He had guessed the Sergeant might send a detail to follow the ambulances. He had guessed correctly. Once they reached Ciudad Victoria, the refugee procession stopped, as the village was well over 20 miles from the coast. Miguel and the ambulances continued through, turning north onto Route 101 towards Matamoras, and the crossing into the United States.
There was no traffic on 101 for the trailing truck to hide within, and the tail became obvious, even though the pick-up stayed at least a mile back. There was no place to hide. After 20 miles, the road climbed a steep hill. As soon as the ambulances crested the hill out of sight of the truck, he ordered them to stop, and a hasty ambush set up.
When the truck crested the hill, four heavily armed Cartel opened up with AK47’s and M-4 assault rifles. The truck driver and passenger were dead within seconds. Now he had to contend with the radio. He was quite sure the sergeant knew where he and his drug filled ambulances were, and where they were going. Their cargo was no longer a secret to anyone south of the border crossing, but may still be unknown by the border police. He was fully prepared to shoot his way through both the Mexican and American border guards. His hopes were that the crossing would be abandoned by both sides. Matamoras was right on the coast, and had been evacuated, the Madera Rojo lapping at the sandy beaches at this very moment. What kind of fool would guard a border crossing in an empty town smothering in a toxic cloud?
Hector knew Rodriguez and Jimenez were dead in a ditch somewhere along Route 101 north of Ciudad Victoria. Two consecutive scheduled radio transmissions had been missed. He was not a believer in coincidence when it came to dealing with the Cartel. But he did know approximately where Manuel was, how fast he was traveling, and about how much time it would be before he reached Matamoras. If Manuel was able to cross the border into the US, he would be out of Hector’s reach. His radio call to the border crossing guards at Matamoras was unanswered. It was most likely shut down, as there were no people on either side of the border trying to cross.
Except for Manuel and his posse. Once more, the Sergeant marveled at the simple brilliance of the plan. All it took was cohones the size of ripe melons.
He shook the thought from his mind, and quickened his pace. This thing between Manuel and Hector had now become personal, and would be settled. Whatever it takes.
Stopping outside the Major’s tent, Hector requested permission to enter from the soldier stationed there, which was promptly granted. He entered, came to attention and saluted.
“Yes Sergeant, what can I do for you?” the Major rose from his field desk.
“Sir, I need a helicopter.” The Sergeant requested.
“Just one?” The Major smiled as he teased his First Sergeant.
“Well sir, two would be better,” replied Hector without cracking a smile.
The Major cocked his head, and responded, “Who are we attacking today, Sergeant Snake?”
The Major was the only man alive Hector allowed to call him by his nickname.
Chapter Thirteen
Gulf of Mexico, 5 Miles North of Laguna Vista, Texas
Flight leader Captain Emily Marston hailed the pilots under her command. “Five miles to target. Begin descent to 500 feet. On me. Watch your intervals and horizon indicator. Steady sticks. Don’t want to bump into anyone. Everybody goes home today. Release payload on my command.”
The formation was a shallow V shape, with the flight leader at the apex and center. Flying wingtip to wingtip was a Blue Angels maneuver, dangerous as hell, and not for everyday use. This formation resembled a lazy flock of Canadian geese. Not near as pointy, as each plane flew approximately 20 yards behind the aircraft to their left or right, depending on which wing of the V they were assigned. That gave each pilot a marker, as the plane in front was clearly visible in front of them and twenty feet below. No plane would fly through the spray of the plane in front of them.
The left wing was short one plane. The engine crapped out just as the flight crossed the coastline. The experienced aviator called in his situation, peeled off the formation and was able to glide the craft down, line up and successfully land on the beach into a nice headwind. Flynn, an Irishman Captain Marsten served with on the Kitty Hawk would go home today, even though he would have to walk. So far so good. Once they dropped to 500 feet, there would be no peeling off if an engine failed. Too low, too slow. A pilot must maintain their position in the formation to avoid collision with another plane, and ride his dead horse straight into the ocean.
“Well, that’s what we signed up for.” Emily said softly. That was not exactly what she had signed up for, but it was the rule of engagement for today.
The altimeter read 635 feet. From 2000 feet they were able to see the Red Tide in the near distance. At this low altitude they could not. The flight would continue to descend below 500 feet to 150 feet when the buoys came into view. That low, a sneeze could prove fatal. They must all remain rock steady. She would know they were over the bloom when it raced by beneath her, and would give the command over the tac radio to the rest of the flight.
Lower. Lower. 275 feet. 200. Orange buoy flashing by. 150 feet. It looked and felt like she was skimming wave tops. TIDE! There it was. “Bombs away.” She stated calmly over the tac. “God, I’ve always wanted to say that,” not realizing the mic was still open to the entire flight.
“Right on, Captain!”
“You go, girl!”
“Let’s kick some Red Tide ass, people!”
“Does Red Tide have an ass?”
“Not as big as yours, Morgan!”
She loved these flyers. Brothers and sisters all, but they needed to keep focus. “Stifle it, people. We have a job to do.”
