Call to Duty (50 page)

The sharp crack of the AK-47 carried a message of worry as it echoed over Woodward. But he trusted Kamigami to handle the problem, not that he had a choice. He was fully occupied with the threat in front of him as the helicopter came down. He zeroed in on the source of the Grail and sent a long burst of fire in that direction, but the range was too great for the close-in MP5. Before he could radio the threat
to the helicopter, men erupted from the back of the helicopter and fanned out, quickly securing the area.

Two men ran toward the British captain. Mackay and his RTO. “The sergeant major,” Mackay yelled, gesturing at the edge.

Woodward sprinted ahead of them, went over the rim and scrambled down to Kamigami. “Rope,” he yelled. He looped an arm around the wounded sergeant’s back and held him against the steep face of the karst formation. “You’ll be all right now, mate,” he said.

Kamigami raised his head and looked up at Mackay who was feeding a rope down to them. In the distance, he could hear the sound of gunfire and the dull whomp of grenades as Delta cleaned out the last of Chiang’s soldiers who had reached the top of the ridge. “I’m okay,” he told Woodward. A more important thought came to him. “Casualties?” he asked. He had to know for he was still taking care of his men, the first and last responsibility of a sergeant major, the responsibility that dominated his life and gave meaning to his existence.

“How the bloody hell would I know,” Woodward replied. “I’m down here, aren’t I?”

“Well,” Kamigami said, “you’ve got us into one hell of a mess, Captain. Looks like I’ve got to get us out of it.” He grabbed the rope and started to scramble up the slope.

“Cheeky bastard,” Woodward allowed. He had seen it before and knew the sergeant’s will was more than a match for his wounds.

Anger tore at Mackay and he turned it on Kamigami and Woodward as they emerged over the edge and scrambled onto level ground. “Damn,” he swore. “We shouldn’t be here.” But it didn’t help. His face was a granite mask as he buried his feelings and focused his thinking, making himself concentrate on the more immediate problem. “Captain Gillespie,” he said, his voice now flat and unemotional, “can it fly?”

“No way, Colonel,” Gillespie answered. “We lost about six feet of a blade, which throws the whole rotor out of balance. Makes for one hell of a vibration. We were lucky, being so close to the ground when we took the hit.”

Sweat etched Mackay’s face, catching in the cracks and crevices of his pock-marked complexion and giving him a
dark, evil look. “We’ve got to get out of here soonest,” he said. His gut was telling him that more trouble was on the way.

“I’ll work on it,” Gillespie said. He turned and ran back to the helicopter, calling for his flight engineer.

Mackay checked with his team leaders to determine their status. The top of the ridge was secure and clear of Chiang’s soldiers but a reconnaissance patrol had reported the discovery of a well-marked and improved trail on the far side. Satisfied that was how the soldiers had been able to reach the top so quickly, Mackay directed a team to establish a defensive fire position to block the head of the trail and discourage any more unwelcome visitors. You had better be worried, he told himself. Chiang’s men had proven themselves to be tough and determined and they weren’t about to go away. He motioned for his RTO to hand him the handset.

“Hammer,” Mackay transmitted, “Fastback and Rascal One are on the ground at Blue Four.” He quickly relayed their situation and requested a backup helicopter for an extraction. After a short pause, Mallard told him that the gunship was inbound and should be overhead their position in five minutes to provide a protective cover. There was no mention of the helicopter.

“Colonel”—Gillespie panted as he ran up to Mackay—“we might be able to fix this beast.” He pointed to his flight engineer who was climbing up the side of helicopter. Another sergeant was waiting to pass a four-foot breaker bar to him. “We’re going to remove the broken blade and two others to get the rotor back in balance. That’ll give us three balanced blades.”

“You think three blades can give enough lift?” Mackay asked.

Gillespie said, “Beats me, Colonel. No one has ever tried it before and there’s nothing in the tech manuals about it. Worth a try. We’re going to strip the goat clean to lighten the load. Tell your men they’ll have to do the same.” Orders were given and the Pave Low helicopter was stripped clean. Even the three 50-caliber machine guns and all ammunition were removed. “I’ll punch off the external fuel tanks when we’re airborne,” he told the copilot. “That’ll shed a lot of weight.”

