“Kenny, if you ever want to fly again, get your ass back in here right now! We can’t afford another crash!”
Crowe eyed the fuel gauges. Nine hundred pounds plus a five-minute reserve. Barely enough. He hastily added power and rudder, and turned the helo around.
“Stallion One, returning to base.”
* * *
“Wait! Wait! We’re here! Come back!” Ortiz shouted when he watched the helicopter turn around.
“They’re gone, brother. The bastards left us!”
Ortiz turned his head left. Zimmer had just come up from his right. His face was covered with mud, save for his eyes and open mouth.
“Damn! I can’t believe they didn’t see us, Tommy.” He reached for his radio. It was gone. “Mierda!”
“What is it?”
“My radio. It’s gone.”
Zimmer looked for his. It was still strapped to his belt. He retrieved it and handed it to Ortiz.
“Puta! This is incredible,” Ortiz said upon inspecting the hand-held unit.
“What is?”
“Your radio’s busted. Look.” He showed Zimmer the crack along the back.
“Try it anyway.”
Ortiz exhaled and brought it to his lips. “Mambo One. This is Mambo One. Anyone out there, over?”
Not even static came through the small speaker. Ortiz shook his head.
“Well, this is just fuckin’ great,” Zimmer said. “What the hell are we supposed to do now? They probably think we’re dead!”
“Damn.” Ortiz set the radio back to emergency-transmission mode. The unit responded with a small blip. That portion of the radio was operational. He shifted his gaze back to Zimmer. “At least they’ll know where we are. It ain’t much, but it’s somethin’.”
Zimmer shook his head. “That could help another rescue helo to pinpoint us, but what about the rest of Mambo?”
“I don’t know. There were two radios per team. At our last radio check, Mambo Two had at least one working radio, but Mambo Three didn’t—that’s if any of ‘em’s still alive. So Mambo Two’s our only chance. The problem’s that the rocket exploded closer to them than us.”
“You think they…”
“Don’t know, hermano. All we can do is head for the rendezvous point ‘n’ hope the rest of Mambo does the same. If we can get a group of five or six, we might have a chance. Now let’s go before the enemy gets here.”
THE WHITE HOUSE
Stice hung up the phone. The operation had been a success but at the cost of one helicopter and a platoon of men. He would report it like that to the President.
He thought about a rescue operation, but in his mind that was too risky. Mambo was a disposable asset. They had done their job and now the U.S. government would take care of their families and at the same time issue a standard statement of denial of involvement if any part of the operation ever became public.
He closed the file and set it to the side.
LIGHTNING
“Houston? Lightning.”
“Go ahead, Lightning.”
“Things are getting too critical up here. The atmosphere inside the crew module has reached a toxic level. I’m reading seventy-six-percent nitrogen, nineteen-percent oxygen, and five-percent carbon monoxide. I’m afraid our initial estimates were too optimistic. The air is already unsafe.” Kessler kept his eyes on the oxygen level. A normal atmosphere was composed of seventy-nine-percent nitrogen and twenty-one-percent oxygen. Carbon monoxide was usually removed by Lightning’s atmosphere-revitalization subsystem, mixed with nitrogen and oxygen, and injected back into the crew module, but with Lightning operating only on one fuel cell and one oxygen tank, the subsystem could not maintain an adequate amount of oxygen in the air.
“We are confirming your reading, Lightning.”
“I’m afraid we’re gonna have to suit up. I’m finding it harder and harder to breathe in here.”
“We copy, Lightning. Don’t take any chances. Carbon monoxide will make you sleepy. Get in your suits and call us back.”
“Roger.”
Kessler dove through a hatch and reached the mid-deck compartment. Jones was still unconscious. Kessler approached the large Texan on the horizontal sleeping station, removed the retaining Velcro straps, and gently pulled him toward the air-lock hatch.
He crawled inside the air lock, grabbed a folded personal rescue ball, and pushed it through the hatch into the mid-deck compartment. He unzipped it and brought it closer to Jones. The rescue ball was also made out of tough Ortho fabric over alternate layers of Mylar and Dacron.
He guided Jones into the ball, making sure that his upper body remained straight. Kessler bent Jones’s legs, zipped up the ball, and activated the life-support system on its side. The ball quickly filled with oxygen.
Satisfied that his friend was safe, Kessler suited up and returned to the flight deck. In the twenty minutes that it had taken him to suit up and get Jones inside the ball, the oxygen level had dropped another two percent.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CONFLICTING BELIEFS
HOWARD AIR FORCE BASE
“So the Defense Department gave you the order to pull back?” snapped Pruett over the radio as the Skipper of the Blue Ridge gave him a status update on the mission.
“Yes, sir.”
“And do what? Wait?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Ah, no, sir. We got visual confirmation that the target was destroyed, but in the process it destroyed one of the rescue helicopters with its crew of four. Two pilots and two Marines. The second helo hovered around the area for a few more minutes but couldn’t see a thing. He reported that the entire side of the compound was ablaze, including the area where our unit was supposed to be.”
“Have you tried communicating with them?”