On they flew, steady as the Santa Anna wind. Stability and control are much more complex for an airplane, which can move freely in three dimensions, than for cars or boats, which only move in two. A change in any one of the three types of motion affects the other two. Pilots used the ailerons to control roll, best described as the wings tilting up or down. The rudder was used to control yaw, best described as the tail swinging left to right. The elevators on the rear wings were used to control pitch, best described as the nose of the plane moving up or down. An error in control in any of the three dimensions, however slight, would cause the plane to lose position in the tight formation, presenting a real collision hazard. Add the occasional cross wind, and disaster in formation flying was a mere heartbeat away. So they had to look after each other.
“Ronnie, watch your yaw. Your swinging my way.” Came over the tac.
“Major, are you trying to ask me out on a date by flapping your wings like a duck?”
“Copy that, junior. We’ll talk later.” The Major responded.
At 100 MPH, the flight covered a mile of ocean in about 40 seconds. The brainy people had estimated the chemical tanks would be empty after five miles of continual spraying, or three and a half minutes.
Emily checked her chrono. A minute and thirty to go until they could loosen up and get back up away from the soup. “A mike and a half, people. Steady.” Please, please Lord, let us complete this run. “Thirty seconds.” She updated the flight team.
“Right wing 8 going down! Repeat, right wing 8 going… the transmission suddenly cut off. Emily could not flinch or even turn her head to see the fate of Right Wing 8. Nor could any other pilot. Not for another 20 seconds. The seconds ticked by.
Finally, “Break! Repeat, break!” Emily called into the tac. Immediately, the outermost planes on both wings banked up and out, away from the formation. The next planes to the inside of the formation counted four seconds, then peeled away. It took a full minute for every plane to lift away from the sea, and Emily at the center was last.
Right Wing 8 was now almost two miles behind her, if she still lived.
“Who has eyes on Right Wing 8. Report.” Rachel in Right Wing 8 was Emily’s friend and roommate. The seconds ticked by, as she listened for a response. Any response.
“I have eyes on Red W
ing 8. Plane’s upside down but still afloat. No sign of the pilot. Don’t know for how long the plane will remain afloat, fuselage compromised.”
“Gulf Storm flight, reform and head for home. I’ll stay on station till a fast boat gets here. Over.” Emily immediately changed frequency to hail the rescue teams when her radio crackled.
“Flight leader, this is Gulf Storm Command. We have been monitoring your traffic. Swift boat on the way, ETA 7 minutes. Can you update the pilot’s status from your position?”
Emily was circling the downed plane at 500 feet in a left hand turn, desperate to see any sign of Rachel. The sea was blood red. Her white hazmat suit would stand out sharply, and her respirator should shield her eyes and mouth for a short time, but it wasn’t designed as an underwater breathing apparatus. It was Rachel’s only chance at survival in the toxic water.
When the plane went down, the landing gear had caught the water, and the plane had flipped as predicted. Rachel was most likely knocked unconscious on impact, and her respirator dislodged. Even if she was conscious after impact, she would be hanging upside down in a cramped cockpit rapidly filling with deadly water, struggling to unfasten her seat belt, unlock the door, and swim out before the plane sank beneath the waves.
Just as Emily began to respond to Command, a hand, then a head broke the water’s surface next to the plane. Emily gasped, her worst fears for Rachel coming to life. Rachel’s respirator had been ripped from her face, and hung around her neck. She had activated her life vest, which popped her to the surface, choking from mouthfuls of toxic water. Emily watched as Rachel struggled, disoriented and blinded by the toxic algae. Her left arm was completely limp, and trailed at her side. She weakened with each one arm stroke, until her feeble attempts to swim stopped altogether, and she bobbed motionless in the bloody sea.
Emily composed herself as much as she could after watching her friend die before her eyes, and called it in.
“Flight Leader to Gulf Storm Command, Right Wing 8 in sight beside fuselage. No movement. Advise Swift boat it’s a recovery. Will remain on station until swift boat arrives. Over.”
Galveston, Texas Holiday Inn Express
Thuy’s office/sleeping quarters consisted of a seating area with a fake fireplace opposite the reservation counter in the hotel lobby, which had been converted to the Communications Center for ground operations on the Municipal Field across the street. It was well past midnight, but the hourly flights continued to lift off the brightly lit field, and would through the night.
His bed was a large sofa. The other furniture: overstuffed chairs, end and coffee tables, were stacked across the entry areas to provide the illusion of privacy. People came and went loudly through the lobby at all hours. It mattered not to Thuy. He hadn’t slept much the past several days, and it showed on his haggard face. He concentrated his full attention on the monitors which told the story.
Satellite links to monitors throughout the lobby had been set up so all could oversee the bloom, and Gulf Storm’s progress in combating it’s northward migration. Finally, some progress had appeared. The Red Tide had continued its northerly migration another 20 miles since the copper sulfate flights began yesterday morning. Three planes were lost at sea, the pilots not surviving. Five more were scrapped or otherwise conked out on take-off or landing when the engine strain was highest. There were no casualties from these engine failures.
