Tiger's Claw

U.S. COAST GUARD CUTTER MOHAWK

SEVERAL MINUTES LATER

“It’s a real miracle, Skipper,” the copilot aboard the HH-60 Jayhawk, Lieutenant Lucy Cross, radioed. “The survivor is a woman. She was wearing a flight helmet, so my guess is she was the pilot or copilot. I don’t know how she got out alive. She’s unconscious, and she’s got several broken bones, including a badly fractured neck, but she’s breathing.”

“How far out are they, Ed?” Doug Sheridan asked on intercom.

“Still thirty-five minutes, sir,” Edward Fells, the tactical officer, responded.

“Doctors and medics ready on the helo deck?”

“Medical crew standing by, sir,” the officer of the deck responded after radioing down.

“Victim is in cardiac arrest,” Cross radioed. “Stand by, Skipper.”

Shit, Sheridan thought, but this time he didn’t say it aloud. “Do what you can, guys,” he radioed. C’mon, darlin’, he thought, fight, fight! . . .

“Got her back, Skipper,” the copilot radioed a couple minutes later, the relief evident in her voice. “I think the ASTs just said she was in arrest so they could put their hands all over her chest.”

“Get your head back in the game, guys,” Sheridan said gruffly, but inside he was breathing a sigh of relief too, thankful that he had some of the Coast Guard’s finest aviation survival technicians serving on his cutter. The ASTs were the workhorses of Coast Guard aviation. They trained as hard as Navy SEALS, knew as much about helicopters as a mechanic, as much about emergency medicine as a paramedic, and as much about . . .

“Bridge, Tactical, high-speed bogey, sixty miles south, low altitude, speed six hundred knots, heading right for us!” Fells radioed.

“General quarters, man battle stations,” Sheridan said calmly. He was pleased with how relaxed he felt: just the simple act of talking to the crew about this very eventuality put him instantly at ease. “Stand by on the 76 to repel hostile aircraft.” The 76 was the ship’s 76-millimeter Otobreda Super Rapid dual-purpose gun, mounted on the bow. The gun could engage surface and air targets as far away as eighteen miles. The Mohawk also carried a Phalanx Close-In Weapon System on the stern, a radar-guided twenty-millimeter machine gun that could engage air targets as far as two miles away across the entire rear quadrant of the cutter. “Comm, radio on all emergency frequencies, high-speed aircraft, alter course immediately or you will be fired on. Advise the Jayhawk. Bearing on the bogey?”

“Bogey bearing one-niner zero, heading zero-one-zero, directly for us.”

“Helm, steer one-niner zero,” Sheridan ordered. He wanted to match the aircraft’s bearing in order to present the smallest profile possible to the attacker. “Range from bogey to Jayhawk?”

“Twenty miles, sir. The helo is directly between us and the bogey.”

He picked up the radiotelephone. “Mohawk Zero-One, Mohawk One, alter course twenty right to stay out of our line of fire.”

“Mohawk Air One, roger,” Coffey replied, his voice definitely on edge.

“Range to bogey?”

“Fifty miles.”

The officer of the deck handed Sheridan a white Kevlar helmet and streamlined auto-inflating life vest. “The Mohawk is at battle stations, sir,” he reported. “Weapon systems manned and ready. We are heading one-niner-zero, flank speed.”

“Very well.”

“Bridge, Tactical, the bogey is altering course!” Fell announced. “He turned hard right! He’s keeping the helo between him and us!”

“Why the hell is he . . . ?” And his eyes bulged in fear as he realized what the aircraft was doing: “Damn, he’s going after the helo!” Sheridan shouted. “Comm, send to Fleet and Area, unidentified high-speed aircraft pursuing rescue helo, request immediate help! Tactical, range from bogey to helo!”

“Eight miles.”

Sheridan picked up the radiotelephone. “Mohawk Zero-One, Mohawk One, you’ve got an unidentified fast-mover about eight miles on your tail and closing fast. Try warning him away on the radio—we tried, but maybe he can’t hear us. Make sure your transponder is on.”

“Roger.”

“Range between the bogey and the helo?”

“Five miles.”

Sheridan could hear Cross’s radio calls on the UHF GUARD emergency frequency, so there was no doubt she was broadcasting and could hear his instructions. “Range?”

“Two miles. His airspeed is decreasing. He may be closing in for identification. One mile. Radar returns merging.”

“Any identification on this guy at all?” he asked. “Is he . . . ?”

“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! U.S. Coast Guard helicopter Mohawk Zero-One, two hundred and sixty miles north of Lincoln Island, catastrophic engine explosion, suspected air-to-air attack, we are going down, we are going down, Mayday, Mayd—”

And that was the last they heard from the Jayhawk.