cougar opened fire again.

“Cougar, you and the pilot out next,” Bruce ordered as he moved to do what he could for the copilot. He dealt with men and war and bullets. A pulse meant something could be done. The man had a pulse. There was blood, a lot of it, and fixed eyes. He was deeply unconscious. Bruce knew the odds against the copilot making it, and he prayed for a miracle as he worked. He used duct tape to strap the man’s arms and hands against his chest.

Cougar and the pilot hurried to secure the rope as soon as it came back down.

“Tell Rich the injured man is coming next. I’ll need a slow winch.”

“Got it.”

The two men swung out.

A sniper round hit and hydraulic fluid spewed like rain finding its way inside, making the floors slick. Wolf struggled to reach him.

“How do we do this?”

Bruce didn’t like either option. If Wolf went up with the injured man, he would be a sitting duck on a slow-rising line. If Bruce took the injured man up, it left Wolf coming last with no cover. Bruce owed Gracie, owed Jill. The situation reminded him too much of Ecuador. “I’ll go up with him. Give me all the suppression cover you can, no use leaving bullets behind. When the rope comes back for you, make sure you don’t signal a lift until you’re absolutely ready because Dasher will break hover and hoist as he flies.”

“Piece of cake.”

Striker smiled at the prompt reply; he had to give Wolf points for handling the pressure. He eased the injured man up. Wolf helped him as they fought the rope and the locking rings. He leaned back against the rope and found it taking his weight.

“Don’t get shot.”

“Now you tell me,” Striker yelled back. He pushed himself and the injured man out into the night.

It was a thousand times worse than he had braced himself for.

The wind started them spinning. He was going to get shot. He knew it as the hoist began to pull them to the black hovering beast.
Jesus, please. Get us safely up.
For the moment, he was totally helpless. The noise became deafening as they drew near the helicopter. The wind spun them underneath, threatening to slam them into its belly. The winch slowed even more until they were clear and could come up the last few feet.

Rich grabbed the back of his flight suit, and Striker forced himself not to try to help but to let his partner pull them back into safety. Pup and Cougar reached for the injured man. Once freed they eased him onto a stretcher. The waiting medics started stabilizing his breathing. Bruce fought with his gloves to free the locks and get the rope back down to Wolf. Rich was a step ahead of him. The rope came free and Rich locked on the counterweight. “Let it down!”

The rope dropped with a fast whine.

They waited.

“Come on, come on.”

Striker tightened his hand on Cougar’s shoulder, understanding perfectly. Rich was leaning out the door on his belly, night vision goggles peering down.

“Bring him up.” The winch began to turn. “Dasher, go!”

They began a runaway from the danger, Wolf swinging out on the rope behind the moving helicopter.

It took forever.

Striker locked his safety harness to the doorframe, ignored common sense, and reached out and down. “Get up here.” He hauled Wolf aboard.

Wolf landed on his back, hands grabbing the safety bar to keep from pitching back out.

“Wow. Was that ever an interesting ride.”

Striker searched for holes in the man and blood, then slapped his chest. Wolf had used up a life or two but he was in one piece. “Stay out of minefields! You’re giving me gray hair.”

“Once was more than enough.” Wolf raised his hand to wipe away the bath of hydraulic fluid he’d taken and in doing so smeared his face paint. He leaned his head back against the metal floor, trying to get his breath back. “Don’t you dare tell Grace. She’ll never let me live it down.”

“Remember that next time.” Striker looked at the man who was responsible for this close call, then forward into the cockpit. “Incirlik, Dasher, and don’t stop to admire the scenery. Our guest has a direct flight to Washington waiting for him.”

Eleven

* * *

OPERATION NORTHERN WATCH

I
RAQ
/S
YRIAN
B
ORDER

Providing cover for helicopters was difficult given the disparate speed. Grace watched the two rescue helicopters and the one that had been circling form a V and head north.

What had they gone into Syria to do?

Was Bruce part of that rescue flight?

An aircap of eight Tomcats had formed to the east, and the Syrian MiGs had turned parallel to the border. Neither side wanted to stand down from the fight. The crash was four hundred yards inside Iraq, and this had become an aggressive show of force as they jockeyed for airspace.

Grace scanned radar, altitude, and fuel, all three generating equal concern. Getting shot out of the sky or crashing from lack of gas had the same end point. She had already crossed bingo level for the return flight and would have to tank on the way back. Her worst-case scenario was going bingo fuel for Incirlik and it was now at least a theoretical problem.

