Primary Target

21

Scott flexed his knees and closed his eyes when the LongRanger’s down wash began whipping the ground and slinging debris in every direction. When his feet hit the ground, he ran from under the helo and quickly detached himself from the D ring on the rappelling rope.

While Jackie maneuvered the damaged helicopter off to the side, Scott turned to search for Maritza. He shielded his eyes and ran toward the inert form lying a few yards away. When he knelt beside her, he was convinced she was dead. When the lifeless body moaned, Dalton almost shouted in relief.

“Maritza, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she gasped in excruciating pain. She was staring straight up at the stars and struggling to breathe. “I think my back is broken.”

“Save your strength,” Scott said as he held her hand. “I’m going to have to carry you to the helo, okay?”

She nodded weakly as Jackie rushed to Maritza’s side.

“Oh, God,” Sullivan uttered as she brushed grass and dirt out of Maritza’s hair. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

“I know,” Maritza said with a convulsive intake of air.

Without warning, a series of gunshots rang out and the

LongRanger’s bright searchlight exploded in a puff of smoke.

“Let’s go!” Scott said to Jackie as he started to lift Maritza. To his surprise and amazement, she turned over and struggled to her knees before he could help her to her feet.

“Your back isn’t broken,” Dalton exclaimed as Maritza took a step and almost fell against him.

“That’s the good news,” she said, trying to get her wind back. “But my ankle’s shattered.”

He scooped her into his arms and ran for the helo. Seconds later Jackie added power as Scott gently placed Maritza in the back of the cabin, then scrambled in beside her.

More shots rang out as Jackie lifted the LongRanger off the knoll, then lowered the nose to transition into high-speed forward flight. As the ship climbed away, a round went through the tail-rotor gearbox.

While Scott tended to Maritza, Jackie kept the helo’s forward speed up and maintained a shallow climb.

“Uh-oh,” Sullivan said to herself when the helicopter started a steady series of vibrations. Subtle at first, the vibrations grew more intense as the helicopter ascended. She gently nursed the cyclic, collective, and tail-rotor pedals. When the tail-rotor controls didn’t respond normally, she knew that something was on the verge of failing. “Just stay together,” she pleaded out loud as she gently reduced power.

“What’s wrong?” Scott shouted from the wind-whipped cabin.

“We have a problem.”

Dalton covered Maritza with a thin blanket and tucked the edges under her shoulders and legs. “How bad is it?”

“I don’t think we can stay in the air much longer,” she said in a resigned voice, then keyed the radio. “Umpire, Charlie Tango.”

“Go,” Greg O’Donnell shot back.

“I have a major problem,” Jackie said tersely. “I’m going to try for the dirt strip between the power plant and the south end of Lake Qaraaoun. We need assistance ASAP.”

“Site Delta?” O’Donnell asked.

“That’s affirm.”

“I’m on my way.”

Greg adjusted the dim light above his kneeboard, then flipped the selector switch to the number-two radio. “Transco Twenty-seven is on fire! Transco Two-Seven is on fire!” he said in a panicked voice as he pulled the power and rolled the big Cessna into a step turn, allowing the nose to drop straight toward the ground.

O’Donnell kept the transmit switch keyed. “Transco Twenty-seven is going down. Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” he continued as he flicked the external lights off.

“Transco Twenty-seven is on fire! Going down, out of control! We’re going in,” he shouted, switching back to the number-one radio while he turned off the transponder.

From what the air traffic controllers saw on their scopes, Transco 27 had vanished from radar over the peaks of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains.

Pulling out of the steep dive east of Dahr al Ahmar, Greg steered a direct course for the emergency landing strip at Site Delta.

Jackie’s cautious expression dissolved when the Long-Ranger suddenly started vibrating violently laterally and vertically. She was instantly afraid that the main rotor blades would disintegrate, causing a catastrophic failure that would send them plunging to their deaths.

Wide-eyed with fear, Sullivan concentrated on stabilizing the ship and turned to Scott. “I have to put it down!”

“You’re the pilot.”

“Umpire,” Jackie said over the radio, “I have to set it down here.” She looked at the GPS and gave O’Donnell the coordinates.