“Repeatedly, sir, but got no response. The pilot claims to have picked up an emergency distress signal on radar. It’s possible that some of the men have made it out alive from that inferno with partially functioning radio gear, but that’s just a guess. It could also mean the enemy got ahold of a radio and is trying to draw us back in. Hard to tell without proper communication with the surviving troops, again if any of them’s still alive.”
Pruett rubbed his eyes and massaged his burning chest. He had achieved his mission, but at what cost? Four men confirmed dead, and no confirmation on ground casualties. For all he knew, the entire team could still be intact on the ground with busted communications gear. Pruett frowned. He knew he had to proceed from that assumption. Those men, at least some of them, could be alive and on the run, and it was his job to get them all out. How could Stice call the helo back? It should have remained in the area and then refueled midair. Damn that Stice!
“All right,” Pruett responded. “Call me back immediately if you hear anything. In the meantime have the returning helicopter refueled and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Got that?”
“Yes, sir!”
Pruett passed the mike to the radio operator before looking at Cameron and Marie. “Got all that?”
“Why would Stice do something like that?” asked Marie.
“I’m not sure, but I intend to find out immediately.”
Cameron nodded. “You gotta get a helo to them and get them out. Every second counts.”
Pruett nodded and reached for the phone on the wall. He dialed the White House.
U.S.S. BLUE RIDGE
Crowe walked away from the decelerating rotor as the crew tied the Sea Stallion onto the flight deck. Although he had hardly slept in the past twenty-four hours, the adrenaline kept him frosty, fully awake. His thinking was clear, his determination firm. He spotted Davenport coming up to meet him.
“What the hell happened, Kenny?”
“What do you think h
appened, Skipper? I was ordered to leave American soldiers behind. That’s what the hell happened! And that damned rocket blew up in our faces. Why didn’t you tell me that a launch was in progress? Our approach would have been different! Jesus Christ, Skipper, why the secret? And why in the world did we leave them there? I had them in sight!”
“Calm down, Kenny. We all follow orders around here, and no, you thought you had them in sight. You didn’t have any confirmation.”
“Well, sir. Whoever gave you that order not to let me rescue them is a fucking moron! You tell him that. You tell him that his idiotic decision will cost the lives of American servicemen. Those men won’t last—”
“Just who in the fuck you think you’re talking to? I will tell you one last time, Commander. Keep your damn mouth shut and do as I tell you to! If I tell you to fucking plunge your helo into the ocean you will do it because that’s an order. You go that, mister?”
Crowe didn’t respond. He could see Davenport’s arteries throbbing in his neck. Crowe lowered his gaze and stared at the flight deck.
Davenport exhaled. “Look, we all know that we should have stayed in the area a little longer and looked for survivors, but orders are orders. What’s the matter with you anyway? Every operation has its risks, especially covert ones. You of all people should know that. You were in Vietnam, weren’t you?”
Crowe inhaled deeply through his mouth, clenched his teeth, and slowly exhaled through his nostrils. Davenport was right. In covert operations, standard procedure was not to acknowledge the team until it had left enemy territory.
“Now tell me,” Davenport continued, “you’re sure about the blip on your screen?”
Crowe closed his eyes for a brief second and then stared into Davenport’s intelligent blue eyes. “It was for real, Skipper. It lasted ten minutes and slowly disappeared as I left the Guiana coast.”
Davenport didn’t respond. He simply turned around and walked back toward the bridge. Crowe followed him. “Sir, what the hell is going on?”
“Get your craft ready to go at a moment’s notice, Kenny. You’re dismissed.”
“With all due respect, sir. I’m ready to go right away. Those men—”
Davenport stopped walking, turned around, and got within inches from him. His voice was ice cold. “You listen to me, and listen very carefully. I just gave you a direct order and I expect you to follow it to the letter. I know about those men out there, but I also know the proper chain of command. We need authorization to go back in and get them out. Got that?” Crowe stood mute. “I said did you get that, Commander Crowe?”
“Yes, sir. I got it.”
“Good. That’s all.”
Davenport turned and continued toward the bridge.
Crowe just stood there, flight helmet in his right hand. He looked over the dark sea toward the Guiana coast. Soldiers were there, American soldiers, most likely outnumbered and outarmed, and he was being asked to sit tight and wait for some Washington bureaucrat to make up his fucking mind about whether it was “advisable” or not to go back in. The old familiar pain returned. He hadn’t felt it for nearly two decades, yet it was there once again. The knot in his stomach he’d always gotten when soldiers suffered the ill effects of politicians trying to make military decisions; a feeling he became all too familiar with in Vietnam. He hated it with an overwhelming passion. In a burst of rage, he threw his flight helmet against the flight deck with all his might, startling several mechanics. Davenport, who was still on the flight deck, also turned his way. No words were spoken.
Crowe slowly walked toward the edge of the flight deck and simply stared at the dark sea. It looked so peaceful. The stars above lazily shed their minute light on the ship’s wake. He watched it in silence.
HOWARD AIR FORCE BASE
“But I need to talk to the President right away,” Pruett persisted. “You know as much as I do of the urgency of the situation.”
