Death Orbit (28 page)

The vehicle of this odd deliverance was something of a miracle in itself, and Clancy still didn’t understand it until he saw the flash of silver and gray and the great twin streams of smoke and exhaust streak by him.

Only then did he realize it was an F-14 Tomcat which had destroyed the Beagle, one which was now painted, if crudely, in the blue and white colors of the UAAF, one of the trio of airplanes captured after the devastating attack on Key West just a few days before. Somehow the three supersonic airplanes—two Tomcats and the single F/A-18 Hornet—had arrived just in the nick of time to save the JAWS chopper and everyone on board.

“You heathen lamb,” Clancy Miller whispered to himself, as the Hornet and the second Tomcat streaked right by him as well. “Your sorry ass has been saved again…”

At just about the same time Miller was having his epiphany, Warren Maas was watching a very odd scene out the portside window of the Sea Stallion.

Three airplanes were swooping down on the fifth-inline battleship, the all-black and menacing-looking
Okido.
The lead airplane was the F/A-18, its wings sagging with the weight of bombs hanging from its hard points. Behind it was one of the KSC’s ancient F-105 Thunderchiefs, an airplane that was old when it fought in the First Vietnam War, back in the 1960s. Behind it was an equally elderly F-106 Delta Dart, an airplane that defined the term “interceptor”—as opposed to “fighter”—and really had no business diving in on a naval target, never mind one so formidable and well armed as the
Okido.

As Maas watched, jaw agape, at the unusual scene, the trio of unlikely airplanes got themselves down to wavetop height and began a long run toward the fierce battlewagon. The ship’s gunners immediately opened up on the troika of attacking airplanes. There were no radar-guided weapons or heat-seeking AA missiles scouring the skies here. The weapons being fired at the three airplanes were old-fashioned five-inch guns, and plenty of them. The three jets showed their mettle as they began swaying in the low, thick air, making themselves a harder target for the Cult gunners but not wavering a bit from the bombing run.

But now, as the three planes reached the halfway point, Maas was horrified to see the out-of-control Sparvee fast-attack boat come right into their line of sight. Instantly a number of nightmare scenarios went through his mind. At the very least, the speeding boat would wind up in the middle of the wall of AA fire being thrown up at the attacking airplanes. Those three planes were so low at the moment, he feared one of them might collide with the vessel and gruesomely end the lives of those troopers still stuck on board, as well as the courageous pilot.

Worst of all, Maas felt helpless to do anything. The Sea Stallions were about a mile from the action, having completed a long sweep out from the place were the
Miajappe
had sunk and the second and third battleships were still burning. Like Clancy before him, Maas knew that only an act of divine intervention could save the troopers stuck on the fast-attack boat now. It seemed more like a matter of time before something tragic and unavoidable happened.

Suddenly, Maas noticed something. The Sparvee had been heading right into harm’s way at 50 knots—but now it seemed to be rapidly slowing down. There was no longer a large plume of smoke left by its overheated engines behind it, nor the roostertail of water thrown high in the air from its uncontrollable wake. Was this just an illusion? An example of mind over matter, multiplied by a bad case of wishful thinking?

It was neither. The runaway boat was definitely slowing down. At the moment it was barely moving at all. The three jets streaked right by it, the AA fire following them and straying away from the attack boat.

What had spared the troopers on board the Sparvee from such an untimely fate? The finger of God? Another example of the strangeness that had enveloped the area?

No—it was something a little more down-to-earth than that: what had happened was the small-attack boat, known for its notorious rate of fuel use, had run out of gas.

But now another peril was evident, and Maas could see it right before his eyes. The fast-attack boat was suddenly drifting right into the sights of the sixth-inline battleship, the fearsome
Nori.

The next thing Maas knew, he was scrambling up to the front of the big helicopter. He quickly directed the pilot’s attention away from the sky full of AA fire and missiles and down to the surface, where the attack boat was now heading right toward the sixth battleship. The pilot turned the Sea Stallion over in a second, sending everything that wasn’t tied down flying all over the cabin. Right beside them, the second chopper had performed the same gut-wrenching maneuver.