“I’ve got it fire walled,” he assured her, and read back her position. “Keep me informed.”

Before Jackie could reply, there was a resounding vibration and banging that shook the helo so hard that she couldn’t read the instruments. Reacting to the terrifying crisis, Jackie eased off the power at the same time something snapped in the tail-rotor gearbox. The LongRanger immediately began oscillating from side to side as she desperately fought the controls.

“Tail-rotor failure!” she cried out as she frantically lowered the collective and rolled off the throttle to keep the ship from rotating out of control under the main rotors. Jackie entered an autorotation and, before she thought about it, hit the switch for the searchlight.

Nothing happened.

“Great,” she said as she stared down at the black hole they were descending into. “Brace yourselves,” she shouted to Maritza and Scott.

“Umpire,” Jackie said urgently, “we’ve had a tail-rotor failure. I’m autorotating near the south end of the lake.”

“Roger that,” Greg advised. “I’m hurrying.”

Without the powerful searchlight, Jackie was having a difficult time seeing the edge of the shoreline.

“Scott, are you and Maritza strapped in?”

“We’re all set,” he said as he covered Maritza’s head with a pair of folded blankets. “It’s too late for me to strap her into a seat.”

“This is gonna be a rough landing,” Jackie warned as she fought to control the plummeting helicopter.

“It couldn’t be as bad as my last one,” Maritza dead-panned.

Watching the radar altimeter, Jackie was about to begin a flare over the edge of the reservoir when the helo hit an unseen electric power line. A bomb burst of blue-white sparks flew in every direction as one of the wire strike cable cutters snagged the high-voltage power line.

The LongRanger entered a violently pitching, spinning, disorienting, out-of-control maneuver. The spinning created a centrifugal force that pulled Jackie forward toward the shattered windshield.

For a few seconds the helicopter hesitated precariously in midair and then crashed into the shallow lake. The megavolt power line separated and dropped into the reservoir as the LongRanger rolled over on its right side.

Dazed and gasping for a breath of air, Scott could feel electrical shocks coursing through his body. He struggled with his restraining straps while the helicopter sank below the surface of the reservoir. The cool water was pitch-black and he was feeling light-headed. Finally, after what seemed like minutes, Dalton cleared his head enough to snap the quick-release buckle open and free himself from his restraints. He tried to move, but something was holding him back.

From a distance of seven miles, Greg O’Donnell saw the pyrotechnic display from the power-line strike. He glanced at his chart. Sure enough, the high-voltage lines exiting the power plant ran along the southern edge of the lake. His heart sank to the pit of his stomach as he selected 121.5, the emergency frequency, on his number-two communications radio.

“Charlie Tango,” Greg radioed as he began a high-speed descent, “this is umpire on guard. Do you copy?”

The radio remained silent.

“Charlie Tango, come up guard.”

Stay calm, Scott told himself as he shoved the shoulder straps aside. He attempted to move again, then realized that the sleeve of his jumpsuit was caught on a twisted edge of his seat. His mind, disciplined by years of conditioning and training, began to flash a warning. Panic in the water is an irreversible behavior. With his lungs aching in searing pain, he reached for Maritza. She wasn’t there.

Scott kicked at his bent door and finally forced it open. He swam free of the cockpit and bashed against one of the twisted main rotor blades, then shoved off into the inky blackness. Near the surface of the lake, the water seemed to glow as Scott saw an array of minuscule organisms drift lazily in front of his eyes. A split second later he surfaced as his oxygen-starved mind screamed for air.

With his lungs heaving, Scott treaded water and frantically looked around the floating debris. The steady surge of electrical shocks continued as he noticed waves of blue electricity shimmering across the water. The pungent smell of jet fuel permeated the air and made breathing difficult.

He was about to call out when someone yanked on his leg. Instantly, Jackie broke the surface of the water and thrashed about as she sucked in the foul-smelling air.

“Where’s Maritza?” Scott sputtered.

“I don’t know,” she gasped, then recoiled from the electric shocks and the sight of the blue light undulating across the water. “We have to find her!” she said on the verge of panic.