“I repeat,” Carlton Stice responded. “The President is tied up with the Middle East situation at the moment and cannot be reached. He left me in charge of the operation and I’m telling you to stay put. The target has been destroyed and we’re currently evaluating the situation to decide on the proper course of action.”
“Who is evaluating the situation, sir? Who are the analysts? How are they evaluating the problem? How can they know more than the pilot from the rescue helicopter? How? We sent those men out there, sir. We have a moral duty to—”
“I’m telling you to stay put until a decision is made! Is that understood?”
Pruett vigorously rubbed the palm of his right hand against his burning chest. He felt like strangling the little bastard with his bare hands. He was about to say something but the professional in him slammed his jaw shut. Telling Stice what was on his mind would be the fastest way to terminate his career, and it wouldn’t do those men out there any good. He breathed in and out several times, forcing his body to relax.
“Are you there, Tom?”
“Yes, sir,” he managed to respond by merely moving his lips.
“Well? You with me?”
“I’m always with the President and his decisions, sir.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“Sir? If you don’t mind me asking. What is your time frame to respond on this issue?”
“You’ll hear from us in due time. In the meantime, stay put. Do not do anything!”
The line went dead. Pruett calmly hung up and reached into his right pocket for the antacid tablets. He popped two in his mouth, thought about it, and popped one more. He crushed them hard and fast as he walked outside the communications room, where Cameron and Marie waited.
“You okay?” asked Cameron.
“No, Cameron. I’m pretty fucking far from okay.” Pruett couldn’t believe the bad luck that always seemed to haunt him. No matter which Administration was in charge of the White House, he had always been able to explain his point of view to the President and most of his staff. But there were always some high-ranking persons who never saw it his way and seemed to enjoy messing up his plans. And now as too often before, it was one of those bureaucrats whom the President had left in charge. A moron who was obviously more concerned about saving face than about the lives of American soldiers in enemy territory.
“Why?” Marie asked. “What happened?”
“Stice put a hold on the operation.”
“What?” snapped Cameron.
“You heard me.”
“But—but there must be something you can do,” Marie said. “That place is nothing but swamps. No human can survive in there for long.”
Pruett pinched his upper lip with his teeth. There has to be a way.
Marie looked at Cameron. “There has to be a way. We can’t simply turn our backs on them, can we?”
Pruett did a double take on Marie, then said, “You two follow me.”
“Where are we going?” Cameron asked.
“To have a word with General Olson.”
NORTH OF KOUROU, FRENCH GUIANA
Suffering from an overwhelming headache, Ortiz took the lead through the swamp. He waited patiently for the two additional extra-strength Tylenol he’d taken a half hour earlier to kick in. Zimmer followed close behind, Colt Commando up and ready. Nobody was going to mess with them, and if the enemy did, Ortiz was committed to take out as many of them as he could before he went down. Yes, the enemy might have more men and arms, but they lacked the skill. And they lacked the element of surprise. The enemy would have to come looking for Mambo, and when they did, they would pay dearly.
Thick, hardened mud covered his face and neck, cooling the multiple cuts and scrapes left after the removal of the annoying leeches. They didn’t hurt anymore. He had overcome the pain as he had overcome the deep burning in his legs from the non-stop retreat. Ortiz pushed on, glancing back briefly at Zimmer, also natura
lly camouflaged by thick, smelly mud. Neither wore night goggles any longer. Ortiz and Zimmer had opted to bury them in the swamp when their batteries died, along with all the other gear—and bodies—they could find. They’d selected specific landmarks as references, and decided that the possibility of bodies shifting was minimal based on the thickness of the swamp. Theirs was a covert mission, and they were to leave no sign of their country of origin. No traceable evidence that the enemy could use to embarrass their nation.
Ortiz looked up at the sky and contemplated the stars. He used them to move northwest, back toward the easily defendable clearing, surrounded with thick jungle, at the edge of the swamp. The jungle would give them the mobility and protection they so desperately needed to survive what he expected would be an overpowering attack. In the jungle they would be safe, but they had to reach it before dawn. Their chances of survival during daytime in the swamp were negligible. In the large clearings between clusters of trees they would be openly exposed to the enemy.
No, Ortiz decided. They had to push themselves. There was no other choice, no other way. He kicked even harder with renewed determination, closing the gap between themselves and the safety of the jungle.
HOWARD AIR FORCE BASE
“You mean to tell me he called you already?” Pruett asked in sheer disbelief. Stice had not only stopped the rescue, but had already contacted Olson and had the entire operation cancelled. Cancelled? Is Stice out of his fucking mind? And why would Stice deliberately lie to him about “calling him back later”? Was that just a ploy to keep Pruett quiet until it was too late to do anything about it?
“He called less than twenty minutes ago, Mr. Pruett,” responded a very sleepy Olson as he rubbed his eyes. “He called the operation a success and asked me to write personal letters to the families involved. He said that Mambo had shown what heroes were made of.”
“And you buy that crap, General?”
Olson grunted. “Not for a second.”
“You know as well as I do that there are a few of Mambo’s men out there right now, if not more than a few. Obviously without means of directly communicating with us, but they’re out there. Probably waiting and wondering where in the hell we are. Are you going to tell me that you’re just gonna sit there and do nothing?”
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