' ', the Cunningham reports that Moondog 505 might just have gone down."
"Goddamn it!" Tall man's exclamation was explosive and bitter. "When are we due to reacquire that aircraft?"
"She should be clear of the coast now," the Enterprise's air boss replied.
"Then try and reestablish commo with her," Tall man SEA STRIKE 289
demanded. "Contact the E2D and have them try and lift a return off her radar transponder. Verify if she's still airborne or not!"
"Sir," one of the communications ratings looked up from her console,
"the Hummer is now confirming that they are receiving two ELB signals on the same bearing as reported by the Cunningham. IFF subsignal codings match those assigned to the aircrew of Moondog 505." "That's it," the air boss said flatly. "We lost one."
"Goddamn it to hell!"
Macintyre could only share in Tall man's moment of frustration and rage.
This was the nightmare that had haunted every American military commander since the Korean War.
An aircrew down in enemy territory. The hostiles of this world seemed to demand that the United States always play by the rules, while reserving the right to treat American POWs in whatever manner they saw fit.
Macintyre stepped swiftly across to one of the chart boards. "Do we have a fix on those beacons yet? An exact one."
"I believe so, sir," the air boss replied, joining Macintyre at the flatscreen display. "It's just being linked in from the Duke."
"Yeah. Jake, come take a look at this."
"What is it, Eddie Mac?" Tall man shouldered in around the screen.
"It's not as bad as it could be. Take a look at these ELB location hacks. Your aircrew is coming down over the estuary.
They're going to be feet-wet. Just barely, but I think we might be able to get them out of there."
"Might my ass! We are getting them out! Now!"
The first thing Digger Graves noticed was the quiet, broken only by a riffling whisper like the wind in the leaves. Then came the pain, the tearing agony in his left shoulder.
That popped his eyes open and restored full awareness. He was hanging in his harness beneath a full parachute canopy.
The wind-in-the-leaves sound was the air flowing through the risers and chute gores. The pain? He wasn't so sure. The arm was still attached, and there didn't seem to be any blood.
290 James H. Cobb but something was sure as hell wrong with that shoulder.
Maybe a dislocation from the ejection.
His next thought was for his backseater. He twisted in his harness, looking around and mentalizing an incoherent fragment of prayer that there would be another parachute in the sky.
There was. Bubbles's canopy was above him and to the right, her lesser weight giving her a reduced sink rate. Both chutes were descending into a black void some distance from the nearest fire or cluster of lights.
That was just as well.
Digger suspected that the locals wouldn't be any too pleased with them at the moment.
Digger tried to run a fast inventory of his escape-and evasion gear, seeing how much had stayed with him during the bailout. Much of it had, most importantly the emergency transponder and the Combat Search and Rescue radio. The tiny check light on the transponder was already glowing, indicating that it had been triggered into action by the shock of the ejector-seat launch. His survival kit and life raft had stayed with him as well, dangling twenty feet beneath him on their lanyard.
With his right hand, he reached up and broke the inner capsule of the IR
light stick on his life jacket. Producing no visible spectrum illumination, it would burn bright for several hours on a FLIR scanner.
There was a sudden tug on the gear lanyard. The darkness and the residual confusion from his blackout had made Digger misjudge his altitude. His startled curse gagged off as he hit the river.
He went deep, then his Mae West inflated and lifted him back to the surface, retching and spitting out the putrid, brackish water of the estuary. He pulled the Capwell releases of his parachute harness and tore off his helmet, looking around. A few yards away, another ghostly cloud of white nylon was collapsing into the river.
"Bub! Hey, Bub?"
There was no answer.
Clumsily, restrained by the combination of his injury and burdening equipment, he tried to swim to her. He found that he couldn't gain any ground on the drifting parachute and he paused for a second to cut loose the survival-kit lanyard.
SEA STRIKE 291
Survival my ass, he thought. They'd either be pulled out of here by their own CSAR people or they would end up in a Chinese prison camp.
