Tim and John didn’t say a word now, which was good because he couldn’t afford the distraction as he moved down toward an ice field that he couldn’t see, except by radar. It also told him that they didn’t need to talk; he’d given them enough information to figure out the plan without any questions. A huge time saver that he’d have to remember for the future.
He tried the landing lights, but was blinded by the million reflections off the swirling snow. Turbulence or not, he climbed up until his eyes recovered from the momentary blinding enough to again clearly read the radar images on the inside of his visor.
What kind of a lunatic ran a search and rescue operation under these conditions?
9
Michael neither heard nor saw the approaching helicopter. He knew they’d arrived above him when the ice crystals shifted from being driven sideways by the wind from the storm to being driven downward by the wind from the helo’s rotors.
A winch line appeared in the middle of the maelstrom whirling about wildly, so he pushed Charli down to lie on the snow and stood over her as he tried to guide them into place over the radio. Fat chance. They couldn’t see him, and even if they could, the wind was slapping around the steel cable like a cat with a piece of yarn.
There was no question who was above him. Only a Night Stalker would be out on such a foul night and only a man who completely trusted his own piloting skills would attempt such a rescue.
The first time the glowing green lights tied to the heavy metal hook at the end of the cable came sailing at him, he had to dive down on top of Charli to avoid being clobbered by it. She barely responded with an “oof!” Her time was getting short.
On the next pass the winch hook was moving more slowly and he managed to snag it.
Not trusting that he’d have another success like that, or that he could hold it for long, he immediately spun around and snapped the hook into Charli’s harness. He flicked out a knife and severed her ties to the ice screw and piton.
“Lift. Now, now, now!” he called over the radio.
With a surprised squawk, jolted out of her stupor by the sudden yank on her harness, Charli disappeared aloft. Michael stood ready to slash the line connecting her to her brother’s body in case it snagged on the side of the crevasse, but moments later Fred’s body followed his sister’s skyward.
He waited for the report, it didn’t take long.
“Civilian aboard.” And a few seconds more, “Plus one.”
“Roger and thanks.”
“Sending winch back down.”
“Negative,” he was just two thousand feet below the summit and there were two very solid anchors tied to his harness. “Negative. I’m good here. Thanks, Mayday out.”
Whoever was flying the helicopter was silent for a long moment, swore succinctly on air, and then was gone.
Michael called the Park Rangers to let them know it was okay to stand down. Then he dug a shelf into the snow, pulled out his bivy bag, and slid in to ride out the peace within the heart of the storm.
10
Michael came down off the mountain three days later. The storm had blown hard for two days and then he’d taken the summit beneath a sunny sky on a dead calm day. The temperature steady around minus sixty, he had owned the peak and his extra days at altitude had given him the acclimation to spend some time enjoying the vistas in every direction from the wide crater’s rim that capped the old volcano.
He still didn’t have any better answers to his career.
If he left The Unit…
There simply wasn’t anything challenging enough on the other side of that coin. He was never one of those serve-a-couple-tours-and-get-out kind of guys. He was a lifer, but what was the next step from Delta?
CIA’s Special Activities Division had tried to recruit him a couple times. While he enjoyed the black ops, the S.A.D. was just a little too much wash-your-hands-after-even-talking-to-them kind of guys.
The Activity, the slickest field intel guys that the nation’s military had ever come up with, was tempting. But it wasn’t the kind of challenge he liked. He enjoyed being at the tip of the spear.
After he dug his truck out of a couple feet of snow, he drove down from Paradise on the plowed out road and signed out at the Ranger Station in Longmire. Apparently news of his rescue was the talk of the park’s ranger staff. They were sorely disappointed when he refused to meet with any media. A Delta operator’s photo smack on the front page of the Tacoma News Tribune would not play well back at Fort Bragg. He should never have used his real name in the register.
He escaped as quickly as he could and went into the National Park Inn for a meal. It was one of those Depression-era lodges built by the government on a grand scale to put the nation back to work. Log-built, generous veranda, high, gabled roof. It was equally grand inside, the massive lobby had enough room to play a fair game of hockey except for the deep couches. High ceilings held up by massive log rafters. He headed for the restaurant seating down at the far end of the massive space.
Michael ordered the turkey blue plate special, heavy on the gravy, and the roast beef platter as well. He’d burned a lot of calories over the last four days. He’d managed to squeeze in a summiting of Little Tahoma Peak on the way down just for completeness sake. The Congo Rainforest still lay two days away.
He chose a seat with his back to the wall. As always.
Exit to the kitchen was to his left. At the other end of the wide lobby was the entrance to the lodge. Big, timber-built doors led in from the outside partway along the right-hand wall. The cathedral ceiling was filled with the light reflected off the heavy layers of snow outside the long bank of front windows. A grandfather clock, stately in a heavy Doug Fir cabinet, chimed the hour.