“Stay where you are,” Scott ordered. Feeling his pulse racing, he took a deep breath and dove eight feet, grazing his head against the crushed nose of the LongRanger. Rapidly feeling his way around the cockpit to the fuselage, he suddenly bumped into something soft. He was immediately clutched around the neck by Maritza. The panic-stricken woman’s broken ankle was trapped in the twisted side door.

Fending off Maritza’s thrashing arms, Scott discovered what was holding her underwater. With his lungs burning, he braced his back against the mangled fuselage and repeatedly kicked at the jammed door. On the fourth try, the door gave way and she shot for the surface.

Maritza was coughing up water and struggling to stay afloat when Scott surfaced near her and swam to her side. Jackie joined them a moment later.

“What’s the”—Maritza choked twice—“blue light?”

“Electricity,” Dalton said, then took in a breath of air and dove straight down again. Less than fifteen seconds later he surfaced with the life raft. He quickly pulled the toggles and the raft popped open and inflated.

“We’re not far from shore,” Scott said as he choked and blinked the fuel-contaminated water from his eyes. He reached for the waterproof survival radio. “Hang on to the side and we’ll swim it in.”

“Just a second,” Jackie uttered as she helped Maritza to the side of the raft. “We’re ready,” she advised as she kicked with wide, even strokes. The wound on her ankle was only a dull pain.

No one said a word as they paddled toward shore. They were still surrounded by the soft, tremulous glow on the water, but they had adjusted to the tingling sensation flowing through their bodies.

“Umpire, Charlie Tango on guard,” Scott radioed in a hoarse whisper.

“Charlie Tango, what’s your situation?” O’Donnell said briskly.

“We’ve crashed.” Scott coughed and cleared his throat. “We hit a power line and we’re in the lake.”

“Oh, shit!”

“We’re swimming toward the shore.”

“Is everyone okay?”

“Yes,” Scott said, then spit out a mouthful of fuel-tainted water.

“What’s your position?” Greg asked.

“We’re at the southeastern edge of the lake,” Dalton said as he studied the barren shoreline adjacent to Site Delta. “It looks like the strip is fairly close to the water, but I don’t know how soft the soil is.”

“Do you see any obstacles?”

“None, other than the power line,” Scott said as his paratrooper boots touched the bottom of the lake. “I’ll keep you clear of it.”

“Okay,” Greg said as he adjusted his night-vision goggles. The emergency airstrip was located at his ten o’clock position, less than two miles. “I’ll hold the landing lights until the last second.”

“We’re almost there.”

“Copy.”

Nearing the edge of the reservoir, Scott heard the distinct sound of the Cessna Caravan. “Give us a few seconds, and I’ll get a pencil flare up.”

“Better hurry,” Greg warned as he slowed the airplane and lowered the flaps. “I see lights — it looks like three or four vehicles headed your way.”

“How far away?”

“I don’t know your exact position. They’re probably a mile, or more.”

“Keep an eye on “em.”

“Will do.”

Scott slipped in the mud, then gained his footing and slid the raft out of the water. Wringing wet from their dunking, Scott and Jackie helped Maritza crawl out of the water. Suffering only bruises and superficial cuts, Scott carried Maritza well clear of the shoreline and gently lowered her to the ground near the airstrip.

While Jackie examined Maritza’s ankle, Dalton took a quick look around and fired a pencil flare at a forty-five-degree angle to the horizon.

“Hey, Bubba,” O’Donnell said as he banked toward the faint streak of light, “I hope that was you.”

“Who else?”

“Your visitors are closer than I thought.”

Scott darted a look at the faint glow of headlights approaching the reservoir. “Make your approach in the middle of the arc… and, ah, it looks like you have at least two — maybe three thousand feet.”

“I’m turnin’ final. How does two-ten look on the heading?”

“I’d say that’s about right.”

“How about another flare?”

“You got it,” Scott said as he fired another marker across the uneven airstrip. “Keep it in the middle.”

“I’ll give it my best shot.”

Motionless, Dalton watched the first set of headlights crest a small rise and race toward the flats near the shoreline. Scott drew his weapon, dropped to the ground, and took careful aim. He squeezed off several rounds, knocking out a headlamp on the second vehicle, then reached for another clip.

