by Don Brown
As Fred strapped himself into the other jump seat, the copilot handed him a communications headset, mouthing, “Put these on, sir,” over the roar of the engines.
The headset cut down on the engine noise and allowed Fred to hear the pilot talking with the controller on the ship about last-second preflight matters.
As the pilot, the copilot, and shipboard controller chatted back and forth, using a litany of strange aviation terms, Fred opened one of the five surgical bags and ran through a mental checklist of the items.
Scalpel. Check. Suture. Check. IV Bags. Check. Needles and tubing. Check. Penicillin. Benson & Hedges. Check … Zippo lighter …
Check …
“Ready to take off, Doc?” the pilot’s voice cracked over the headset.
“Let’s do it, Lieutenant!” Fred said.
The engines revved to a high-pitched whine, and the helicopter lifted off the pad of the ship. The chopper climbed quickly and, moments later, dipped its nose and picked up speed.
Fred looked out the window and watched the Vicksburg disappear off in the distance.
“You okay, Doc?” the pilot asked.
“Doing great,” Fred lied. He took some slow, deep breaths, breathing out just as slowly to calm himself down.
“Weather looks good this afternoon,” the pilot said, as if Fred were interested in the announcement of the flight plan that was about to come. A second later, more unsolicited chatter. “We’ll climb to ten thousand, and if all goes well, we’ll have you out to that freighter in about twenty minutes or so.”
The ominous knotting was twisting his stomach again, that sixth sense of foreboding that never lied.
He had felt it earlier in the morning, and then the first chopper that had taken off from the Vicksburg, the one carrying Gunner McCormick, had gone down.
Now what? Was this chopper about to crash too?
No. Whatever it was, it was worse than that.
The knotting tightened. Fred closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
“You okay, Commander? You look a bit …”
Fred opened his eyes. “I’m fine, Christian.” Perhaps using the corpsman’s first name would soothe both their nerves. “Just a twisted feeling that whatever we are getting into, it’s a lot bigger than emergency first aid.”
Suddenly, the chopper shook. Then dropped. Then smoothed out.
The pilot’s voice over the headset. “Little heat inversion, gentlemen. No worries.”
Fred did not respond.
“Whatever’s out there, Doc,” the corpsman said, “I’ve got your back, sir. And thanks for letting me come along for the ride.”
“Appreciate that, Christian,” Fred said. “Let’s hope you’re still thanking me an hour from now.”
“Whatever, sir, I’ve got your back.”
“Thanks. Just keep your head in the game, son.”
“Will do, Commander.”
South China Sea
somewhere between USS Vicksburg and USS Emory S. Land
The sun baked the steamy wet pants wrapped around his head. Thirst was now the problem. Drinking saltwater could be deadly.
Conserve energy.
Relax.
Gunner closed his eyes. Soon, he was asleep. When he opened his eyes, he had a strange sense of peace. He wondered how long he had been napping. Looking at the sun, he guessed maybe thirty minutes.
Splashing and chippering. His friends had returned! Gunner smiled as he pulled the wet pants off his head for a look.
They were breaking the surface just a few feet over to his right. Their long mouths under their bulb-nosed snouts were again smiling as they flipped water over his head.
He looked around.
There! Maybe thirty feet behind him! The life raft! Just floating there! No current! No wind!
His body surged with renewed excitement! He cupped his hands and leaned into a breaststroke, pulling himself through the water, quickening his stroke before the wind whipped up again to blow the life raft away.
No sharks. No wind. Please!
He kept swimming, as if pulling water back, drawing himself closer to the floating oasis. His hand finally reached up and felt the edge of the raft.
Thank you, God!
He clutched the raft’s life line, then got both arms up over the air-filled rubber tube and just hung there, resting. Gunner had pulled himself against the rubber flotation tube so tight that he felt the hard heartbeat from his chest thumping against it.
