Direct Action

49

Blake Murdock had spent his whole career expecting to find himself in his present situation. But at this point in all the scenarios he’d fought out in his head, he was supposed to be directing F/A-18’s, helicopter gunships, AC-130’s, or naval gunfire against the enemy while the helicopters rushed in to pick them up.

Now that it was finally for real, he didn’t have any of that. What he had was seven SEALS, only six and a half capable of shooting and all of them sucking wind, AKs with only a magazine or so of ammo left, and maybe a couple of grenades. Murdock knew Doc would be angry at him for not thinking positively, but it didn’t look good. Damn, he’d forgotten about the morphine. Well, too late now.

Without an operational set of NVGs, Murdock planned to hold his fire until he could see something. Maybe his rounds would come in handy while they were boarding the helos. Now he knew how Ed DeWitt felt. Not worth a shit.

Through his goggles Razor could see the Syrians bobbing among the rocks in the distance. It was a difficult call. He had to let them get close enough so they wouldn’t be able to call for mortar fire without getting hit themselves, yet keep them far enough away so they couldn’t easily overrun the LZ. It looked just about right. He settled the laser dot on the Syrian point man and fired.

The rest of the SEALs followed his signal and opened fire also. Slowly, carefully, a single shot only when they had a clear target.

The Syrians had to transition from a movement formation to a skirmish line while under fire. It took them a while. The SEALs could tell. The Syrians only fired their AKMs on automatic. First there were two firing, then six. Then eight. They finally worked up to around ten or twelve, which must have been all the men they could fit across the width of the ridgeline.

With only four SEALs calmly firing single-shot, it was a wonder the Syrians didn’t quickly gain fire superiority. But if the bullets weren’t hitting or coming close enough to make you take cover and stop shooting, it didn’t matter how heavy the fire was. The Syrians were what the SEALs scornfully called sprayers and prayers, hoping to make up for lack of accuracy with sheer number of rounds. It didn’t work.

Every time a Syrian rose to advance, a SEAL cut him down. But the Syrians learned quickly. Several began crawling forward using the cover of the rocks. That would work, but it would take time. The question was whose side time was on.

Jaybird was anchoring the SEALs’ far right. His magazine ran out and he slid his last one into the AKM. Thirty rounds left. The Syrians were getting better. Every time he fired, a couple of them would concentrate their own fire on his muzzle flash. It was getting hairy. He had to keep moving from rock to rock.

A BG-15 fired, and the grenade exploded with a shower of sparks in rocks right in front of him. Jaybird would have pissed his pants if he hadn’t been so dehydrated.

Something had to be done about that grenade launcher. Jaybird couldn’t let the Syrian get the range on him. He only had two M75 frags left. Jaybird pulled the pin on one and palmed it, waiting. The BG-15 flashed again, and Jaybird’s grenade was in the air. The 40mm grenade exploded off to his side. Jaybird saw his grenade go off. He waited, but the BG-15 didn’t fire again. It seemed that the Syrians were getting closer. The shit was getting serious now. Where the fuck was the helicopter?

Magic Brown was experiencing a sniper’s frustration. It wasn’t that an AKM in his hands was like a surgeon operating with a linoleum cutter. It was that he was racking up a score but it wasn’t making any difference. He would take a man down only to have the Syrians quickly replace him in the firing line. Faithfully counting his rounds, he knew that he was a third down on his last magazine.

The Syrians fired a hand-held flare. The parachute popped over the SEALs’ heads, and the harsh yellow glow fell over them. But the swirling mountain wind quickly pushed the parachute back down the ridge toward the Syrians. The SEALs flipped up their goggles and had a few seconds of good shooting until the flare fizzled out. The Syrians didn’t fire any more flares. The SEALs went back to their NVGs.

The flare had given Murdock the opportunity to finally fire some rounds. Now he could only watch the freigh. They weren’t getting many BG-15’s; he’d been most afraid of that. The Syrians had probably used up most of their basic ammo load at the dome. Murdock sensed that the Syrians were slowly building up their fire for an assault. He remembered some Marine officers telling him once that a light infantry defense — a continuous series of ambushes and withdrawals — was the most difficult and infuriating thing to fight against. The Syrians must have taken a lot of casualties in the previous ambushes. If they got the idea that their adversaries were finally pinned down, they wouldn’t let up.

Doc Ellsworth spoke into the PRC-117 handset. “Hammer, this is Seven Oscar. The LZ is now under fire. Enemy fifty meters northeast along ridgeline, over.”