The Navy and Coast Guard had learned a lot from the early disasters, making modifications to operations that greatly improved operational efficiency and safety. The flights were ramped up, as more planes and aviators became available, and continued through the night. 265 crop dusters now flew in continuous flights round the clock, and available pilots now numbered over 1,000. This allowed a full eight hours sleep and meal breaks for every flyer, downtime that was desperately needed if they were to continue the current frantic pace.
Pilots no longer wore hazmat suits or respirators. Three ditches and three fatalities in the first 24 hours proved there simply was no point. Any crop duster forced to ditch in the ocean crashed violently, inevitably flipping on impact. No one could survive. Instead, all efforts were made to ensure the airworthiness of every aircraft. While 265 planes flew, over 180 had been scrapped by the mechanics as not airworthy for the operation. The scrapped planes became a giant parts store in the grassy area next to the Municipal Field. The mechanics swarming over these heaps searching for usable parts marveled how these junk heaps even made it to Galveston from whatever cow pasture they came from.
One memorable plane landed with no side windows, the door held shut with bailing wire. It promptly blew a tire on touch down, and swerved directly off the tarmac, thudding to stop against the growing pile of derelict planes. The pilot jumped out, turned to the nearest mechanic and shouted, “Where do you want me to park?”
“Right there is just fine, mister.”
The battle now included surface vessels. Every major port was home to Fire Tugs used to hose down flames on large ships. Tugs and crews were commandeered from Houston, New Orleans, Mobile, Tampa and Miami. Each had four to six plastic bladders placed on the deck, and a pump system rigged to connect with their water cannons fore and aft. Each bladder contained 2,000 gallons of copper sulfate. Each water cannon could spray a plume up to 100 yards. As the bladders were emptied, pairs of heavy lift helicopters from the Army Tank Training School at Fort Benning removed the empties, and dropped full bladders onto the tug deck where they were rapidly attached to the pumps in sequence for another run.
As a result of these efforts, Operation Gulf Storm halted the 2 km per hour northward flow of the bloom just hours ago. The bloom was reduced significantly, and now measured approximately 13 miles wide, and less than 60 miles long.
Dr. Kate joined him, announcing herself by falling backwards onto his couch-bed. She had spent the last 36 hours in a rescue chopper over the bloom. All she had been able to accomplish was to watch as Coastys winched three body bags up from the swift boats. Bodies of downed pilots recovered from the bloody sea. Each pilot had died crashing into the sea. None had drowned or died from injuries. All had inhaled or swallowed toxic sea water, and choked as they tried to exit their upside down aircraft, as the cabin instantly filled with water. A shitty way to go. She would participate in the autopsies, but not tonight.
“You look bad.” Thuy gave her the once over. “You need to eat.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel special, Thuy. I’m too tired to eat.”
“You eat anyway. That’s not a question. I get food and bring.” Thuy stepped to the Coasty Commander Phillips had assigned to him. It was Seaman Buck Smith from Bayboro base, with the wandering mind.
“Mr. Smith, please get doctor food to eat and hot coffee. She like black. Thank you.”
“She doooes? OMG, Mr. Piseth!” Buck was not the sharpest tool in the shed.
“No! No! Coffee black. Coffee!” Thuy continued to tell young Buck what a complete jackass he was, but proper manners required this admonishment be said in his native language versus English. Good manners were very important to Thuy. He switched back to English,
“Go now, hurry!” Turning back to Kate on the couch, he shook his head and continued to mutter about Buck’s lack of mental dexterity.
Kate was laughing. “Is that kid for real?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Think mother drop on head, many time.”
“How is someone that clueless ever going to make his way through life?”
“Work for government. Probably be big success. Learn to read teleprompter, run for office someday. Become Commander in Chief.” Thuy’s face betrayed nothing, but Kate caught the twinkle in his eye, and laughed again.
“How are we doing, Thuy? I’ve been incommunicato for a good long while.”
“Not know this word, but understand meaning. We do well. Look.” Thuy gestured to the monitors. Kate sat up.
“This bloom 36 hour ago. 20-mile wide, 100 long.” He advanced to the next satell
ite image.
“This 20 hour ago.” He advanced the screen to the next image. The bloom was 20 miles further north, but visibly smaller.
“This 2 hour ago.” The bloom had not advanced further north, it’s width smaller by half, and length down by a third.
“When fire tugs arrive, we attack sides and leading edge same time. Current carry bloom straight into our planes. As width shrink and planes increase in number, we able to spray entire width of bloom. Kill all algae for five miles in two hour. Current move 2 km each hour, less than 1.5 mile. Not able to advance. Plus, nitrate and phosphate from Tampa all used up. Water temperature drop several degree. Mother Nature help.”
“Oh my God Thuy, you did it.” Kate exclaimed.
“Not me. Commander Phillips hero. Organize everything. No sleep three day. You think you tired?” Thuy paused and added, “I think we win. This time.”
Red Tide Page 11