The AA gunners on the sixth battleship saw them coming and began opening up. Huge five-inch shells were now rocketing past the Sea Stallions as they drew closer and lower to the drifting Sparvee. The troopers on the attack boat were firing back at the battleship with their small weapons, an uneven match if ever there was one. Incredibly, some of the rifle fire hit home, killing several of the battleship’s deck gunners, now just 200 yards away.

By this time, the first Sea Stallion was in position over the fast-attack boat. Hovering just 10 feet above the rear end, some of the troopers were able to climb up onto the depleted fuel tanks and make the leap into the open door. The first chopper took on six men and then backed away, its cargo hold full.

Now the chopper carrying Maas and the other JAWS officers came in. By this time, the gunners on the
Nori
had registered their guns and were barreling in on the desperate rescue operation. Maas was hanging onto Snyder, who was hanging on to Miller, who was literally lifting the troopers off the bridge of the foundering attack boat and throwing them into the chopper. During this time, enemy fire was exploding all around them. It seemed impossible that a shell hadn’t hit them yet. To make matters worse, the attack boat had caught fire, either because the engines had finally melted down or an enemy incendiary round had hit it. Flames were soon leaping from the rear end and quickly working their way forward.

Clancy had just lifted the last guy from the attack boat when suddenly a huge explosion went off. It was so violent, the last JAWS soldier nearly lost his grip and fell back into the fiery sea. But somehow, all three JAWS officers managed to hang on to him. They started yelling for the pilot to move off, and their cries soon brought results. Slowly, gradually, the big Sea Stallion began moving away from the Sparvee. The attack boat quickly became engulfed in flames. There was another explosion—the lubricating oil tank had probably gone up—and then the small boat finally slipped beneath the waves.

The Sea Stallion by this time had turned a 180 and was heading in toward shore. Now all those aboard could see what had caused the huge explosion just seconds earlier. The fourth battleship was now engulfed in flames and smoke and smaller explosions. The F-14s and the ancient Delta Dart were flying around its mast, dropping bombs and strafing it from stem to stern. The water all around the battleship was covered with oil and flames—and bodies. The holds of the immense vessel had been full of the Cult’s “specialty troops,” and now these soldiers were the water.

Here was the strangest, most disturbing sight of the entire battle: many of these specialty troops were so close to shore, they could probably have swum to safety. Others could have conceivably grabbed some floating wreckage and held on until a rescue. But none of the troops had. Instead, many were killing themselves—either by purposely drowning, or by slitting their throats or stomachs. But even more disturbing, they were killing each other. The JAWS men could clearly see the soldiers from their helicopter, fighting in the water among themselves, stabbing, slashing, trying to hold one another’s heads under water.

Why were they doing this? The only answer was that the specialty troops had been so keyed up for killing that when the opportunity was lost and they were thrown into the water, they had no choice but to start killing either each other or themselves. The madness that had boiled up inside them wound up providing their own demise. The sight of these specialty troops meeting their ends in such a fashion was upsetting to the point of inducing nausea.

But soon, the minds of the JAWS officers were on other things. There was yet another crisis looming: the dangerously low fuel tanks of their helicopter. The first Sea Stallion had already made it to shore, but just barely. It had come down in a controlled crash at the water’s edge, not far from the UAAF’s first defense line.

Now the second chopper was absolutely out of fuel, both main tanks and reserves. The pilots were shouting at everyone on-board to get strapped down or at the very least hold on to something—already the big rotors were fluttering.

Maas looked out the cargo hatch to see they were still a quarter mile from the beach. The water below was littered with flaming wreckage and bleeding bodies. It offered no hope for any kind of safe landing. The copter was filled with wounded and depleted troopers—plus Sean Higgins, who was still in a state of shock and under the influence of the massive dose of morphine given to him at the conclusion of the recon raid, back in Cuba. How would he be able to make it to shore if they set down in the dangerous waters?

