The Bear

Navy Seahawk SAR 15:00 h

“There’s no way we’re gonna find him in this!” The spotter shouted as loud as he could. Likely the pilot didn’t hear him. He hated using the on-board mic. He wasn’t sure why. He was a tech guy after all. He pushed the mic up to his mouth. “Hear that?”

“Yea, Pits, I hear ya,” the shout came back.

“Even if we did, he’s not gonna be alive.” Pits trained his glasses back on the dark surface of the Arctic water. The Bering Sea was nowhere to be lost in the middle of winter. He could see the whitecaps as they surged across the otherwise, featureless terrain. A sudden jolt nearly sent him flying out the door of the Seahawk. He tugged on the strap that was holding him in, making sure it was secure. “Two hours is too long out here,” he shouted.

“Leave it to the Navy to have to help out the fly boys,” the co-pilot yelled.

“Wait!” Pits leaned forward again thinking it might give him a better look as he trained the binoculars down. “Deb …” Pits flipped the mic back up to his mouth. “Debris, three ‘o clock.”

The HH-60 banked right and began circling several scattered pieces of debris. Bits and pieces were strewn in a line leading away from the coast. Most smaller pieces would have sunk and would never be recovered. Only the larger, flat surfaces that could lay across the water’s surface remained afloat. And in these conditions, that wouldn’t be a very long time. The Arctic waters had a cruel heart.

“There!”

“What Pits?”

“Someone hanging on to a wing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, but it’s not one of ours,” Pits shouted. “Big red star.”

The Seahawk closed, hovering above the wreckage. The SAR crew began what they do best, what they trained relentlessly for; rescue from the sea, no matter who it was. It was the code of those who wore the uniform, never let the sea take a life, friend or foe. It was their way. Pits readied the hoist as his crew-mate Frankie Miles, a thin young black man with a winning smile from New York, strapped himself into the harness. Pits flipped the switch on the lift, guiding him down to the rolling surface. It required everyone to play their part; the pilot to keep it steady while Pits controlled the hoist. Too fast and he plunged Frankie into the water. He engaged the hoist after he got the ‘thumbs up’ from Frankie. The trick he knew, was to keep it from swaying. Though most of that was controlled by the pilot, how he managed the vertical aspect played a big part. The harness hovered above the wing as Frankie unbuckled and dropped to the bomber’s wing. The Russian was barely conscious, almost dead weight. Though the waters were tipped with whitecaps, the winds were relatively calm for this time of year, and within an hour of finding the wreck, a Russian airman was safely on board a United States Navy Seahawk helicopter.