The Gulf (27 page)

Flight suit, socks, flight boots. They hit the door simultaneously, like a comedy team, but got through somehow and sprinted for the hangar.

When Schweinberg got there, the enlisted were already mustered. Four Two One was at ready position, nose within the ship, fuselage out on deck. He snapped to Mattocks: “Chief, got fire gear manned?”

“Thass right, sir. Skirla! Lynch! Get them tools put away.”

Woolton came in, boot laces trailing. “What's goin' on, Woollie?” said Hayes.

“I don't know.” At that moment, there was a roar overhead. Two ATs ran out to the flight deck. “Four-engined,” one of them called back.

A few minutes later the bogen beeped. Woolton listened, then turned. “You got her tits up, Chief?” he called across the hangar.

“Yessir. We was just getting the cowling back on the tail rotor servo.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“Nothin', sir, just had to vacuum; this fuckin' red dust gets into everything.”

Woolton said, “Yessir,” “Yessir,” and then, “Aye aye, sir, right away.” When he hung up, he looked around at the waiting men. “So, what was it?” said Schweinberg, popping his fist into his palm.

“I don't know what that flyby was, if that's what you mean. But the Pasdaran just rocketed a merchie. It's out there on fire.”

“Combat search and rescue?”

“You got it.”

“Move, move!” shouted Mattocks. “Mount the gun! Kane, get your SAR bag, first-aid gear, litters, line!”

The crew jumped into motion. At the same time, the 1MC keened. “Flight quarters, flight quarters! All hands man your flight quarters stations.”

The det commander was reaching for his helmet when Schweinberg grabbed his arm. “What the fuck, Woollie? It's our turn.”

“My mission, Chunks.”

“Hell it is. We go by turns in this det! Get suited, Buck!” Before the OIC could protest, Schweinberg was buckling on the survival vest. Hayes lingered for a moment, waiting to see whether Woolton would assert himself, then grabbed for his gear, too.

Outside it was windy and dark. Only the red glow of the hangar lights eddied out onto the flight deck. Hayes stared around, feeling a breath of the dream-terror. Christ! Night search and rescue, with hostiles somewhere … Windy as hell tonight … They should have been dark-adapted long before now.

“Buck, you got everything?” A bulky shadow beside him. He patted down hastily. Dog tags on his boots, survival vest, PRC-90, knife, two flare packs, pistol, pocket checklist, knee board, emergency air bottle … “Yeah.”

“Hokay, les' boogie.”

A flashlight came on, red-lensed, and they began the preflight, not wasting any time, but careful not to skimp, either. If they had to abort, they wouldn't do anybody any good. At last they climbed in. “You want to take it?” asked Schweinberg, his voice subdued by darkness. “You need a nighttime bounce, don't you?”

“Uh … yeah! Thanks, Chunky.”

Schweinberg grunted and glanced back into the cabin. For combat rescues, all four seats were manned. The machine gun poked its pronged snout out the cargo door. Christer, the gunner and hoist operator, was thrashing around back in the cabin, getting into a wet suit.

Outside, the flight deck was dim amber. Beyond the deck-edge lights, the sea was invisible. Schweinberg jotted down flight data as Buck started the engines, engaged rotors, and reported ready to lift.

The interior of the cockpit was a spilled jewel box. The engine and transmission strips were a bright jade green. The flight instruments were mother-of-pearl, and the tactical display a flickering emerald. The only luminescences outside were the deck-edge and the lineup lights. The strobe bounced scarlet off their rotors into the night. Kane sneezed into his mike and Hayes jumped.

The deck status light blinked from orange to green. Schweinberg made a last sweep of the panel.

As they lifted, the ship became something separate, then a distant set of faint lights. Finally it vanished. But not before Hayes had seen, behind it, a fan of cold green fire, roiled mysteriously from the dark sea by her passing.

Schweinberg: “Three rates of climb.”

“Roger.”

“After-takeoff checklist complete.”

“Roger.”

“Coming up on radar. ATACO, ATO, gimme a vector to this merchie.”

CIC pointed them northwest. Beneath their hurtling passage, the darkness was crowded as an interstate on a summer weekend. Two long columns of lights stretched from the black Gulf out into the Goo; out to the ends of the earth.…

Schweinberg said, “Christer, rig for rescue. Clear the gun and get the hoist ready. Hoist power coming
on.
”

Hayes said tensely to the ship, “ATACO, pilot, we're bustering inbound at a hundred fifty or so. You got any comms with this guy that's been attacked?”

