Primary Target (1999) (22 page)

Maritza was coughing up water and struggling to stay afloat when Scott surfaced near her and swam to her side. Jackie joined them a moment later.

"What's the"--Maritza choked twice--"blue light?" "Electricity," Dalton said, then took in a breath of air and dove straight down again. Less than fifteen seconds later he surfaced with the life raft. He quickly pulled the toggles and the raft popped open and inflated.

"We're not far from shore," Scott said as he choked and blinked the fuel-contaminated water from his eyes. He reached for the waterproof survival radio. "Hang on to the side and we'll swim it in."

"Just a second," Jackie uttered as she helped Maritza to the side of the raft. "We're ready," she advised as she kicked with wide, even strokes. The wound on her ankle was only a dull pain.

No one said a word as they paddled toward shore. They were still surrounded by the soft, tremulous glow on the water, but they had adjusted to the tingling sensation flowing through their bodies.

"Umpire, Charlie Tango on guard," Scott radioed in a hoarse whisper.

"Charlie Tango, what's your situation?" O'Donnell said briskly.

"We've crashed." Scott coughed and cleared his throat. "We hit a power line and we're in the lake."

"Oh, shit!"

"We're swimming toward the shore."

"Is everyone okay?"

"Yes," Scott said, then spit out a mouthful of fuel-tainted water.

"What's your position?" Greg asked.

"We're at the southeastern edge of the lake," Dalton said as he studied the barren shoreline adjacent to Site Delta. "It looks like the strip is fairly close to the water, but I don't know how soft the soil is."

"Do you see any obstacles?"

"None, other than the power line," Scott said as his paratrooper boots touched the bottom of the lake. "I'll keep you clear of it."

"Okay," Greg said as he adjusted his night-vision goggles. The emergency airstrip was located at his ten o'clock position, less than two miles. "I'll hold the landing lights until the last second."

"We're almost there."

"Copy."

Nearing the edge of the reservoir, Scott heard the distinct sound of the Cessna Caravan. "Give us a few seconds, and I'll get a pencil flare up."

"Better hurry," Greg warned as he slowed the airplane and lowered the flaps. "I see lights--it looks like three or four vehicles headed your way."

"How far away?"

"I don't know your exact position. They're probably a mile, or more."

"Keep an eye on 'em."

"Will do."

Scott slipped in the mud, then gained his footing and slid the raft out of the water. Wringing wet from their dunking, Scott and Jackie helped Maritza crawl out of the water. Suffering only bruises and superficial cuts, Scott carried Maritza well clear of the shoreline and gently lowered her to the ground near the airstrip.

While Jackie examined Maritza's ankle, Dalton took a quick look around and fired a pencil flare at a forty-five-degree angle to the horizon.

"Hey, Bubba," O'Donnell said as he banked toward the faint streak of light, "I hope that was you."

"Who else?"

"Your visitors are closer than I thought."

Scott darted a look at the faint glow of headlights approaching the reservoir. "Make your approach in the middl
e
of the arc ... and, ah, it looks like you have at least two--maybe three thousand feet."

"I'm turnin' final. How does two-ten look on the heading?"

"I'd say that's about right."

"How about another flare?"

"You got it," Scott said as he fired another marker across the uneven airstrip. "Keep it in the middle."

"I'll give it my best shot."

Motionless, Dalton watched the first set of headlights crest a small rise and race toward the flats near the shoreline. Scott drew his weapon, dropped to the ground, and took careful aim. He squeezed off several rounds, knocking out a headlamp on the second vehicle, then reached for another clip. Jackie took Maritza's weapon and quickly added another headlight and windshield to the count.

Scott raised the radio to his mouth. "Land close to the approach end, and I'll guide you by flashlight."

"Hell," Greg said, tossing his NVGs on the cockpit floor, "I'm down in the grass now."

"Hit the landing lights," Scott advised.

"Coming on," O'Donnell said as a brilliant halo of blinding light forced Scott to shield his eyes. "Pull the power! You're almost on us!"