He was done with the turkey and halfway through the roast beef when a man walked in through the double doors. Many people had come in and out while Michael was eating, fourteen women and nine men in seven separate groups. Each one with the earmarks of a tourist: chattering, expensive if not the most sensible snow gear, cameras.
This man was tall, broad-shouldered, and alone. He wore an expensive leather bomber jacket that said tourist and worn jeans and heavy boots that didn’t. He wore mirrored Ray Bans and stood in the center of the main room doing a slow turn as he assessed the lobby and restaurant seating and everyone in it. His stance said “trained soldier” as did his careful inspection. His body silence said Special Operations.
His eyes passed over Michael…and then swung back.
The pilot.
He strode across the room, covertly continuing his assessment of people and exits, though not in any way that would be noticed except by another trained soldier. Without asking he sat down across from Michael with his back to the lobby, something Michael would never do.
Then the man took off his mirrored sunglasses and set them on the table without folding in the earpieces, so that the lens were only slightly tilted. He looked down and gave the glasses a slight nudge.
Michael judged angles and decided that the man had chosen well. Anything he couldn’t see directly, he could keep an eye on in the mirrors of the sunglasses, which reflected the goings-on behind him. He’d have to remember that trick.
“The girl’s okay,” the pilot began speaking without introduction. “Lost a couple of toes and a brother. But she’s fine.”
Michael nodded. Good news.
“Really wants to thank you.”
Michael shook his head, not gonna happen.
“She’s a real looker under all that snow gear. Blond, tall, very athletic body.”
Clearly this man’s type. Still, not gonna happen. Michael wasn’t sure if he had a type, but Nightingale-effect gratitude wasn’t something he was after.
The pilot ordered the roast beef when a waitress came around. Michael ordered a slice of blueberry pie with ice cream.
They sa
t in comfortable silence until they were served.
“I know a guy who talks as little as you,” the man who still hadn’t introduced himself cut into his beef and sighed with pleasure. “Not Montana roast like my parents’ beef, but not too shabby.”
Michael had never had Montana beef. Especially not ranch fresh.
“My dad was a SEAL for almost twenty years. Doesn’t speak unless he has something to say.”
SEAL dad. Night Stalker son.
“Dad never was a big fan of ice and snow; shoveled it for too many Montana winters is his excuse. I expect it was because it froze up the fishing streams for too many months each year. He and I spent a lot of good time standing in those streams.”
Michael would agree. Ice and snow he could take or leave. But he loved the quiet times of fishing.
“Strikes me that camping on that mountain top in the middle of a storm with an attitude was more the style of an operator from The Unit than a SEAL. Damned nice piece of work, by the way. Got some of the details out of the park rangers. Though your name led nowhere—I was able to verify you exist, but otherwise an absolute dead end—another sure Delta sign. Got some more of the details from the grateful babe. Very grateful. Sure you’re not interested?”
Michael was sure; he was headed back to the Congo in thirty-six hours and had never been a big fan of a casual screw. He ate some of the blueberry pie which was exceptional. The wild blueberries were probably picked right out here on the mountain slopes last summer and frozen.
So, the man was smart enough to figure out that he was with the Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, which Michael would never confirm nor deny.
“I’m putting together a new company,” the pilot’s tone became more businesslike, more intense. This man cared deeply about the next part of the conversation.
He didn’t need to identify SOAR, he’d know that Michael had figured that much out on his own. Michael appreciated that the man didn’t waste time on useless words.
“I’m getting the very best people. I’ve stolen the Number One mechanic and gunner out of 1st Battalion, pissed their commanders off pretty good. Found a copilot out of the 3rd. I’ve snared the Number One teams in Chinook and Little Birds too. I’m building a blended Company, not just all one platform.”
“Flexibility,” Michael spoke for the first time. The military was not the most flexible structure; it was something The Unit prided themselves on but few others could get away with or even wrap their heads around at a true operational level.
“Precisely!” the pilot leaned forward eagerly. “I want a company that can dynamically adapt to any situation. I want you.”
Michael stopped with his fork halfway up in the air, “Me?”
The man nodded and returned his attention to his roast beef. A couple came in, their designer clothes covered with the telltale patches of a snowball fight. The pilot’s eyes flicked down to inspect the reflection in his glasses and he smiled for a moment before returning his attention to his meal.
“Doing what?”
The man shrugged, “We’ll figure that out as we go. An embedded Delta liaison? A permanently-attached squad for fast reaction, trained to maximize leverage of the DAP heli-platform? How the hell should I know. I’m after the right people first. Then the team will drive itself to excel as it comes together.”