The ship said they didn't. He told Schweinberg to punch up international search and rescue and maritime distress frequencies.

“Hold you left of contact, Two One, come right” came the disembodied voice, pursuing them through the lengthening miles of darkness.

“What looks good?”

“Make it five degrees right, Two One.”

“Five degrees, roger—Kane, got it yet?”

“I got a lot of stuff, sir. There's a whole slew of contacts out in front of us.”

“Uh oh,” said Schweinberg. Hayes glanced at him. “ATACO, pilot. How far are we gonna be from Iran, here?”

“About twenty miles, Two One.”

“Holy creepin' crap … look, keep an eye on your scopes and shit back there, awright, guys? If we get visitors, I want to know in advance.”

Twenty minutes went by. And then, growing steadily brighter on the horizon ahead, a yellow flicker, like an infernal aurora. Chunky took it at first for another flare-off tower. Then he realized the coordinates matched. Hayes rogered, came right, and headed for the loom.

“That's him, all right. Slowing to sixty.”

“Start lowering your altitude, Buck. Better approach from upwind, stay out of the smoke.”

“Good thinking,” Hayes muttered. “Kane, what you got on the tube?”

“Stay clear of the starboard side, sir. I got four, five small contacts over there, maybe three miles.”

“Roger. What's the wind?”

“Still showing three-five-oh at twenty, twenty-five.”

High wind for a close hover. Hayes circled to port as he shed speed and altitude, steadying at five hundred feet. The smoke, sucked into the cockpit from outside, stank of petroleum. As he came out of it, he saw the ship clearly and whole for the first time.

It was a medium-sized freighter, the deck piled with fire. He could see the holes on the side where the rockets had hit.

He got down to a hundred and did a close sweep. The ship loomed suddenly huge. Bow to the wind; in the fire glow, he could see everything clearly. The whole superstructure was ablaze. The deck aft was burning, too. The crew was huddled near the bow. As he swept over them he caught a glimpse of waving arms, open mouths. “They look kind of anxious,” he muttered.

“I would be, too, if my lifeboats were on fire.”

“What are they throwing into the water?”

“Lumber, looks like. Deck cargo.” Schweinberg flexed his fingers like a pianist warming up, then grasped the controls.
Click.
“ATACO, Killer Two One. We're on top. Twelve to fifteen people in a huddled mass, superstructure shot up, she's a bonfire. Permission to go in for rescue.”

“Two One, ATACO: Captain says do it.”

“Roger, going in at this time.” Schweinberg clicked off the net and back onto ICS. “Okay, I got her, Buck.”

“Hey! Just when it gets interesting—”

“This is where them extra hours count, buds. Christy, get the door open. We'll get a guy first pass, no dicking around. Be ready to shear that cable ASAP if you hear me scream.”

The cabin door came open behind them and the noise level increased. Schweinberg slowed, watching the airspeed indicator. “Hoist checks good,” said the crewman.

“Roger, pay out fifty feet or so.”

Chunky squinted at the burning ship. She had no list, thank God. And it was funny how she kept pointing into the wind. Then he realized they'd dropped the anchor. He didn't like the looks of the flames aft. Not oil. Too white. It looked like naphtha, or gasoline. He adjusted the rearview and told Hayes to watch his ass.

“Will do.” Buck uncinched his shoulder harness and turned in the seat. “You got a good two hundred yards to the bridge. Chunky, why don't you come in nose first?”

“No can do, wind's too high for that fancy shit. SENSO, pilot.”

“Yessir.”

“Help Christy with the hoist, but keep an eye on the radar. Lemme know if those little blips start moving in. And yell if it gets too hot back there. Buck, punch up the hover bars. Christy, call my position.”

“Easy back, sir.”

The hoist whined behind them. Fixed over the open cargo door, on the starboard side, it was run by the gunner. Hayes ran hoist procedures over in his mind. “Hundred yards to the bow. Easy back,” he said.

“How's it now?”

“Easy back … fifty … forty, thirty, ten … easy. Easy!”

