The two rescue swimmers donned wet suits, fins, and masks and reported to Master Chief Hancock that they were ready to enter the water for the rescue. First aid supplies and a stretcher were passed topside to a pair of emergency medical technicians. Two riflemen with M-16s also rushed up the ladder to give some limited protection from sharks.
Doc Pugh and two of the cooks set up the wardroom as an emergency operating theatre. The wardroom table became a make shift operating table, complete with high intensity operating theatre lights in the overhead. Bottles of oxygen were standing by, Doc’s instruments were arrayed neatly on the buffet.
Doc was ready to handle anything but the most complicated emergency procedures. If necessary, communications could be set up with the doctors onboard either NIMITZ or ESSEX. They could talk him through the procedures that he could not accomplish on his own.
The circling Tomcat directed SAN FRANCISCO toward the downed pilot. Finding a tiny bobbing head in the vast expanse of the open sea required vigilance and patience. Even with the F-14 above pointing the way, the man in the water was all too easy to miss as he rose and fell in the swells.
Finally, Petty Officer Buell, looking through the periscope yelled, "I see him! About one thousand yards, dead ahead." A tiny yellow one-man inflatable raft came into view. The pilot was lying in the miniature boat, not moving. It was impossible to tell if he was unconscious, dead, or merely resting.
When SAN FRANCISCO was about three hundred yards from the flyer, Fagan ordered, "Ahead one third." The churning wake behind SAN FRANCISCO eased to a narrow white ribbon. At one hundred yards, he ordered, "Back one third." At fifty yards, he ordered, "All stop." The submarine quietly slid to a halt a scant few feet from the small boat.
Both swimmers leaped over the side into the water and pulled the life raft the final few feet alongside. The little inflatable raft was lashed to the side of SAN FRANCISCO. The party gently lifted the injured flier onboard. Doc Pugh checked his vital signs and examined him for any easily apparent injuries. The unconscious pilot had a nasty bleeding gash across his forehead and his right leg jutted at an odd angle, obviously broken.
Dead in the water, SAN FRANCISCO wallowed in the seas. The action of the wind and waves pushed her around until the seas were from dead astern. Waves rolled up the stern as the pilot was strapped into the stretcher and carefully lowered into the boat.
Doc Pugh followed the stretcher down the ladder just as a large wave rolled up the stern and poured down the hatch, thoroughly soaking him. He cursed loudly for the rest of the climb down. The topside party followed him down the hatch and the submarine once more slipped beneath the waves.
The flier, whose flight suit bore the name “LCDR ‘Red Dog’ Jones, was placed on the wardroom table. Doc conducted a first-aid ABC examination. The patient’s airway was open. He was breathing, but respiration was rapid and shallow. Circulation was adequate, but his pulse was rapid and thready. Still in his soaked poopie suit, Doc inserted a saline IV and used a pneumatic cuff to immobilize the broken leg.
As he viewed the pilot, lying on the makeshift operating table, Doc worried. He had done all that he was trained to do with this type of injury, but his years of experience told him that something was still wrong, very wrong.The pilot was not exhibiting the responses that Doc expected from the injuries that he could see. He had slipped in and out of consciousness several times as he was being treated. His respiration was becoming more irregular, short and shallow.
Doc sat slumped in one of the chairs and thumbed through the thick medical text, frequently stopping to check LCDR Jones’ symptoms. Something didn’t add up. He just had to find it.
27
23 Jun 2000, 1245LT (0445Z)
The two OSPREYs flew low over the horizon. They headed directly toward the island. After a quick pass around the remnants of the airfield, the two birds shifted to a hover fifty feet above the field. A squad of Marines, clad in cumbersome full NBC protective clothing, fast roped out the back of each. They rushed to set up a protective cordon around the landing zone. Both OSPREYs gently touched down at the end of the pockmarked runway.
As the OSPREYs landed, the SEAL platoon and the hostages broke free from the tangled jungle at the far end of the runway and ran toward the waiting planes.
When they were about a hundred feet away, Roland raised his hand, stopping the on-rushing group. He yelled out, "Hey Marines, glad you could make it. Now that the action is over. Password is Sierra Six."
The senior Marine signaled them forward with a wave and yelled good naturedly, "So you SEALs need to be picked up again."
“My Chief is hit bad,” Roland panted. “We need an IV and a doctor real quick!”
“We have stuff onboard the bird,” the Marine answered, jerking his thumb toward the lead OSPREY. “There’ll be an IV in there.”
Passing through the Marines’ protective cordon, the SEALs and hostages ran straight to the planes and climbed aboard. The Marines followed, keeping a careful watch on the tree line.
The planes were seriously overloaded. Lifting off in the hot air with all the extra passengers was problematic. The SEALs and the Marines stripped the plane of anything that wasn’t absolutely essential. All the gear and most of the weapons were dumped onto the ground. The planes lumbered down the cratered runway