The tech sergeant who served as Gillespie’s flight engineer
fixed a socket wrench on the first of the eight bolts that held the broken blade to the rotor head. He slipped the breaker bar over the handle for an extension, braced his feet against the blade and heaved, straining to break the 2,460 pounds of torque that held the nut. His face turned red under the strain and, for a moment, nothing happened. Then he heaved for all he was worth and the nut broke free. Seven more times he repeated the process, freeing the 371-pound blade from the rotor head. He was hunched over, gasping for breath and in pain, when four men lifted the blade free. Then he skipped a blade and started to work on the next one.

“How long do you think it will take?” Mackay asked.

“Maybe twenty more minutes,” Gillespie replied.

Mackay’s radio crackled to life. “Fastback, this is Spectre.” It was the Beezer. “Inbound your position. We are monitoring movement on the slope below you. Suspect hostiles coming your way.” The sensor operator in the booth on the AC-130’s gun deck had detected numerous small targets on his highly sensitive infrared sensors. “We’ll see if we can discourage them.”

“Copy all,” Mackay answered. He turned to Gillespie. “I don’t think we’ve got twenty minutes.” Then he spoke into his radio to warn his small force. Delta sprang into action and the men ran an emergency action drill they had practiced many times as the first mortar round screamed down on them. “We need a fix on that incoming,” he said into the radio. He made sure his men were dispersed as Gillespie’s flight engineer worked feverishly at the second blade. Then he saw Heather and motioned for her to join him. He handed her his poncho. “Wear this,” he said, “and wait over there.”

The girl slipped the poncho over her head. She looked up as the first heavy drops of rain started to fall. “I’ll be okay,” she promised. She hurried past the pile of equipment discarded off the Pave Low helicopter and paused, rummaging through a survival kit.

Four more mortar rounds walked across the top of the ridgeline. A quick check on Mackay’s hand-held radio confirmed the rounds had impacted harmlessly. But no one had zeroed in on the source of the rounds. Overhead, he could hear the drone of the AC-130 as it circled above them in the
clouds. The rain pounded down—hard. “Spectre,” he radioed. “We’re taking incoming mortar fire. No joy on the source.”

“We’re pop eye in the weather,” the Beezer replied. His breathing was labored and sweat was pouring down his face as he tried to bring his fire control systems to bear. But the jagged terrain and weather were defeating him.

“Beezer,” E-Squared transmitted from the command MC-130, “lay your fire on the lower part of the slope. If nothing else, you’ll keep their heads down.”

“A short round will hit the top,” the Beezer said. The possibility of his friendly fire causing casualties among the men on top of the small plateau was very real.

“Do it,” Mackay ordered as two more mortar rounds slammed into the plateau. “I’ll call you off if you get too close.” The drone of the AC-130’s turboprop engines grew closer as the Beezer set up a firing orbit. Mackay ordered everyone to take cover and to immediately shout if any friendly rounds came their way.

The dull whomps of Spectre’s forty-millimeter Bofors cannon echoed over them as the high-explosive shells chewed up the jungle below their position. The radio silence indicated that the Beezer had not hit the Americans. Again, the Beezer circled the ridge, pouring down a hail of twenty-millimeter cannon fire. Now the radios came alive as three fire teams reported movement coming up the slope toward them. Mackay keyed his radio and told Spectre and Hammer that an assault was starting.

Gillespie sprinted across to Mackay and flopped down beside him. “We got the blades off,” he panted. The incoming mortar rounds had spurred on the flight engineer and he had finished the job in less than ten minutes. “I’m going to start engines and see what happens. We’ll fire a flare and use the radios to tell you to board.” Heavy gunfire came from the far side of the plateau.

“Make it quick,” Mackay growled. “Get the girl and Chiang on board now. If you have to, take off without us. We can E and E out of here.”

“I don’t think escape and evasion is the answer,” Gillespie shot back. He pushed himself to his feet and sprinted back to the helicopter. He shouted at his gunners to get the two on board as he ran through the cargo deck to the cockpit. Within
seconds, the high-pitched whine of the number two engine split the air as it wound up and came on line. Then the left engine came to life. With both engines running, he unlocked the rotor brake to the turbines and the three blades started to turn. Gingerly, he tested the controls.

“Throttles one hundred three percent,” Gillespie ordered. Again, he tested the controls.

“Any lift?” his copilot shouted.