He began calculating the consequences of his discovery. The raft could buy him more time. People had survived weeks, some even months on a raft at sea. His legs would be out of the water, no longer obvious shark bait. What a godsend! Now, if he only had fresh water. He would pray for rain and worry about that later.
Gunner started to pull himself into the raft, to get under the protective shade of the water-repellant tent, when he noticed the rope secured to the raft. Like a fishing line going out into the water, the rope drifted out from the raft and curled on the surface behind the raft, the end of it out of view.
Gunner remembered the last time he had seen the rope—uncoiling out of the helicopter at what looked like a thousand RPMs … and then …
“Lieutenant!” he screamed. “Lieutenant!”
Gunner worked his way around to the back of the raft. There, about twenty feet away, he saw the olive-green-clad body floating face down in the water. “Lieutenant!”
Gunner broke into a furious freestyle stroke, kicking and splashing water with his feet as he swam with every ounce of energy out toward the copilot.
His right hand touched something. He jerked his hand away and stopped swimming. Only the back of the copilot’s flight jacket was above the surface. Gunner moved closer and pushed up on the lieutenant’s shoulder, flipping him over, face up in the water.
“Dear Jesus, no!”
Gunner backed away. The face had been chewed beyond recognition. One leg was gone. The other, or what was left of it, was wrapped in several coils of rope.
“Sharks! I’ve gotta get out of the water!”
He swam back to the raft, sliding his hand along the rope for security. When he got back, he reached up and grabbed the life line on the rubber tubing. Pulling up and kicking with his legs, he got himself halfway over the rubber tubing, and then, as the raft started tipping up, he tumbled in and moved under the protective shade of the orange tent canopy.
He lay there, looking up at the orange ceiling, listening to the waves and the sound of the breeze whirling outside. Thousands of miles from home, he had found an oasis—for now. He lay there, catching his breath, and gave thanks to God.
All he could do now was wait … and pray.
But first, one more act of duty called. He rolled over on his belly and reached over the air-filled rubber flotation tube at the opening in the tent to find the rope. He gripped the rope and began pulling. The weight of the lieutenant’s body offered token resistance as he reeled it in toward the entrance of the raft.
When the body floated into view, leg first, it was again face down in the water, hiding the mutilation.
Gunner didn’t know what to do. He was no preacher. He’d never presided over a funeral. But he did know how to pray, to talk to God. Saying a prayer seemed the right thing to do. He held up one hand to the heavens.
“Heavenly Father, take this servant into your arms. And bring comfort to his family in the coming days, as they learn of his death and try to cope with it. Give them comfort and peace. In the name of your Son, Jesus Christ, who died and was resurrected and who lives forever. Amen.”
Now what? A sermon? A song? He thought of the Navy Hymn. He knew the words from all those times he’d gone to the Protestant chapel services. Somehow, the words seemed appropriate for the moment. He raised both hands to the heavens and began reciting the words,
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm has bound the restless wave,
Who bidst the mighty ocean deep,
Its own eternal limits keep,
Oh, hear us as we cry to thee,
for those in peril on the sea.
He lowered his hands, reached down into the water, and carefully unwrapped the rope from the lieutenant’s leg.
Then he put his hand on the shoulder and gave the body a huge shove.
He watched as the body drifted away from the raft.
“Good-bye, Lieutenant. God have mercy on your soul.”
CHAPTER 13
US Navy SH-60R helicopter
South China Sea
on approach to freighter M/V Shemnong
Okay, Doc, we’ve sighted the freighter,” the pilot said. “I’m gonna do a flyover and see if we can find enough space to set this bird down.”
“Excellent, Lieutenant,” Fred said. He leaned forward and looked out the front windshield over the two pilots’ shoulders. Nothing but blue water and blue sky.