Finally, he snagged a handful of wet nylon and drew Zellerman in to him.
She still didn't move, unconscious or dead.
Feverishly, Graves freed her of her chute harness and helmet and felt for a pulse at her throat. It was there, weak, but there. Fumbling one-handed, he dug out his rescue strobe and used it for a moment in flashlight mode. Bubbles was unconscious, blood streaking from her nose and from a cut on her chin, but she was alive.
He pulled her against him, her back supported against his chest, his functional arm looped around her protectively as they floated with the sluggish current.
"It's okay, Bub!" he whispered hoarsely, looking around at the hostile night. "They're coming for us."
"All Stormdragon elements, this is Task Flag. We confirm that we have a Moondog element down. We also confirm that we have two aircrew down within the Yangtze estuary.
We have a valid recovery scenario. I say again, we have a valid recovery scenario. All CSAR assets commit as per Ops Plan Alpha Five. Panda Three Three, initiate rescue and recovery.
Retainer elements, initiate search and top cover. Cunningham, assume station off the Yangtze estuary and stand by to render support as possible. All elements acknowledge."
"Panda Three Three to Task Flag. Initiating CSAR. Taking departure from holding pattern."
"Retainer elements to Task Flag. We have reversed course and are proceeding to transponder location."
Arkady might have been flying the pattern at his home airfield.
"Cunningham to Flag. Proceeding to support station at this time." Amanda turned in the captain's chair to look aft at the watch officer. "Mr.
Freeman, move us to the mouth of Beicao Hangcao channel. Assume station keeping five hundred yards off the mine barrier by GPU reckoning."
"Aye, aye, Captain."
' ' Information Center, we have been tasked to support a search-and-rescue operation upchannel in the estuary.
292 James H. Cobb Let's look sharp. We're going to be all the cover our people are going to have."
Amanda was pleased with the steadiness in her own voice as she spoke.
Down deep inside herself, she had flung her helmet to the deck and had screamed a denial to the gods.
"At least the damn flak's eased off," Gus Grestovitch commented from Zero One's rear cockpit.
"Yeah, that's what's got me worried."
"How come, Lieutenant?"
"Nobody's firing wild anymore. Somebody's passed the word to stop shooting. We're running out of shock effect, and the command-and-control nets are coming back up. The bad guys are bound to start paying attention to what's going on out here pretty soon."
"Yeah."
Retainer Zero One was flying back upriver again, retracing her previous search pattern. Only this time, the object of the search was quite different."
"Gus, you take the FLIR turret. I'm going over to low light goggles.
Keep your eyes open for the bad guys."
"Aye, aye, sir. What kind of weapons status do you want?"
"Systems hot and bays open. That'll increase our RCS, but I don't want to have to fool around if I have to fast draw." The primary air tactical channel was still saturated with transponder squeal, so Arkady dropped down to the alternate.
"Gray Lady, this is Zero One. Match my fix with the targets, please."
>
"Zero One," Ken Hire's voice came back promptly.
"You are on the bearing and in the ballpark. They should be in your immediate vicinity."
"Rug."
Arkady did another frequency shift to the CSAR channel.
"Moondog 505, Moondog 505, do you read? Do you read? This is Retainer Zero One on cover. Talk to me, guys, we're looking for you."
He lifted his thumb off the mike button. The response was mercifully swift in coming.
"Retainer Zero One, this is Moondog 505."
SEA STRIKE 293
There was the rasp of strained breathing, but the voice was strong.
"Moondog 505, what is your status?" Arkady demanded.
' ' are in the river. Retainer. Maybe a hundred and fifty yards offshore. My systems operator and I are together. She is unconscious and I am injured. Left arm isn't working so well."
"Is there any enemy activity in your area, Moondog?"
"Not that I can see, Retainer."
"What can you see? Can you give me any landmarks?"
' ' looks like ... two piers burning. Upriver. Maybe half a mile."
Okay, those had to be the quays that the Duke's cruise missiles had taken out. Arkady glanced up and spotted the same blaze. They were in the ballpark.