Was there lift? Every rational thought told him no. But his instincts said yes. “Fire a flare,” he shouted over the intercom. “It’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.”

Heather stared at Chiang as he fumbled for the seat belts on the parachute jump seat that were rigged alongside the cargo deck. She reached under her poncho and felt the knife she had found in a survival kit. The handle felt as if it belonged in her hand. Her face was expressionless as she stood and took the four steps across the cargo compartment to reach Chiang. Without emotion, she jabbed the knife into his throat. Astonishment flashed in his eyes. She was surprised that the knife penetrated less than an inch. With a hard push, she drove it deep into his neck. Heather made no attempt to pull it out and walked calmly back to her seat, leaving the knife protruding from his neck as blood gushed around the hilt.

“Captain!” one of the gunners screamed over the intercom. “The broad cut the old guy’s throat!”

“What!” Gillespie yelled back as Delta pulled in and streamed on board. The helicopter shook as the men ran up the ramp.

“The girl jammed a Gerber into Chiang’s throat. He’s deader than a fuckin’ doornail.”

“Christ,” Gillespie groaned. “Tie her down and make sure she doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

“She’s just sitting there smiling,” the gunner replied. Then the word came that all were aboard. The captain’s left hand reached up to the throttle quadrant and moved the controls full forward. “Come on, baby,” he said, pulling on the collective.

The blades cut into the air as he changed the pitch. He was certain the goat wanted to fly. “Come on,” he urged, gritting his teeth. But they were still too heavy. “Damn,” he shouted, wishing they didn’t have so much fuel. Then it came to
him—he could jettison the external fuel tanks on the ground. He hoped they would fall free and not rupture, spilling fuel and creating the makings for a huge inferno. His left hand flashed over the center control console and he flipped the guarded jettison switches open and flicked the toggle switches forward.

“The tanks are clear,” a gunner yelled over the intercom.

He pulled on the collective, taking a bite out of the air. The goat was willing to hover-taxi but did not want to fly. From the rear, Gillespie could hear the sound of submachine-gun fire. The first of the soldiers had reached the top of the plateau and were rushing the helicopter. “Captain!” his rear gunner shouted. “GO!”

Gillespie hit the rudder pedals and cyclic, turning the goat toward the edge of the cliff. Over the side was an instant five hundred feet of altitude. He inched up the collective and the big helicopter moved toward the edge. Behind him he could hear loud popping sounds and the grinding of metal as round after round tore into the fuselage. Sweat streamed down his face. He was gambling that they could clear the edge of the plateau and the rotor would gain life as he traded altitude for airspeed.

Kamigami had a death grip on the alloy frame of the webbed bench he was sitting on. He squinted through the smoke and dust at Mackay who was clamping his headset against his ears, trying to talk into the boom mike. The helicopter bounced over the ground and banged him against the side of the fuselage. He sensed that they only had moments before Chiang’s men would be in a position to bring effective fire to bear and might even nail them with another Grail. His actions blurred in the smoke and din as he released his lap belt and ran out the back of the helicopter. The sudden loss of 260 pounds combined with its increasing momentum and the helicopter leapt into the air, this time sustaining flight for a few seconds before bumping back down.

A burst of gunfire ripped the air above Kamigami’s head and he sprinted for a discarded pile of equipment that had been stripped out of the helicopter. He rolled behind the small mound of equipment, taking a little cover and found what he wanted—an M-203 rifle and grenade launcher. He grabbed a bag of the forty-millimeter grenade cartridges that fired from
the single-shot grenade launcher grafted under the barrel of an M-16, and jammed a fresh clip into the rifle. He fired off a short burst and lobbed a grenade in the direction of the gunfire. A satisfying scream followed the grenade’s detonation and he bobbed his head up in time to see two men working around him. One was carrying a shoulder-held Grail. The helicopter would be an easy target for the antiaircraft missile.

Kamigami came to his feet, a yell filling his throat. What came out bore no resemblance to his normal soft voice. It was a war cry, a rage that could fill a football stadium, and it was the stuff of warriors, a samurai. It froze the enemy as he charged.

“It ain’t gonna fly!” Gillespie’s copilot shouted.

But Gillespie had the measure of the goat and knew that if he could clear the cliff’s edge, and go through the translational lift point, the goat would fly. “Come on!” he urged and they half-floated, half-taxied over the edge of the cliff.