“Doc, I’m banking left,” the pilot said. “If you want a good view, look out your left window. It’ll be a whole lot easier than trying to look up through the cockpit.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Fred sat back in the jump seat. The chopper banked hard left. The view out the window at first showed rolling swells cresting with the reflections of the late-afternoon sun. And then, moving across his view, the ship appeared, long and low in the water. Like many freighters, her superstructure, including the flybridge, was built back toward the stern, and out front was flat space the size of a football field for the storage of cargo. The space in front of the bridge contained dozens of wooden boxes and some military equipment that was unboxed.
The freighter looked almost like a military cargo vessel. No wonder it was causing such a hullabaloo with the Taiwanese. The chopper banked again, back into a circular pattern, and the Shemnong passed out of view.
“Hey, Doc. Were you a Spiderman fan when you were a kid?”
Fred and Hospitalman Randall exchanged glances. They both knew where this was going.
“Lieutenant, I loved both Spiderman and Superman,” Fred said. “But I was never keen on flying through the air like they do, even on the end of a string.”
“No worries, sir,” the pilot said. “Unfortunately, I don’t see enough space to put the bird down. We’ll let you gentlemen down real slow. If we get you down too close to the water or something, just give us the thumbs-up, and we’ll reel you right back up.”
“Roger that, Lieutenant,” Fred muttered. “I’ve done the harness thing before. Doesn’t mean I like it.”
Now only the roar of the engine. Fred felt the chopper slow down, almost to a hover.
“Okay, Doc,” the pilot said. “We’re over the back of the ship. I see some smiling Taiwanese Marines down there looking up and waving. I think they’re gonna be glad to see you.”
“That’s good to know.” Fred shook his head.
“Chief Perkins will strap you gentlemen in the harness, and we should have you on board the ship in just a few. Okay, Chief. We’re ready.”
“Roger that, Skipper,” the chief said. “Gentlemen, stay strapped in tight until I get to you.” The chief’s voice was barely audible through the headset.
“No problem,” Fred said.
The chief unbuckled his harness. He clipped his belt to a tether line and crouched over and punched a button. Slowly, the chopper’s bay door opened. Bright afternoon sunlight and the thunderous roar of the spinning props filled the cabin.
The chief turned a manual lever just above the open bay door, and the steel arm of the winch swung out over the water. He popped open an overhead compartment and retrieved that dreaded harness that Fred had dangled from more times than he cared to remember.
“Okay, Doc, you’re first.” The chief stood in front of Fred, holding the harness. “Let’s get you unbuckled.”
“Got it, Chief.” Fred unlatched his seat buckles.
“Okay, please stand and hold your arms out.”
Fred stood while the chief strapped him into the transfer harness.
“There, that should do it. Ready, sir?”
“Ready, Chief.”
“I’m gonna clip the line to the back of the harness, and you’ll be on your way.”
“I just love bungee cords,” Fred quipped.
“I hear you, sir.” A click in the midsection of his back. Another click just behind his collar. “You’re secured, sir. You know the drill. I want you to sit on the floor and slide toward the opening of the hangar bay. Just dangle your legs over the side.”
“Got it.” Fred hated this part. Even though he was attached to a secure line, he still hated it. A moment later, with his butt on the chopper floor and the chief’s hands on his shoulders, his legs dangled over the side. The freighter was about a hundred feet below, but his instinct told him to look straight out, not down.
“Okay, sir, I’m going to tighten the cord a little with the winch so you don’t swing too much.”
“Got it.”
The electronic winch hummed. The cord tightened, pulling up against Fred’s back.
“Ready, sir?”
“Ready.” Fred lied. He wasn’t ready. He never was.
“Okay, I’m just going to give you a little shove out the chopper. Ready?”
“Sure.”
“Here we go!”
Fred felt the crew chief’s hands on the back of both of his shoulders. Then, a hard shove pushed his butt off the security of the platform. He dangled outside the chopper, suspended in the air high above the ship, swinging back and forth like a ball on a string under the down blast of the chopper’s propellers.
Yes, he hated this dangerous bungee-cord exercise. Yet, at the same time, he loved it! Moments like these were the reason he had snubbed his father’s lucrative practice in Hattiesburg at the Jeter Medical Clinic. How many other physicians in the world got opportunities like this to live on the edge, all in the name of defending the Hippocratic Oath?