"Moondog 505, can you hear my rotors?"
"Affirmative, I can hear you down river. We have flares and strobes.
Shall I illuminate?"
"No. Negative, Moondog. Let's not advertise before we have to. Do you have I-R sticks lit?"
"Affirmative."
"That ought to be enough. Stand by, we'll pick up on you in a second."
Arkady eased Zero One into a hover. "Gus, surface scan with the FLIR.
Forward arc. You're looking for active sources in the river."
"Searching ... got '. Two active sources in close proximity."
"All right!"
"I also got enemy vehicle activity on the bank, right beyond 'em."
Five miles offshore, Panda Three Three roared through the night. The SH-60 Oceanhawk had been lurking on call below the coastal radar horizon. Now she raced for the mouth of the Yangtze at full war power.
The helicopter had been especially configured for this mission.
The ASW systems console had been down loaded, along with the dunking sonar and torpedo racks. Replacing them were extended-range fuel tanks, a personnel winch, and a .50-caliber heavy machine gun mounted in the cabin door.
Instead of LAMPS system operators, a team of rescue swim 294 James H.
Cobb mers, a gunner, and a hospital corpsman grimly rode the passenger benches in the cabin.
"Panda Three Three, this is Retainer Zero One."
"Go, Zero One."
' ' have a fix on the Moondogs. They are in the southern estuary channel about one click east of Waigaoqiao. We are orbiting them at this time.
The recovery zone is still cool, but this state of affairs will not last. Come a-runnin'."
"We are balls to the wall, Zero One," Three Three's pilot replied.
"Maintain the even strain. We'll be up with you in about eight minutes."
Nonetheless, the CSAR pilot twisted the grip throttle on the end of his collective lever a little harder, trying to nurse a few more horsepower out of his twin T-700 turboshaft engines. There was always a degree of friction between the rotor and fixed-wing factions within a carrier air group, but it was friction within a family. One of their own was in trouble now. This was not just a mission, this was a keeping of the faith.
"The air boss reports we have gunships over our aircrew, sir," Commander Walker said quietly. "They are still clear and the recovery helo is inbound."
"So far, so good, Jake," Macintyre commented, crossing his arms and leaning back against the Pri-Fly chart table.
Tall man produced a noncommittal grunt. "Maybe, Eddie Mac. But just remember, victories come singularly. It's the fuckups that gang up on you."
In all probability, it was just a coincidence that the albatross is considered a sign of ill omen by mariners. A thousand miles west of the usual north polar-to-south polar migration route of its kind, this one had been driven off course by a summer storm. Gliding silently through the darkness on its ten-foot wingspan, it rested in the flying quasitrance that served as sleep for it on its months-long aerial odyssey.
So deeply oblivious was the great seabird that it didn't even notice the approach of the other swift-moving night flier.
There was no warning. Just a flash of white and a tremendous slam.
SEA STRIKE 295
"What the hell?" Panda Three Three's copilot yelled, grabbing for his controllers.
"I dunno, Danny! It felt like a rotor strike!" the aircraft commander yelled back. A savage, jackhammering vibration was racking the big helo, blurring the instrument readouts almost into illegibility.
"We got rotor damage."
"Oh, really? You think? Notify Task Flag that we're aborting! Then notify the Cunningham that we're coming in for an emergency recovery!"
"Skipper, we got men in the water!"
"Yeah, and sure as all shit, we're going to be joining them in about two minutes if we don't get a deck under us!" The copilot noticed some kind of matter smeared on the outside of his windscreen. Tearing open his side window, he took a swipe at it with his glove. Bringing his hand back into the cockpit, he examined it by the instrument lights. His glove was covered with blood, a single, bedraggled, white feather matted in it.
"Ah, for Christ's sake! We hit a goddamn seagull!"
The chill of the water was starting to sink inward as well.
Neither Digger nor his S.O. had elected to wear anti-exposure suits on this run, and despite the mildness of the night, he was beginning to feel it.