The Caravan hit hard, bounced once, and rapidly came to a halt under max reverse thrust and heavy braking. Kneeling on each side of Maritza, Jackie and Scott lifted her by the arms and carried her to the open cargo door. As they helped her into the plane, rounds from highrpowered rifles began penetrating the fuselage of the utility transport. "Let's get out of here," Scott yelled as he boosted Jackie up and into the cabin, then jumped aboard at the same moment Greg added full power.

"I'm hit," O'Donnell shouted as another round ripped through the nose wheel tire. "I need some help!"

Dalton raced to the cockpit as the airplane veered to the left and bounced along on the flat nose tire. He leaped into the copilot's seat and simultaneously jammed the right rudder pedal full forward and snatched the yoke back. With the nose wheel off the ground and the powerful turboprop in full song, Scott played the controls like a maestro.

"Hang tight," Scott exclaimed as the driver of a Chevy pickup truck attempted to cut him off and block the airstrip. Using a combination of short-field and soft-field takeoff techniques, Dalton finessed the heavy Caravan into the air a split second before the right main landing gear smashed through the windshield of the Silverado. Scott deftly countered the violent yaw, then allowed the damaged airplane to accelerate in ground effect. Seconds later, with rounds still penetrating the fuselage and wings, he turned the landing light off and nursed the bullet-ridden airplane into a shallow climb.

Unscathed by the hail of gunfire, Jackie hurried forward and helped Greg out of the left seat. With his assistance, she moved him to the cabin and propped him between Maritza and a nine-man life raft. O'Donnell's left thigh was bleeding profusely and he had another serious wound to his left shoulder. Using one of the Caravan's first-aid packets, Jackie and Maritza dressed Greg's wounds. A few minutes later Jackie used a flashlight to inspect the underside of the wings, then returned to the cockpit.

"How are you doing?" she quietly asked Scott as she slid into the left seat and latched her restraining harness. "Okay," he answered as they stared at each other's disheveled appearance. "How are Maritza and Greg?"

"She's in fair shape for the time being, but we need to get him to a hospital as soon as possible."

Scott studied the GPS and glanced at the fuel gauges. "Do you think he can hang on until we get to Athens?"

Her strained expression turned into one of regret. "We aren't going to make Athens," she murmured.

Surprised by the tone of her voice, Scott frowned when he turned to her. "What are you talking about?"

"We took some rounds through the bottom of the ferry tank," Jackie answered as she looked at him, her eyes filled with concern. "What isn't spraying the countryside is filling the aft section of the cabin."

Stunned by the disclosure, he looked into the dark cabin, then caught her eye. "Can you plug the leaks?"

"No," she said under her breath. "They're inside the perimeter of the frame that's bolted to the floor."

Scott's expression turned grim. "We're trapped in a flyin
g
bomb," he said with understated calm in his voice. "It doesn't get any better than this."

"Yes, it does," she said lightly, staring at him with close curiosity. "We're also leaking fuel from both wings." "Great." Scott quickly calculated the approximate time to fuel exhaustion, then turned to her with a sober look in his eye. "Folks, before we land, I'd like to explain our out-ofcourt settlements."

Jackie reached into a pocket of her wet flight suit and extracted a compact tape recorder. "If this thing is still working, I'm going to debrief Maritza."

"You can get on the sat-phone ..." Scott trailed off when he saw her slowly shake her head.

"That's the other bad news," Jackie said as she showed Scott the Caravan's shattered satellite-phone that had been blown into three pieces. "I lost mine during the crash."

"Well," Scott said with a shrug, "we'll just have to try to reach the Permak Express--stretch the fuel as far as we can."

Chapter
22

USS George Washington
.

The Persian Gulf lay as flat as a millpond while the carrier I and her battle group turned into the gentle breeze. Far to the south of the flotilla, a nearly transparent flame from a huge Iranian oil platform cast an eerie afterglow across the black waters.