He tipped his head back and looked up at the chief. Then, remembering the hand-signal sequence, he gave a thumbs-down.
The winch started unwinding, and Fred descended—a bit too quickly.
Thumbs-up. The winch stopped. He looked down. A group of armed Marines, looking very Chinese, stood in a circle on deck. They motioned him down, rather excitedly, as if they were in a rush. Fred looked up again. The thumbs-down signal. Another descent, still a bit too fast, but this time he would not stop it.
He looked down. The deck rushed up. This was no parachute drop, but still, too fast for comfort. The Marines stepped back, widening the circle on deck as if expecting a crash landing. He extended his legs, bracing for impact. A second later, the rope jerked up and swung there, less than a foot off the deck. Then another brief descent. Contact. Not a bad landing.
“You doctor? You doctor?” The question was shouted in broken but understandable English even as a couple Marines were unstrapping him. Fred didn’t know who had spoken.
“I’m Lieutenant Commander Fred Jeter, Medical Corps, United States Navy. And yes, I’m a doctor!” he shouted at them. The harness, now off, was being reeled quickly back up to the Seahawk.
“I am Lieutenant Ho! Marine Corps of the Republic of China.” The speaker identified himself with a quick, sharp salute shot Fred’s way. Fred returned the salute. “Come, Doctor. There are many things to show you.”
“I have an assistant and medical supplies coming down from the chopper.” He looked up and saw Petty Officer Randall already dangling in the air just outside the Seahawk.
“No time to wait, Doctor!” Lieutenant Ho protested. “Many things to see! My Marines will bring your assistant and supplies to the bridge. Also we have some medics on board to help.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Fred said.
Ho turned, motioning Fred to follow. The deck was crowded with large wooden crates, and they walked around them, making their way to the side deck, then headed toward the stern, jogging down the side deck.
Lieutenant Ho opened the door to the e
ntrance of the superstructure, ready to head up to the bridge. Just then the Seahawk peeled away from over the ship and headed back toward the Vicksburg. That meant Hospitalman Randall was now on board.
Stepping into the superstructure, the stark contrast between the late-afternoon sunshine and the indoor shade was blinding.
Ho stepped onto a steel ladder leading to the upper decks. Fred started up the ladder right after him.
“Do any of your medics speak English, Lieutenant?”
“They not our medics. Communist Chinese medics were assigned to the ship. And no,” he said, continuing up the steel ladder in a quick double-time, “they do not speak English. But our officers do. We will translate.”
“Excellent.”
They continued climbing past a third deck, then a fourth. Fred’s slight shortness of breath underscored what he already knew—time to quit the cancer sticks.
Reaching the fifth deck, they approached two closed double doors, guarded by two Taiwanese Marines.
“This is the bridge,” Lieutenant Ho said. “It was shot up bad. Two dead, including the captain of the ship. Lots of blood.”
“I’m a doctor, Lieutenant. I’m used to blood.”
Ho nodded, then opened the doors.
Shattered glass lay all over the deck from the shot-out windshield. Off to the right, two bodies on the floor were covered in white sheets. Six men were on cots along the perimeter of the bridge. Their heads were wrapped in bandages. Each man had an IV stuck in an arm.
The ship’s navigational systems seemed intact. The radar screen appeared functional. Several men were seated at the instrument panels, and a man, perhaps the ship’s XO or first officer, was looking over their shoulders as if in a supervisory capacity. A helmsman was at the wheel. And standing at attention, imposing a commanding presence, were two rifle-bearing Taiwanese Marines.
Three other men, apparently medics, were attending to the wounded. One held a stethoscope to a wounded man’s chest, another adjusted an IV bag. A third was checking a patient’s eyes.
What a surrealistic montage! Fred thought. A morgue, a ship’s bridge, a hospital, and a bloody war zone—all wrapped into one.