Jackie took Maritza’s weapon and quickly added another headlight and windshield to the count.

Scott raised the radio to his mouth. “Land close to the approach end, and I’ll guide you by flashlight.”

“Hell,” Greg said, tossing his NVGs on the cockpit floor, “I’m down in the grass now.”

“Hit the landing lights,” Scott advised.

“Coming on,” O’Donnell said as a brilliant halo of blinding light forced Scott to shield his eyes. “Pull the power! You’re almost on us!”

The Caravan hit hard, bounced once, and rapidly came to a halt under max reverse thrust and heavy braking.

Kneeling on each side of Maritza, Jackie and Scott lifted her by the arms and carried her to the open cargo door. As they helped her into the plane, rounds from high-powered rifles began penetrating the fuselage of the utility transport.

“Let’s get out of here,” Scott yelled as he boosted Jackie up and into the cabin, then jumped aboard at the same moment Greg added full power.

“I’m hit,” O’Donnell shouted as another round ripped through the nose wheel tire. “I need some help!”

Dalton raced to the cockpit as the airplane veered to the left and bounced along on the flat nose tire. He leaped into the copilot’s seat and simultaneously jammed the right rudder pedal full forward and snatched the yoke back. With the nose wheel off the ground and the powerful turboprop in full song, Scott played the controls like a maestro.

“Hang tight,” Scott exclaimed as the driver of a Chevy pickup truck attempted to cut him off and block the airstrip.

Using a combination of short-field and soft-field takeoff techniques, Dalton finessed the heavy Caravan into the air a split second before the right main landing gear smashed through the windshield of the Silverado. Scott deftly countered the violent yaw, then allowed the damaged airplane to accelerate in ground effect. Seconds later, with rounds still penetrating the fuselage and wings, he turned the landing light off and nursed the bullet-ridden airplane into a shallow climb.

Unscathed by the hail of gunfire, Jackie hurried forward and helped Greg out of the left seat. With his assistance, she moved him to the cabin and propped him between Maritza and a nine-man life raft. O’Donnell’s left thigh was bleeding profusely and he had another serious wound to his left shoulder. Using one of the Caravan’s first-aid packets, Jackie and Maritza dressed Greg’s wounds. A few minutes later Jackie used a flashlight to inspect the underside of the wings, then returned to the cockpit.

“How are you doing?” she quietly asked Scott as she slid into the left seat and latched her restraining harness.

“Okay,” he answered as they stared at each other’s disheveled appearance. “How are Maritza and Greg?”

“She’s in fair shape for the time being, but we need to get him to a hospital as soon as possible.”

Scott studied the GPS and glanced at the fuel gauges. “Do you think he can hang on until we get to Athens?”

Her strained expression turned into one of regret. “We aren’t going to make Athens,” she murmured.

Surprised by the tone of her voice, Scott frowned when he turned to her. “What are you talking about?”

“We took some rounds through the bottom of the ferry tank,” Jackie answered as she looked at him, her eyes filled with concern. “What isn’t spraying the countryside is filling the aft section of the cabin.”

Stunned by the disclosure, he looked into the dark cabin, then caught her eye. “Can you plug the leaks?”

“No,” she said under her breath. “They’re inside the perimeter of the frame that’s bolted to the floor.”

Scott’s expression turned grim. “We’re trapped in a flying bomb,” he said with understated calm in his voice. “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

“Yes, it does,” she said lightly, staring at him with close curiosity. “We’re also leaking fuel from both wings.”

“Great.” Scott quickly calculated the approximate time to fuel exhaustion, then turned to her with a sober look in his eye. “Folks, before we land, I’d like to explain our out-of-court settlements.”

Jackie reached into a pocket of her wet flight suit and extracted a compact tape recorder. “If this thing is still working, I’m going to debrief Maritza.”

“You can get on the sat-phone…” Scott trailed off when he saw her slowly shake her head.

“That’s the other bad news,” Jackie said as she showed Scott the Caravan’s shattered satellite-phone that had been blown into three pieces. “I lost mine during the crash.”

“Well,” Scott said with a shrug, “we’ll just have to try to reach the Permak Express—stretch the fuel as far as we can.”