Once the warships of the U
. S
. 5th Fleet were repositioned, Washington went to flight quarters. The deck came alive with a choreography of flight crews, airplanes, tow tractors, and deckhands hauling volatile fuel lines, hoisting missiles, loading bombs, prepping the catapults and arresting gear, and chocking and chaining aircraft to their assigned sections of the deck.

An environment particularly susceptible to catastrophic accidents, the mayhem on the flight deck is even more precarious during the black of night. Between the screaming jet engines, and the foul-smelling scent of steam mixed with salt water and jet fuel, duty on the flight deck is not for individuals who are easily distracted.

With the supercarrier steady on course and speed, the pilot of an HS-11 "Dragon Slayers" rescue helicopter lifted his craft into the horizonless, moonless night and flew toward a known Iranian eavesdropping trawler. After flying a wide circle around the surveillance vessel, the SH-60 Seahaw
k
took up station on the starboard side of the carrier. The deadly-serious business of flight operations was commencing, where seconds and inches often spell the difference between life and death.

Flight-deck crewmen in sweat-stained green pullovers hooked the duty E-2C Hawkeye to the port bow catapult, then waited for the launch signal from the air boss in Primary Flight Control. Located high on the port side of the island, Pri Fly served as the ship's control tower during flight operations. The "boss" is the supreme ruler of the flight deck and everything that flies in the vicintity of the boat. On the slippery flight deck, F-14 Tomcats and F/A-18 Hornets were standing by to protect one of the most formidable fighting machines in the world. Inside the cockpits of the powerful jets, the pilots of the Hornets and the pilots and radar intercept officers in the Tomcats were growing anxious. The growing speculation as to what they were doing in the Gulf had abruptly ended two hours before they manned their planes. Their CO had briefed them; the U
. S
. was going to send Tehran a wake-up call. If any Iranian fighter planes or surface ships wanted to contest the issue, they were to be dispatched as quickly as possible.

While they waited to taxi to the catapults, many of the pilots and naval flight officers silently went through their checklists a second time. In this unforgiving world, minor details could mean the difference between success and failure--living or dying.

Precisely at the scheduled launch time, Captain Nancy Jensen watched the shooter's night wands signal the Hawkeye pilots to increase power. The aviator's pulse rates rapidly went up as the airframe began to vibrate and shake from the power of the straining turboprops. The copilot keyed his intercom. "It's darker than three foot up a bull's ass."

"Yeah, I love it," the pilot grumbled as he surveyed the engine instruments, checking for any irregularity, anything that might kill them during a night catapult launch. Everything looked in order. "Let's do it."

A second later the E-2C's external lights were switched on. At that second the fate of the flight crew was in the hands of God and a steam-powered catapult. Kaab000m! The pilots' eyes literally flattened in their sockets as the aircraf
t
accelerated down the track and disappeared into the gloomy night.

The flight crew of the Grumman surveillance platform, which could detect airborne targets anywhere in a threemillion-cubic-mile envelope, checked in with the carrier and the Hawkeye crew they were scheduled to relieve. In addition to the normal flow of commercial air traffic in the Gulf area, the duty "Miniwacs" was monitoring two separate formations of suspected Iranian military aircraft. They were also watching several flights of U
. S
. warplanes and rescue helicopters that were taking up station over the Gulf.

Below deck in Washington's darkened Combat Direction Center, the ship's brain, tactical action officers monitored computerized wall screens showing the location of every ship, aircraft, and oil smuggler in the area. The air crackled with radio chatter as the men tracked an array of Iranian vessels as they navigated the Gulfs dark waters. Many of the contacts were flagged red on the giant computer screens, including the warships Peter the Great, Russia's largest ballistic-missile cruiser, Pyotr Veliky, and Admiral Kuznetsoy. The senior officer in CDC found it curious that the Russian flagship and her escorts had suddenly changed course and were distancing themselves from the U
. S
. battle group.