“Roger,” the Blackhawk pilot replied calmly. “Mark the zone.”

Doc pressed the rubber button on the bottom of his strobe light. He heard the electric zing … zing sound when the blinking began. The strobe had an infrared cap on the lens and a plastic sleeve that directed the light straight out. Doc heard the beating of rotor blades. He aimed the strobe at the sound.

Miguel Fernandez and Red Nicholson cocked their Squad Automatic Weapons. The door gunners were crouched behind their miniguns.

“I’m going to come up along the ridgeline,” the pilot informed the crew over the intercom. “Otherwise we’ll never see that strobe. When we hit the LZ I’ll turn and point the nose east. That way the hoist will be on the side away from the enemy. Jimmy,” he said, talking to one of the door gunners. “Your side will be clear, you’ll work the hoist. Stan, the enemy will be on your side so you’ll be gunning. You SEALs handle the ladder.”

The pilot pressed the mike button on his stick. “Hammer-Two, Hammer-One, over.”

“Hammer-Two,” the second Blackhawk replied.

“Hammer-Two, when we go in I want you to hold back a half klick down the ridge. I’ll call you if I need you. When we come off the zone I’ll form up behind and follow you out, over.”

“Affirmative,” the second pilot replied. “Hammer-Two, out.”

The lead Blackhawk came up the side of the ridge and then made a hard left turn. Now he was skimming low over the top of the ridge, following it up.

Fernandez and Nicholson opened the sliding cabin doors. The freezing wind blasted through the cabin.

The copilot was working the forward-looking infrared turret. “I’ve got tracers in the air farther up,” he reported. “There’s the firefight.”

The pilot was flying on night-vision goggles. “I see it. Okay, there’s the strobe in the rocks.”

“I’ve got it too,” said the copilot.

The pilot keyed the microphone button. “Seven Oscar, Hammer-One. I have your strobe.”

“Roger,” Doc Ellsworth replied. “Hurry up, we’re down to our last rounds here.”

The Blackhawk tore up the ridge. With the FLIR the copilot could easily pick out the hot human bodies among the cold rocks. He identified the SEALs in their small perimeter around the strobe by the thermal tape on their clothing.

“Jesus Christ!” the copilot exclaimed. “The bad guys are right on top of them.”

The pilot rose up over the strobe and turned the helicopter sideways. As soon as his side was unmasked, the door gunner opened up. The minigun gave off a high-pitched whine as the six Gatling gun barrels fired at two thousand rounds per minute. That much 7.62mm coming in that fast would turn solid rock into gravel. Anything that got in the path of a minigun’s bullet stream had a tendency to go away. The door gunner worked his fire right across the Syrian front line.

The other door gunner pushed the stretcher out the opposite door and lowered the hoist cable.

Fernandez and Nicholson kicked the caving ladder out the other side.

Pinging sounds reverberated inside the helicopter.

“We’re taking rounds,” the copilot shouted.

Fernandez and Nicholson threw themselves onto the cabin floor and opened fire with their SAWS.

As the Blackhawk reached the zone, the SEALs on the ground tossed the last of their grenades to put the Syrians’ heads down.

The Blackhawk turned and dropped until it was only seven feet or so above the ground. The wheels were almost touching the rocks. That took some flying.

When the metal-frame Stokes stretcher came down the hoist, Doc Ellsworth grabbed one end of Higgins’s stretcher and Ed DeWitt the other with his good hand. They slid Higgins into the Stokes, and Doc cinched the webbing straps tight. Doc waved and the stretcher rose. It spun around as it went up. The door gunner grabbed the stretcher, worked the control to give the cabin some slack, and yanked the stretcher into the cabin.

DeWitt raced around to the other side of the helicopter where the caving ladder was flapping back and forth in the rotor wash. He made a running leap at it, trying to hit as high up as he could. He climbed one-handed, almost falling as the helicopter shook, but made it high enough for Fernandez and Nicholson to reach down and grab him. As they dragged him roughly into the cabin, DeWitt screamed from the pain in his broken arm. But once in, he still got up on his knees and emptied his last AKM magazine out the door.

After DeWitt went up, all the SEALs fell back toward the ladder.

A Syrian with a PKM machine gun rose up in front of Jaybird Sterling and fired at the Blackhawk. Jaybird cut him down with his last few rounds rapid-fire. When the magazine ran out, he threw the AKM in the direction of the Syrians. He pulled out his Makarov pistol and sprinted for the helicopter.

