southerly than their previous route. And the sound of the roaring steam provided them with an inspiration, a feeling of self-congratulation. They had done what they came to do, and to a Navy SEAL that represents the meaning of life.
At 0440, they noticed the reeds and grasses petering out, and there was a new urgency in the bleeper, sounding out from the inflatable boats. Rick knew they must be close, and then he saw the water, gleaming in a kind of aerial phosphorescence from the snow-white steam towering over the entire island. It was a wide, shallow inlet, probably 50 yards across, and down the inlet, possibly 100 yards away, they could see five black figures trying to drag the boats nearer.
Rick Hunter snapped sharply into the radio receiver, “
“Okay, sir,” the reply came back. “It’s just too shallow. We can’t get the boats nearer, even empty…I’m coming back to the shore now…hold everything…over.”
One minute later, Lt. MacPherson, followed by Mike Hook, came splashing through the shallows. “Sir,” he said, “how about that? What about that steam? Way to go, right!”
“Way to go, kid. What now?”
“The bottom of this creek’s firm. Let’s get Buster inboard. The guys are hiding the boats under that grass. It’s a beautiful overhang — choppers never even saw them. C’mon, Rattles…okay, Buster, ole buddy, let’s go home.”
And now the full team stepped into the water and began to move on down to the boats, Rick now carrying the M-60, all the others holding the MP-5s, one rookie with the second belt of ammunition. Their hoods were up now, wet-suit trousers folded and clipped over the tight rubber shoes, custom-made to fit the flippers. With no Draegers, bombs, explosives or hardware, it was easy going.
Except that out there above the trees there could suddenly be heard the sound of the helos returning, the pilots now firmly briefed as to the direction the fleeing murderers had taken.
All three of the helos had their square rear doors open, and inside each one a gunner crouched behind a machine gun twice the size of the M-60, aiming it out through the gap. Up front, the navigator, wearing night goggles, sat beside the pilot, calling back target instructions.
This was big trouble. The SEALs were close to the boats, but there was no protection in there. And walking down the bright water of the inlet they were at their most vulnerable point of the entire mission.
“
The first burst hit the last man into the reeds, and Catfish Jones took the full volley in his back and head. He fell dead into the shallows, still trying to hold on to Buster Townsend. Rattlesnake Davies, now left carrying Buster all on his own, saw Catfish hit the water, saw the bullets lashing all around him, and still went back to try to drag him to safety.
By some miracle the bullets missed Rattlesnake, and even though he knew Catfish was surely dead, he would not let go, and he dragged the former North Carolina fisherman out of the firing line, and he kept saying over and over, “C’mon, Catfish, buddy, we’ll be all right. I know we’ll be all right…just keep comin’ buddy…we’re gonna be fine.”
When at last he was under cover, he turned Petty Officer Jones over so the others could not see the terrible effects of the bullets, especially not the gaping hole in the back of his head.
Rick Hunter knew what had happened instantly. And he told them all, “We just have to keep still. Remember that machine gunner has no idea whether he hit anyone or not. Heads down, don’t move. And say a prayer for Catfish. He was a great and brave man. But we have to go forward and save ourselves.”
“Sir, we’re not leaving him, are we, sir?” Rattlesnake Davies was beside himself. “I can’t leave him, sir. I can’t leave him.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid, Rattles. Of course we’re not fucking leaving him.” The Commander knew exactly how to talk to people who were on the verge of losing their grip.
“Jesus, sir. How the hell are we going to get outta here?” asked Lt. MacPherson.
“By using our brains, staying quiet, holding our nerve, hiding when we have to and hitting back hard when we get a chance.”
“What worries me most is the daylight coming,” said Dallas. “It’s headed for zero-five-hundred, and I’m guessing it’s gonna be light by six-thirty — we got ninety minutes max to make the open water.”
“And it ain’t gonna be all that great when we do, unless we can get some help. I’m counting on my buddy Danny for that.”
And now they could hear the three helos making a long circle out over the Haing Gyi Shoal, and their clatter died out to the east, which signified they were coming right back in roughly six minutes from now. Commander Hunter rallied his team. They got Buster to his feet and walking, and two of the rookies dragged the body of Catfish Jones out into the water, faceup, and began to pull him through the shallows toward the inflatables, now only 50 yards away.
It was slower than anyone wanted, but the skies seemed clear and the fresh water running down toward the ocean was cleaning the wounds of the dead SEAL who had destroyed the Chinese frigate.
They reached the boats safely, placed the body in one and stretched Buster out comfortably in the other. The two Navy boat drivers, Seamen Ward and Franks, helped load the rest of the men inboard. Rattlesnake was in with Buster, plus Rick Hunter and the two rookies who had served with them outside the power plant. Lieutenant MacPherson was in the other boat.
Two more rookies went into the second craft, where Mike Hook was already sorting out the gear and organizing the M-60. Everyone was still in the cover of the over-hanging grass, but the weight had put the boats on the bottom. Commander Hunter and Lt. Allensworth went back in the water, and the skies were clear. It was still dark and the team leader decided they should at least be floating ready for the moment when they would make a run for it, straight down the widening river and across the shoal.
“The grass is just as good to hide in down there another fifty yards as it is up here,” he said. “And there’re probably five feet of water. Bobby and me’ll drag us down there. I’ll pull, he’ll shove. I don’t like boats aground in a foot of water.”
Rick Hunter seized the painter of the lead boat and heaved. Astern Bobby Allensworth pushed with all his strength, and the boat moved. Rick heaved some more, and the boat slid off the mud with water under its keel.
“One at a time. We’ll take ’em separately,” he said. “Use the paddles to stay as far into the grass as you can.” And Commander Hunter began to haul the boat along, with Bobby at his side, preventing it from drifting out into the bright stream.
They’d gone 25 yards when the helos came back, and the sound of the steam roaring out of the power plant deadened the sound of the engines. Bobby Allensworth saw them before he heard them, and he yelled at Rick to shove the boat inshore and then hit the water.
The SEAL commander turned, saw the helos about a half mile off, racing into the inlet where they had opened fire before. The pilot banked right, losing height as he came in over the trees. The navigator thought he spotted something in the water, and he ordered the gunner to open up along the bank again.
Once more the bullets from the big Russian-made machine gun ripped into the left bank, and he kept firing all the way down its length. The two SEALs dived face-down into the water, and the the first helicopter overflew them. But the second one didn’t. Rick Hunter and Bobby surfaced without knowing it was there and the second machine- gunner, wearing night goggles, spotted them, and rained fire down on them.
The chopper was so low it could hardly miss, and with heartbreaking courage the SEAL from the Los Angeles ghetto flung himself onto his Commander’s back and took eleven bullets that jolted his entire body, obliterating his spine, neck and head. He died instantly, still clinging to Rick’s back. Still the devoted bodyguard.
Rick Hunter forced himself up out of the mud, safe but wet. “Shit, Bobby,” he said. “You trying to drown us both?”