“Got it in the mirror. Christy! Watch the hook, don't let it snag. If they attach it to the ship, cut it right away.”

“Rog.”

“Crossing the deck edge.”

“Ah, roger that … height!”

“Fifty.”

“Gauges are in the green.”

As they slid over it, the ship enfolded them with light and heat. Yellow flickered inside the cockpit. Hayes couldn't hear anything over the wing beat of their rotors. But he could imagine the roar of that immense mass of flame. Then he jerked his mind away. No imagining. He had to help fly this bitch.

“Fifteen knots, slowing.”

“ATO, ATACO.”

“Go,
Van Zandt.
” Hayes kept his eyes on the instruments. “Looking good, Chunky.”

“Where are you, Two One? Lost you on the scope.”

“ATACO, Two One, we're playing marshmallow over the merchant. Hook's going down now.”

“Roger. Two One, we have comms with a Royal Navy frigate. She's prepping a Lynx for launch.
Scylla
's closer to the freighter than we are. After pickup, proceed two-seven-two twenty-eight miles to offload survivors.”

“Copy vector two-seven-two, twenty-eight, HMS
Scylla.
”

“You're drifting aft,” Hayes said.

“Roger that.” Schweinberg was sweating. He could see nothing in the rearviews but yellow flame. When he looked away, his night vision was shit; he got floating red patches instead of dial readings. He was flying by hover bars, but he didn't think it was going to work for long. The bird lurched to the right and he brought it back. Was the wind shifting? “Get that fucking sling down there, Christy!” he shouted.

“It's down. They're putting a wounded guy in it first, looks like.”

“Well, make 'em hurry the fuck up!”

“Yessir!”

Hayes glanced back to see him pump his arm. Doubted if they'd understand that. “You're drifting aft!” he shouted. “Going into the bridge!”

“Shit, shit,
shit.
Get him
aboard,
gunner!”

The hoist whined. As soon as Schweinberg felt the weight, he increased lift and moved forward. When they were over the water, he relaxed his grip a bit, but still kept tight formation on the ship. Hayes, looking back, saw Christer, harness taut, lean out to pull a dark bundle into the cabin. “First guy's aboard” crackled over the ICS.

“How's he look?”

“Not so good.”

“How many more?”

“Eleven, twelve?”

“We'll get two more and then go find that Brit.”

“Roger that.”

Schweinberg decided backing in sucked. He made the second approach from port, transitioning to a hover over the bow with wind abeam. This way he got immediate hand-eye feedback. He parked himself forty feet above the deck, holding with the cyclic and only adjusting the collective when the weight came on the hoist. One man came up and was swung in. The hoist went down again. “Yeah, this works better,” he muttered.

“Number three in the horse collar, sir.”

Up, up, and away. When the gunner reported the man aboard, he hauled around to the west and brought airspeed up to 150.

Hayes glanced back. The rescuees were huddling in the fuselage tunnel. One was sitting there smiling, looking around. He snapped his head back as Schweinberg asked him for altitude.

When they found her, the British destroyer was on the move, tossing up a sparkling bow wave visible from miles off. Her pad looked smaller than
Van Zandt
's. Schweinberg came in athwartships. They took some nasty buffeting but thudded down safely. Christer and Kane slid the wounded out to goggled corpsmen. A moment later, Two One had lifted again.

When they came up on the freighter again, the other helicopter was over the bow. Schweinberg held a tight circle, staying in the firelight, but climbed as he came round the starboard side; he had no wish to be silhouetted. “See if you can get that guy on the radio,” he said.

Hayes puzzled for a moment, then called
Van Zandt.
The ATACO answered and Buck asked him to get the frequency of the Lynx. He came back a few minutes later with 283.0. Buck keypadded this into the UHF and was rewarded with a lighthearted voice in midsentence: “… Right through the focking centerline.”

“British Lynx, this is U.S. Navy SH-60, call sign Killer Two One, over.”

“This is
Scylla
Prime, and how are you this evening, Yank Two One.”

“Oh, smashing. How many did you get on that last pass?”

“We have five souls on board, five souls.”

“Does he have radar on that thing?” he asked Schweinberg. The pilot shrugged. Hayes clicked to transmit again. “
Scylla Prime,
be advised we hold several small boats on radar bearing oh-five-oh. Suspect they're the bastards who hit the ship in the first place.”