“Viper flight, Birddog. Vector rainbow plus 10, angels 9. Sharpshooters lead, Birddog. Four bandits at rainbow plus 60, vector 40, angels 15. Hold Boxer,” the AWACs controller ordered with terse dispatch.

“Birddog, Vipers flight. Roger,” Thunder acknowledged for them. Grace closed formation with his Hornet, moving to just feet off his right wing. Their flight had just been vectored to a route that would pass over the helicopters and send them ahead to clear the egress route. The Tomcats had the more interesting orders that put them on direct vector to the MiGs with orders to set up a box rotation at the border.

Grace would leave the MiGs for the Tomcats. She wanted to see those helicopters back on friendly territory and get herself to a tanker.

Peter led them down to nine thousand feet. Within moments their flight crossed over the helicopters and raced ahead.

Antiaircraft artillery started to come up ahead of them. There was no radar to guide it onto the planes; that had been knocked out earlier in the evening. It was cold comfort. Without direction for the guns the Iraqis were sending up the AAA in a blanket. It began exploding in white flashes between eight and twelve thousand feet, the concussions hollow, sharp echoes heard through the cockpit canopy and helmet.

“Viper 01, Fox one.” Peter sent a missile racing toward the ground at one of the AAA batteries. “Viper 01, Fox two.” He sent another missile right behind it.

Half the antiaircraft artillery ceased.

They banked ninety degrees to slice through the remaining AAA with a minimal profile.

A bright explosion nearly blinded her and something loud smacked into her canopy. The concussion shoved her plane right.

“Viper 02?”

She had her hands full. The g’s were intense. She fought the many times force of gravity to move her hands and her head. Her panels were lit like a Christmas tree. The checklist to follow was red, short, and immediate in her mind’s eye. Do this and if it doesn’t work, pull the ejection handle.

She had engines; she didn’t have flight controls. The left wing flaps had been shoved upward by the explosion, and aerodynamics was trying to roll the jet and put her into the sand. Grace fought it back. The altimeter raced down.
Lord, pull with me.
She was going to be eating sand in a few seconds. If she rolled she had no altitude to recover.

Something more than flaps was wrong.

She cut free the missile under the left wing, praying the sway-bracing had not been damaged. It dropped away with a deep thunk. The severe pitch to the roll stopped and she got the nose up. She started to regain altitude.

“Viper 02?”

Besides fighting a constant pressure for a left roll, she was going to be able to hold the climb. “I can make it. Mushy, but there.” She was not ejecting inside Iraq when her plane was still airborne and Turkey was within reach.

She looked out into the darkness wishing she could see what it was she was fighting. Night vision goggles couldn’t help her see the back of the wing. She didn’t need to see it to know the back of the wing probably looked like someone had hurled baseballs through the metal. Landing would be interesting.

“Viper 02, angels 15.” Peter brought his Hornet alongside. She admired his nerve. He was staying a few feet above her so if she did roll, he’d have an instant to get himself high and out of the way.

She climbed slowly to fifteen thousand feet, feeling relief at every foot of altitude that gave her that much more recovery time. She started checking systems. She had gas—not a lot of it—good hydraulics, minimal flight controls, and avionics were a mess. According to the readout she was now flying over Oklahoma. She reset the system.

“Viper 01. I’ll have to hold hands.” She’d fly with him like a chick with a mother and let his navigation control.

“Viper 01. Roger. Mandus in eighteen.”

The code name for Incirlik was a welcome word. It had the runway distance she would need and the best emergency landing crews. She scanned radar for the helicopters. The triangle of blips was to the northeast. While she’d been fighting to stay aloft they had crossed into Turkey.

“Viper 02, say your state.” Whatever her XO was thinking about her flying, his voice was matter-of-fact.

“Viper 02, angels 14, 3.1,” she replied, giving altitude and gas.

There were problems to solve. She had flown birds that were beat up before, but this was the first time she was doing it in the middle of the night with no good sense of the damage. She’d lost an engine last time and it had not been nearly this difficult to fly.

The AAA had taken out the slotted flaps; it felt like the aileron had taken secondary damage. She asked her plane to do something and it wasn’t able to deliver. Simulators had failed to convey how much she would be 110 percent tuned in to her plane. She could feel it hurting with every gentle move of her hands on the throttle and stick. Could she get the landing gear down and locked?

“Viper 02, mark home base.”

They were over Turkish airspace. “Viper 02. Roger.”