they all helped to force the two poles through a couple of sleeping bags and form it into a stretcher that could stand up to the relatively short distance they must travel with the boss.
They rested it on the grass and lowered Rick onto it, and Douglas was really concerned to see the mission's CO drifting into unconsciousness. They had to get him some medical help, antibiotics, and someone to remove the bullet. Doug was afraid there might be two of them in Rick's right leg.
And so they hoisted him up, Dallas and Brian holding the front poles, Doug, using his good arm, with Don Smith, at the rear. The mighty Bob Bland carried the heavy machine gun, with the ammunition belts around his neck. Lt. Banfield carried the main satellite transmitter. Mike Hook somehow held on to its other parts. And they set off through the wood, walking slowly, carrying their heavy burden through the trees, then out into the light. And still there was no beat of Argentinian helicopter blades.
They rested after a mile, placing the Commander on the ground, trying to give him water, but he seemed unaware and his head kept falling back, and Doug was worrying the morphine had somehow had a bad effect.
But they could see the channel out in front now, and the remainder of the walk was downhill, and they hoisted up the stretcher again and walked on down toward the water. Rick's eyes were open now, but it was obvious that some kind of delirium was setting in, and he was murmuring something none of them could make out.
They all knew the clock was ticking for Rick. It was 1105, and they could not expect any rescuer, whoever it might be, to hang around in this hostile Argentinian territory for long. Doug said, 'Gimme one of the ammunition belts round my neck…that's about all I can manage.'
They reached the riverbank and stumbled down the steep slope toward the water. Mike was aiming the TACBE everywhere along the shore. But there was a light mist over the water and they could not see more than about fifty yards. And they waited for five minutes and then ten…and then Mike Hook heard it, the unmistakable growl of big engines crawling along the shoreline.
Two minutes later they saw it, a gray, 450-ton fast-attack naval patrol craft, flying a national flag off its mast, red and white horizontal halves, with a white star on black in the top left-hand corner.
'It's Chile,' said Dallas.
But now the craft had seen them and the helmsman held her on the engine in the fast current. The SEAL team waved, and they could see a big rubber inflatable being launched, and then heading into the deep rocky shore. On board was a young Chilean officer, who just said, 'No speak, yet. Just hurry. Get injured men in right now. I come back for last two.'
Five minutes later they were all on board the Israeli-built gunboat
The young officer smiled and said, 'I'm not too sure who you are, but you must be real important. Orders came down from very high, right from HQ at Valparaiso…very simple…get you guys out of Argentina no matter what. GPS very accurate…good, eh?'
They all shook hands at last, but Rick Hunter was now unconscious, and the Chilean Sub-Lieutenant Gustavo Frioli told them, 'Doctor waiting. We get messages.'
And they made it just in time. The naval doctor, Commander Cesar Delpino, had trained at Houston Medical Center, and he recognized a dire emergency when he saw one. They took the Commander immediately into a spotless, white-painted emergency room, and he administered a powerful dose of antibiotics, and placed him instantly on an IVD.
By the following morning, Tuesday, May 3, Rick was stabilized, the poison in his system under control. He was still extremely feverish, and Commander Delpino thought they should wait another twenty-four hours before removing two machine-gun bullets embedded in his thigh.
Rick asked him if he would perform the operation himself. But the Chilean doctor told him no, someone else had arrived.
'A top Chilean specialist, I hope,' said Commander Hunter, grinning.
'No. Your surgeon will be American.'
'American!' said Rick. 'Where's he coming from?'
'I don't know, but he's here. They arrived about two hours ago.'
'Who? How?' said Rick, sounding much like a Chinese waiter.
'The American submarine. It's right out there, beyond those buildings, alongside.'
'What submarine?'
'Well, Major, I can see it's a U.S. Navy L.A.-class nuclear boat, maybe seven thousand tons…it's called
'How's she going to do that, straight along the Beagle Channel and up the Atlantic?'
'No, Major. They'll go the other way, slowly west through the much deeper water around Gordon Island and then Cook Bay, out into the Pacific. They can go deep there and then turn north up the coastline to your aircraft carrier.'
'That's a long way, eh?'
'Ah, yes, Commander. A long way, but a safe way. Out of shallow enemy waters, not on the surface.'
'How about the doctor?'
Commander Delpino laughed. 'I don't know about him.'
The following morning Lt. Commander James Scott met Rick Hunter for the first time, in the operating room. They shook hands briefly, and the U.S. Navy surgeon said, 'This isn't going to take long. You've been in good hands. No infection. We're leaving for home this afternoon.'
'Thanks, Doc,' said Rick.
'I'm going to give you a shot of Pentothal…in your forearm…try to count to ten, but you won't get there…then I'm going to take those two bullets out.'
Rick counted, made it to three, and the world went blissfully blank for just thirty minutes. When he awoke, it was done. The leg was strapped, the pain bearable, and Dallas MacPherson and Douglas Jarvis were standing by his bed.
'Well done, sir,' said the Lt. Commander from South Carolina. 'We all wanna thank you.' And, with an obvious air of admiration, he offered his hand to the SEAL Team Leader. Dallas himself would never comprehend the majestic embrace of that compliment.
And Rick Hunter's war was over.
The military communication from the commandant of the Rio Grande air base had been decoded and presented in hard copy by Admiral Oscar Moreno to the President of the Republic of Argentina.
It read:
Rio Grande, Wednesday, May 4. Attack on this base on the night of May 1 and the subsequent air and ground pursuit of the heavily armed intruders has resulted in the total loss of twelve Super-Etendard fighter-bombers, two military patrol Jeeps, eleven guards, four Puma attack helicopters, and twelve aircrew. The identity of the enemy remains unknown. None have been killed, wounded, or detained. Lt. Commander Ricardo Testa, head of air base Security, is currently under arrest awaiting court-martial.
The President of Argentina could hardly believe his eyes. And yet, somehow, he could. And his mind flashed back to the veiled threats contained in the communique from the White House that had arrived the previous week, the one to which he had not replied.
He turned to his Defense Minister, Admiral Horacio Aguardo, and then to Admiral Moreno and General Eduardo Kampf. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'either directly or indirectly we are being sucked into a war with the United