Then there were the sounds carrying across the surface of the river.
He'd heard trucks changing gears over toward shore a couple of times and had seen the flash of hooded headlights. Once, when the circling helicopters had swung clear, he'd even made out human voices.
Graves dug the waterproof SAR radio out of his sleeve pocket again.
"Retainer Zero One, this is 505. The natives are starting to get a little restless down here, guys."
"We see ', Moondog. Don't sweat it. We're still with ya."
"Roger that, Retainer. How far out is our pickup?"
"Yeah. Moondog, we're having a little problem with that."
Already cold, Graves suddenly felt considerably colder. A good friend of his had once used that "a little problem"
phrase in just that same carefully offhand manner. He'd died 296 James H. Cobb in the crash that had followed thirty seconds later.
Suddenly, from upstream, a searchlight lanced out across the river, a blue-white beam that wavered through the darkness like a probing sword blade.
"Shit!" Arkady tore the night vision visor up and away from his eyes as it overloaded."
"Searchlight truck on the bank, Lieutenant!"
"I see him." The Sea Comanche darted toward the source like an angry hornet. "Select Hydra pods. Four rounds. Flechette."
"Hydra's hot, sir!"
The searchlight swiveled to target the diving helo, its glare flooding the cockpit and drowning out the Heads-Up Display.
Arkady's hand flicked up to his helmet again, flipping down the sun visor. Then, bore-sighting down the light beam, he salvoed the rockets.
Four rounds were launched, but four rounds didn't arrive on target. The Hydra 70 air-to-surface rockets were carrying M255 flechette warheads.
As each round reached peak acceleration, a bursting charge exploded within it, releasing a swarm of 585 finned steel needles. A wave of more than two thousand hypervelocity projectiles swept over the searchlight vehicle, killing both it and everything else within a fifty-yard radius.
Night-blinded and a flier's instinct away from a killing bout of vertigo, Arkady pulled out of the firing run and swung back over the river.
"Well, fuck a duck, Gus. It
looks like we're going to be putting in a little overtime tonight."
"No shit, sir."
On the aft monitors, the crippled Search and Rescue Seahawk could be seen settling onto the Duke's helipad.
' ' One, this is the bridge. Get that helo stricken below with all possible speed. I want that pad clear!"
"Will do, Captain."
The crisis load was building. Amanda's hand danced across the communications pad, shifting constantly between the CSAR and command channels and the ship's interphones, striving to maintain situational awareness.
SEA STRIKE 297
"Gray Lady, Gray Lady, this is Zero One! Do you copy?"
Arkady's urgent call caught her attention.
"Go, Retainer."
"How long until we get a recovery bird out here?"
"Task Flag is estimating an hour and a half to two hours, Retainer."
"Then we got problems. I don't think we have that much time. We are getting Red reaction, and I've already had to put fire in on the beach.
They know that we're out here, and they're going to be swarming all over us."
"Can you keep them off the aircrew?"
"For as long as our ordnance holds out. Ah, shit! Zero Two, pilch out.'
You've got ground fire on you! Gray Lady, stand by, I'm going to be a little busy here for a minute!"
"Acknowledged, Zero One."
With great deliberation, she yanked the jack of her headset out of the communications link. She needed a few seconds to think--a few seconds out of the loop, away from the urgency and the emotion.
Her fist lifted and slammed down on the chair arm. Getting to her feet, she took two fast steps to the quartermaster's chart table. Swiftly, she began to call up the Yangtze approach block and the maps of the estuary mine barrier.
"How in the hell was this allowed to happen?" Admiral Tall man demanded.
"The CSAR Operations file called for the Cunningham's helos to back up our aircraft in case anything went wrong," his chief of staff replied.
"Apparently, whoever set up the file didn't realize that the Cunningham only had gunships aboard."
"How long will it take to get that new angel in the air?"
"Another five minutes. They're gearing her up now."
"How about the support strike?"
"On the elevators, sir."
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