Murdock saw the caving ladder flapping free. He knew that if it got blown up into the rotors their ride was going to come crashing down. He made a diving grab for the ladder and hooked an arm around one rung. He put his weight on it and brought the AKM up to his shoulder. The minigun was screaming just above his head. Jaybird came running up. “Go, go, go!” Murdock shouted. Jaybird hesitated a brief instant, then went up the ladder.

The belt on Miguel Fernandez’s SAW ran out just as he saw a Syrian stand up from the rocks with an RPG-7 launcher on his shoulder.

Fernandez screamed at Red, but couldn’t be heard above all the noise. He forced himself to take his eyes off the RPG gunner and tear off the old belt box, get a fresh one out of his vest, and snap it in. Too slow, too slow. The feed cover was open — he laid the new belt over the feed tray.

The RPG rocket came out of the launcher with a tremendous flash. Fernandez saw it heading straight for him.

The rocket passed right over the top of the rotors. Fernandez hammered the feed cover down.

The Syrian stood staring at the helicopter as if he couldn’t believe he’d missed. Fernandez let fly with a continuous fifty-round burst that left the SAW barrel smoking. The Syrian fell back into the rocks. Unlike Jaybird, Fernandez wasn’t dehydrated, and he did piss his pants.

Warning lights were blinking in the cockpit. The pilot held the Blackhawk steady. They weren’t going anywhere.

Magic Brown shot another Syrian soldier as he backed toward the helicopter. The Syrians were pushing forward. Magic had just reached the ladder when two Syrians appeared near the tail of the helicopter. Magic dropped one of them, then the hammer clicked on an empty chamber as the second Syrian reared back to throw a grenade. Rounds cracked past Magic’s shoulder. The Syrian fell, and lost his grip on the grenade. Magic ducked. The grenade exploded beside the Syrian.

Murdock had fired from the base of the ladder. He gestured frantically for Magic to get up. Magic did.

Razor Roselli killed a Syrian who’d made it all the way up to the perimeter, only to hesitate fatally when confronted with someone wearing the same uniform. Razor bolted for the Blackhawk.

A round hit him in the ankle and took him off his feet. Razor tried to get up off the ground, but couldn’t.

Murdock released the ladder. He got over to Razor and dropped to his knees. Razor threw his arms around Murdock’s neck. Murdock strained to his feet with Razor hanging onto his back. The pain was blinding.

Murdock staggered over to the ladder. He dropped his AKM and grabbed the rungs. He pulled himself up one step, and it seemed like lights were flashing before his eyes.

Six 120mm mortar illumination rounds popped in the air above the helicopter. The effect was like being on the field of a football stadium during a night game.

Murdock made it up another rung, and then couldn’t make his legs move any more.

Then Razor’s weight suddenly came off his shoulders.

When the flares popped, the Blackhawk crew flipped up their now-useless night-vision goggles. It was an incredibly dangerous transition to make while flying.

When they saw the lieutenant stop moving on the ladder, Jaybird and Magic scrambled back down. They snatched Razor off Murdock’s back and passed him up into the cabin. Then they took hold of Murdock’s wrists and lifted him up. The others grabbed him and pulled him into the cabin. Jaybird and Magic clambered up the ladder.

“Go!” the SEALs in the cabin screamed. “Go, go, go!”

The pilot swung the Blackhawk down the ridge while the SEALs were still pulling up the caving ladder. A few seconds later the ridge masked the Syrian fire. Then the Blackhawk was out from under the light of the flares, and the crew went back on the NVGs.

There was no cheering or exultation in the back of the Blackhawk. There were hurt SEALs who needed to be attended to. Fernandez and Nicholson slammed the cabin doors shut.

The metal floor was slick with blood, and the empty cartridge casings rolled around underfoot like ball bearings. Doc Ellsworth slipped twice trying to get across the cabin. One of the door gunners handed Doc his infrared flashlight.

Magic had already tied a battle dressing onto Razor’s ankle. The bone was broken, so Doc slipped on a splint, gave him a shot of morphine, and started an IV with a bag from Fernandez’s trauma kit.

Murdock sat slumped against the back wall of the cabin. Doc was busy, and enough was enough. He took out one of his own morphine syrettes, jabbed it into his thigh, and squeezed the tube dry. What was that sensation? It couldn’t be the morphine yet. Ah, that was it. It was warm in the cabin. He hadn’t felt that way in a long time.

The Blackhawk sped down the mountain ridge. The crew saw the thermal strips of the circling backup bird and formed up behind it. Far too many warning lights were still lit up on the console. The copilot ran through the systems.

“FLIR is down,” he reported. “So is the radar.”

