punched up from the bottom of the river, jamming his knees against the console, and then his helmeted head was banging off the overhead and he was going ass over teakettle onto the deck as a huge red and roaring wall of water shot up just in front of the boat, accompanied by a bellowing blast out of the river.
“Mine!” he yelled. The boat was wallowing around like a drunken pig, no longer as light in the bow as she had been. Through the crash of the water plume on the bow, he heard the boom of the big mortar on the fantail and then night became blinding day as Yank’s white phosphorous round went off right in front of them on the banks, close enough that he could feel the heat through the open door.
The 81 was echoed by the stuttering blast of the after 50-cal as Yank went into action against the bank, joined almost immediately by the forwaro 50’s.
Tag groped for the console, punching hard at the engine start buttons as he struggled to get upright. The welcome rumble of the engines was drowned out by the forward 50’s getting seriously into it. The flash from the 50’s revealed enough of the bank to determine the boat’s position. The ebb tide had been building fast, and he could see mangrove roots that looked like half-submerged prison windows in the flash of the heavy machine guns. For a heart-stopping instant, he imagined he saw a white face in the water. Reflexively, he grabbed both engine control handles and pulled them all the way back, causing the boat to lurch astern as the 800 tip of General Motors’ finest dug in, extracting her from the lethal riverbank even as a second mine went off, but this time about thirty yards in front of them. Sherman saw the dull red glare underwater just before another thick column of water erupted, rising impossibly high. But the boat was going full astern now, and the bank had already receded into the darkness, visible only as the point from which the boat’s 50-cal tracer rounds were ricocheting up into the night sky. After nearly a year on the rivers, his guys knew exactly what to do-lay down a withering fire on both banks long enough for him to get them all out of the kill zone.
After fifteen seconds of backing out into the river, he yelled a cease-fire over the phones. He reduced the backing bell and then shifted to ahead, spinning the steering wheel full over, turning down river. The sudden silence was startling, and his eyes were stinging as he realized that the pilothouse was filled with gunsmoke. He kicked out to clear his feet from a couple of inches of hot powder casings that were rattling around on the deck and burning his ankles.
“Station check,” he barked into the phones. His throat was so dry that his voice cracked, and he felt his heart pounding and his hands shaking.
No matter how many times, it still scared the shit out of you.
“Fifty-one, no casualties,” Kelly called from up above.
“I think I got rounds in the chamber and I know I got a hot gun.
“Fifty-two, no casualties,” the bosun’s laconic voice announced. “Clear bore. I’m outta fifty and I’m reloading the eighty-one.” Nothing, not even mines, phased Yank.
“Radio’s okay,” Ryker squeaked in his high-pitched voice. He laughed nervously. “But I think Jarret crapped his pants.
There was a moment of silence on the circuit as Sherman gathered his thoughts while he continued to turn the boat.
“Fifty-one, clear ‘em through the muzzle,” he ordered.
“Radio, check on the snipe. He was down in the hole.” No more radar, so he was flying blind out here. He flipped on the Fathometer. He could keep her’m the middle using the compass and the Fathometer.
“Snipe’s okay,” Ryker called back immediately. “Says we got water coming in, though. He’s linin’ up the pumps.
We bookin’ outta here, boss, or what?”
Sherman thought for a moment. They had been very, very goddamn lucky.
Two mines, and they still had the engines and the props. If the hull was holed, it was up forward, away from the engine compartment. His right knee and his head hurt like hell, and he suspected everybody had some minor injuries. But there had been no machine gunners waiting to shoot his aluminum-hulled boat to ribbons from spider holes in the banks. Or if there had been, the Swift boat’s immediate response with the 50’s had kept the bastards down.
Two loud bangs overhead made him jump as he climbed sideways back into the twisted chair.
“Bores clear, Fifty-one. What about the snake eater?”
This from Kelly as he jacked -open the gun’s chambers to make sure they were, physically empty
“Screw the snake eater,” Ryker offered. “I think it was me shit his pants. That was too goddamn close.” He was trying to keep it light, but Sherman could detect the fear in his young voice. He realized his own hands were still trembling.
“And Fifty-two here,” said Yank. “The eighty-one has a willie peter, locked and loaded. Ready for bear. Tell Jarret to gimme some more fifty-cal.”
try Okay, girls, let’s get it together,” She, man snapped ing to get some strength and authority back into his own voice. The boat was definitely settling by the nose. “We’re gonna go down the river,” he said. “See if we can get this bitch to that sandbar at checkpoint Kilo.”
“What about the SEAL?” Kelly asked again. At that moment, the starboard diesel engine misfired and then started to run ragged. Sherman swore and punched the right-hand shutdown button, and the engine died with a grudging rattle.
Shit, he thought. Bet we busted a fuel line. He energized both engine compartment bilge pumps to keep fuel from pooling and starting a fire.
The port-side engine kept humning.
“The SEAL’s on his own for now,” Sherman replied.
“Right now, we’ve got our own probs. Yank, you stay at your gun. Watch behind us for shooters. Kelly, get inside and help the snipe with those pumps. Send Jarret back aft to open the engine compartment doors, tell me what we’ve got going back there. We need to get Baby here onto that sandbar before she sinks on us.”
Sherman pushed the useless radar display unit out of the way and tried to think. They would drift away from the ambush area even without engines because of the ebb. The compass showed he was pointed east, which was roughly down river. But it was still pitch-black, and he wanted to be out in the’middle and not about to bump up against one of the banks.
What about the SEAL? Kelly had wanted to know. Obviously, the enemy had known they were out there. And known they were drifting. Which meant they probably knew there was a pickup going down. Which might mean the SEAL had been discovered, and perhaps made to tell them. when the boat was coming back. Or maybe they just knew the pattern. Have to mention that in the debrief He turned the wheel to take them across the river, watching the depth gauge as he did so. He snaked the boat back and forth across the river until he found the deepest part, then pointed her back east on the compass. From where they had started, they should run aground on the sandbar at the dogleg sometime in the next hour, by which time another boat should be coming in to assist. What about the SEAL?
Well, the SEAL was probably dog meat by now. Sherman concentrated on the flickering red light of the Fathometer and saving his boat.
Too bad about the SEAL, but another boat would go back again tomorrow night and try again. That was the deal. You didn’t just leave a guy out there in the weeds.
THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON, D.C., MONDAY, 10 APRIL 1995.
Rear Adm. Thomas V. Carpenter, Judge Advocate General of the U.S. Navy, was perplexed as he stared up at his aide over his half-lens reading glasses.
“A cop? A Fairfax County homicide cop? Wants to see me?”
His aide nodded. “Yes, sir. He just showed up here, with an escort from the security office. Says he needs to talk to you. Won’t say what about, Admiral.”
Carpenter leaned back in his chair. “Well, hell’s bells.
Send him in. But first get Captain Mccarty. I want-“
“The executive assistant is on his way, Admiral.”
“Yeah. Okay. Good. Soon-as he’s here, bring ‘em in.”
The aide left the office. Frowning, Carpenter swiveled around in his chair to look out the windows. His office
