Sea of Shadows

“I think I just peed my pants, sir!”

“Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, kid!”

Lieutenant Brolan jogged the helo to the right just in time to avoid another burst of machine-gun fire. He shouted into the radio, “My aircraft is hit and still receiving hostile fire!”

“Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. Evade and return to home plate. Help is on the way, over.”

Lieutenant Brolan jerked the stick to the left, but a series of rapid-fire hammer blows to the airframe told him that he hadn’t been quite fast enough. A chattering vibration started to come from the tail boom, and the indicator needles on several instruments began to swing crazily.

“I’m hit again!” Lieutenant Brolan shouted into the radio. “Gunslinger is hit again! We are still taking fire!”

“Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. Can you tell me what kind of fire are you taking, over?”

“How the fuck should I know? Some kind of machine gun!”

Chavez keyed the radio. “SAU Commander, this is Gunslinger Four-One. We have located Gremlin Zero Four, moored to oil platform Golf. Our aircraft has taken several hits from one or more automatic weapons. Damage report to follow, over.”

He switched over to his intercom. “Mojo, I need a damage report. Give me a rapid survey; we’ll check for little stuff in a minute.”

A few seconds went by, but he didn’t receive an answer. He keyed the intercom again. “How’s it looking back there?”

No answer.

Chavez turned far enough in his seat to see into the rear of the cabin.

Petty Officer Haynes was slumped over in her seat, her head hanging limply, bobbing and rolling with each movement of the aircraft. A dark stain was spreading across her chest, but against the olive drab of her flight suit, it was impossible to tell if it was blood. The helo took a particularly violent bump, and the young woman’s head lolled far enough to the side so that her face was partially visible. A dark red bubble formed over one nostril, broke, and then another one began to form. It was blood all right.

Chavez keyed his intercom. “Mojo is hit!”

Lieutenant Brolan was silently chanting, “Come on baby … come on baby … come on baby …” With a rapid interplay of hand and foot work, he managed to throw his crippled helo far enough to the side to avoid another hail of bullets. At least he thought he had avoided it; the airframe was rattling so badly that they might have taken a hit and not been able to feel it. He keyed his intercom. “How bad is she?”

“I don’t know,” Chavez said. “But it doesn’t look good.” He keyed the intercom again. “Mojo, can you hear me? Come on, Mojo, talk to me. You’re gonna be okay; you’ve just got to hang on for a few minutes.”

He switched back to the radio. “SAU Commander, this is Gunslinger Four-One. My SENSO is hit. I can’t tell how bad, but it looks like a chest wound. I’m going to need a medical crew standing by as soon as I hit the deck, over.”

“Roger, Gunslinger.”

Another burst of gunfire came from the oil platform, but this one fell short, the tracers dropping harmlessly into the ocean at the ends of their trajectories.

“I think we’re out of it,” Lieutenant Brolan said. “I think we’re …”

The tension in his voice was easing. He looked up. “What’s our damage like?”

“I can’t tell,” Lieutenant (jg) Chavez said. “My dials are all over the place. But I think I’m smelling oil.”

Lieutenant Brolan nodded. “Yeah, I smell it too. Think we can make it back to the barn?”

The radio kicked in. “Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. We are approaching at all speed. Return to home plate, over.”

Brolan stared at the radio as if it were from another planet. “No shit.”

Chavez thumped his instrument panel, where a red tattletale was flashing. “Oh shit! I’m showing a ‘chip-light’ on engine one.”

“Is it for real? Or are your instruments taking a dump?”

“You want to chance it?”

Lieutenant Brolan shook his head. “No way.”

According to the flashing tattletale, a sensor in the oil sump had detected metal filings in the starboard engine. If the sensor was reporting an actual condition (instead of an erroneous reading caused by instrument damage), the engine could seize up, tearing the aircraft apart, or even exploding like a bomb.

“Shut down engine one,” Lieutenant Brolan said. “I’ll mow the lawn,” he said under his breath. “I’ll help the kids with their homework. I will never look at another woman again …”

The aircraft took on a shudder so violent that it jarred Brolan’s teeth.

Only four hundred feet up, they were starting to lose altitude. The cyclic and collective were becoming less responsive with every second, and now he’d been forced to shut down one of his two engines. He hoped the increasingly powerful stink of burnt oil was coming from the now-dead starboard engine. If it was coming from the transmission casing or the port engine, they were going to have to ditch in the ocean. And no matter what the Navy’s air-sea survival courses taught, he knew that the odds for surviving a helo ditch were not good at all.

The copilot keyed up the radio. “SAU Commander, this is Gunslinger Four-One. My starboard engine is out, and I am losing altitude.” He glanced at his Tactical Air Navigation screen before continuing. “My ETA to Benfold is three mikes. Request emergency green deck, over.”

The reply came over the radio a few seconds later. “Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. Towers is designated as your home plate.

You have emergency green deck on Towers. Do not attempt to rendezvous with Benfold, over.”

Pilot and copilot both stared at the radio. “What the hell are they thinking?” Chavez asked. He immediately keyed the radio. “SAU Commander, this is Gunslinger Four-One. I have an emergency. My SENSO is injured, I am down one engine, and my aircraft is about to fall out of the goddamned sky, over!”

On the TACAN, Benfold was approaching at thirty-five knots. Towers was limping after her at eighteen and a half knots. Benfold would be within range a hell of a lot sooner.

“Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. I acknowledge your emergency. Your ETA to Towers is six mikes. You are not, I repeat not authorized to rendezvous with Benfold. Their deck is red to you, over.”

“This is Gunslinger Four-One. Roger, out.”

Lieutenant (jg) Chavez looked out his side window at the ocean, only about three hundred feet below and coming up way too fast. “I sure hope those guys brought some body bags.”

CHAPTER 45

USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

CENTRAL ARABIAN GULF (OFF THE COAST OF QATAR) MONDAY; 21 MAY

0812 hours (8:12 AM)

TIME ZONE +3 ‘CHARLIE’

The executive officer looked at Captain Bowie. “You sure about this, Jim? If those guys have to ditch, all we’ll be able to do is steam around in circles and try to fish the body parts out of the water. It will take an act of God to get one of them out of that thing alive.”

Captain Bowie nodded slowly. “I know.”

“Benfold can recover that aircraft in …”