With no forward-looking infrared or terrain-following-and-avoidance radar, the pilot was going to have to ride the treetops with no aids other than his Mark-I eyeballs looking through night-vision goggles. Well, that was how the first Nightstalkers had done it. So could he. The stick was feeling heavy. He didn’t want to put the Blackhawk through any sudden maneuvers. Something might break.

“Do we have the nav?” he asked the copilot.

“Nothing but GPS, and that keeps going down and coming up. Radar warning is down too.”

At least they didn’t have to sit and worry about being shot at, the pilot thought. They wouldn’t know until they were already hit. He keyed his mike button. “Hammer-Two, Hammer-One, over?”

“Hammer-Two.”

At least the radio worked. “Hammer-Two, we don’t have a lot of systems left. We’ll follow you all the way. Keep an eye on us in case we lose our radio, over.”

“Roger.”

The Blackhawks turned off the top of the ridge and headed west down the slope. They followed a different route from the one they’d taken in.

If the injured Blackhawk could no longer stay in the air it would put down, hopefully without crashing, and everyone inside would transfer to the second ship. No one looked forward to doing that in the middle of Lebanon at night. Of course, if anything happened to a helicopter at that altitude, there wouldn’t be much time to react.

The turbines were screaming too loud for casual conversation. Jaybird got the attention of the door gunners and pantomimed drinking. One of them tapped his hand to his forehead as if to say he was sorry for not thinking of it. They passed around all the crew canteens and water bottles.

Murdock refused a canteen until all his men had something to drink. He finally accepted one, and the flat tepid water tasted delicious. The morphine was providing a wonderful soothing warmth.

The port turbine engine started to give off a knocking sound. Jaybird waved his hand, as if signaling for a waiter, to get the door gunners’ attention again.

Ed DeWitt was sitting near the front of the cabin. He tapped a gunner on the leg and pointed to the back.

Jaybird aimed his thumb up at the engine. The gunner picked his way through the crowded cabin until he was right below the engine. He lifted up the bottom of his helmet so he could hear clearly. Then he began talking rapidly into his microphone.

“If it goes we’ll shut it down,” the pilot replied, still unruffled. “But we’ve got too much weight and not enough altitude to shut it down now and still keep flying.”

The knocking continued. At least it was rhythmic, Murdock thought. He couldn’t fly a helicopter, and he tried not to get agitated about things he had no control over.

The two Blackhawks crossed the coastline between Byblos and BatroOn.

“Feet wet,” the pilot reported.

Murdock motioned for Fernandez and Nicholson to open the cabin doors. If the helicopter died there was no possibility of landing now, only a crash into the sea. And when helicopters hit the water, even gently, they sank. And because the heavy engines and rotors were above the cabin, helicopters flipped upside down when they sank. If that happened, everyone inside would need to get out fast.

“Screw it,” the pilot said. “We’re outside the territorial limits, I’m getting some altitude.” He pulled back on the cyclic and began a very slow, very gentle climb.

The engine knocking became faster. Murdock could see the reflection of the moon on the water below. He really didn’t feel like ending the evening with a swim. This was about the time Razor would say: “Don’t worry, Boss, we probably won’t survive the initial crash anyway.” But Razor wouldn’t be saying much until the drugs wore off.

One of the door gunners was pointing to the front of the helicopter. Those SEALs who could raised themselves off the floor to be able to see out the windscreen. And there was the George Washington glowing in the moonlight.

The lead Blackhawk peeled off to allow the damaged one to land first. The carrier was sailing into the wind, which was how the helicopter would land.

As the Blackhawk dropped, Murdock’s view out the cabin door changed from dark ocean waves to flat black no-skid flight deck.

As soon as the wheels touched down, the copilot instantly shut the engines down. They were finished taking chances for the night.

There was minimal crew on the flight deck, and they had been instructed to forget everything they saw. Or else.

White-shirted and red-crossed medical corpsmen were waiting with stretchers. The SEALs passed Higgins out first, then Razor. DeWitt walked to sick bay, as did Murdock with the aid of the morphine.

The SEALS didn’t kiss the flight deck. But now that his officers and chief were gone, Jaybird Sterling leaned between the cockpit seats and planted a firm wet kiss on the cheek of the pilot. The warrant officer jumped, startled, and then broke into a huge grin. He knew SEALS, and was probably glad he hadn’t been French-kissed. Then Jaybird gave him the traditional, heartfelt, but very unofficial Special Forces crowning tribute. “You sweet motherfucker, don’t you never die!”