The big copter began shuddering now, the engine was starting to melt down. The electrical wires began crackling and burning, and now a toxic cloud filled the hold. Outside, the sky was still thick with flames and smoke and the crashing of shellfire and the whooshing of missiles. The JAWS officers, crowded around the comatose Higgins, just looked at each other, the same thought on all their minds: was this the end? After everything they’d gone through, would they meet their demise simply because of a few gallons of fuel? Gas they could have taken on-board during the refueling on Key Lime?

As it turned out, the answer to all their questions was no. From somewhere, a great gust of wind came off the ocean and pushed the stricken helicopter the last 500 feet toward the beach. The pilots let out one last wail for everyone to hold on. The next thing the JAWS men knew, they were flying around the cabin, almost weightless.

Then, finally, the helicopter came down—hard, and with a crash—but in one piece, in about two feet of water, just off the main beach. Incredibly, everyone on board had made it.

They began falling out of the cargo door, some on their own, others needing help. The waves and lapping water made evacuating the aircraft somewhat difficult, but the copter was empty inside of two minutes. The last to come off was Higgins. He was lowered on a stretcher into the waiting arms of the ablest troopers and carried further up the beach, just beyond the high tide mark. Above them, the battle was at last winding down. There were no more Beagles fouling the air, no more Styx missiles racing overhead. The bay was now the graveyard for five battleships. One had sunk, four others were burning and going down, and the sixth was speeding away, still under attack by the F-14s and the Delta Dart.

Behind them, many parts of the KSC were in flames. All of the communications buildings had been destroyed, along with the shuttle runway and the temporary aircraft housing. The VAB was smoking mightily on its southeast corner. One quarter of the immense building was either missing or obscured by smoke. Sirens still wailed across the vast UA complex, the sound of medevac choppers filled the air. It was still only 0745; the battle had lasted less than two hours. But in that time, more than 7,000 men had been killed—the vast majority of them Cult sailors and specialty troops. Still, UAAF casualties had been high, especially among the defenders around the VAB and in the AAA emplacements on the beach. Among the hardest hit were the NJ104 combat engineers.

Now the tide was rising and the wreckage and bodies from the battle were coming ashore. The JAWS medics attempted to revive Higgins with injections of adrenaline. It took a few heart-stopping moments, but finally the stricken JAWS officer came around. He opened his eyes to see a huge crowd of troopers staring down at him. A cheer went up as his face and eyes showed the first signs of revitalization. He had made it—and so had they. Somehow, they had accomplished their grand aim and still survived the brutal battle.

Higgins jumped to his feet. To the astonishment of all, he pushed his way through the crowd of troopers and began running toward the water. It took a few seconds for the other JAWS men to react. Then they started chasing him, calling after him to come back.

Higgins reached the waterline and dived in and began swimming frantically out to sea. Those closest to him heard him shouting, “There’s one left! There’s one left!” A dozen JAWS men dived into the surf to pursue him, but Higgins, apparently fueled by the double dose of adrenaline and morphine, was swimming like a madman.

He swam about 100 yards out—and then stopped. It appeared that he’d either run out of energy or had simply given up. But just as it seemed he was about to slip beneath the waves, he suddenly grabbed onto something and began swimming back.

The other troopers finally reached him and saw that he had retrieved a body—one that appeared quite dead, yet was still bubbling air from its mouth. The JAWS troopers managed to pull both of them back out of the water and soon began working CPR on them.

Higgins was easily revived. He jumped up and joined the effort to resurrect the man he’d dragged to shore.

“I was dreaming that I saw him flying through the air,” he was saying, as the JAWS medics began performing artificial respiration on the man. “A voice—a woman’s voice—told me I had to save him if I could…”

The man coughed up a stomach full of seawater and began breathing on his own. Another cheer went up, though Higgins’s odd rescue had been downright eerie.

And who was the man whose life he’d so dramatically saved?

The answer was on the name tag of the man’s extremely scarred and burnt uniform. Above the left pocket, still visible, was the patch of the NJ104 Combat Engineers. Below it was the officer’s name: Lieutenant Colonel Don Matus, the man who’d been blown off the top of the VAB in the opening minutes of the battle.