A DAP. He hadn’t dropped that casually; it was a symbol of just how much the military was impressed by this man. The rescue helicopter had been a DAP—in the heart of a blizzard atop the most lethal mountain in the lower forty-eight states. This guy wasn’t just blowing smoke; he was out on the cutting edge.
It would be a hell of a challenge.
Michael would miss The Unit…but then he wouldn’t really be leaving, would he?
And a team that could develop synergistically from the interactions of a half dozen different disciplines?
New information and challenges from the very best pilots on the planet to the very best technological innovations. And a commander who wasn’t all hoo-rah but rather understood the silence of fishing, of being out in nature.
He finished his blueberry pie as the pilot polished off his roast beef.
Michael kept inspecting the possibilities as he would any pending operation, but could find no tactical or strategic hole in the plan. If the man was as good as his word, which he’d proved by doing that rescue, then it should work. In fact, it could set up a whole new model for inter-operability, always a fascinating problem.
Michael decided he wasn’t just in, he was in all the way.
“What’s your name?”
The man pushed aside his empty plate, kicked back and rested his feet on another chair. He pulled on his mirrored shades as if saying he completely trusted Michael to have his back.
He grinned like he’d just won the best poker hand on the planet.
“Viper. Viper Henderson.”
Then they both started to laugh.
Beale’s Hawk Down
This story came out of the prior one. Emily Beale is never subtle. She strode up, looked down at Michael’s and Mark’s story and said, “Where’s my origin story?”
I thought back to what little I knew about her military career prior to her joining the US Army’s 160th SOAR. There were two lines in the first book in The Night Stalker series, The Night Is Mine, (which was written five years earlier) about that.
And much like Emily, that forthright explanation seems to cover it.
This is the story behind those two lines. (I didn’t include them here because they would spoil part of this story and Emily wouldn’t like that.)
Seven Years Ago
1
The Black Hawk helicopter shredded around her. The spin and fall fast enough that only the harness kept her in her seat.
The star-cracked glass-laminate windshield—each star centered around the hole where an armor-piercing round had punched into the cockpit—fragmented Lieutenant Emily Beale’s view of the outside world into a thousand tiny refracted images. The veering Thai jungle hacked into crystalline shards of green in a thousand hues.
Hydraulic fluid sprayed over the outside of the windshield. Altered the colors of the world around them to a dark, alien-realm red. Even the yellow sunlight bled vermillion.
Emily flicked off the primary hydraulic system. The secondary didn’t take over, but the emergency backup hung on.
“Beale!” Larry shouted at her from the pilot’s seat. “I can’t see!”
Emily glanced over and saw blood dribbling down over his forehead. One of the rounds had punched him high in the helmet, hopefully just a scalp wound.
She stopped attempting to recover systems and clamped her hands onto the controls. They were heavy, sluggish. The intercom sounded dead, Larry’s shout had traveled across the cockpit, not into the headphones built into her helmet.
She clicked the mic switch a few times—with no result.
There wasn’t time to look down, but the acrid stench of scorched electronics told her what had happened to their radios.
“Can’t see much myself,” she shouted back.
Emily watched out the only clear section of her copilot’s side window, an intact area little bigger than her hand. She had to wait only two seconds for the helicopter to spin through a full three-sixty and reveal her options of where to crash.
South and east, a broad spread of poppy fields. They’d been flying east to west when they stumbled on the fields and been fired upon immediately. Even shot up, they’d managed to overfly most of the fields. She spotted several vehicles racing across it in their direction, they’d be in range in three minutes; up close and personal within five. The rugged terrain of the foothills to the Luang Prabang Range was in her favor, or would be until the Black Hawk hit the rolling fields.
“Poppies!” the Wicked Witch of the West seemed to cackle in
her ears. They hadn’t known about the poppy fields. Their flight had been racing northwest on a flood-relief mission. But some Thai opium lord hadn’t liked the pair of U.S. Army helicopters flying low over his fields.
North and west was helicopter-killing jungle. Though by the vibrations building up in the controls and the airframe, there wasn’t much left to kill except the pilot and copilot. The crew chiefs? The silence of the two big M240 machine guns that they should be using to hammer back at the people who had just shot up the helicopter were ominously silent.
The second spin around let her spot the burning wreckage of their sister helicopter. The 101st Airborne Screaming Eagles were gonna be some kind of pissed. She just had to stay alive long enough for that to matter.
Emily risked taking one hand off the controls to trigger her personal radio tucked in her vest pocket. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Army flight—” Larry lost control of their flight angle and she had to retake the controls and simply pray that someone had heard her. The rising screams of the dying Black Hawk masked any response. If there was one.
“I’m taking us into the trees, Larry.”
“That sounds like fun.”
It was too much effort to shout over the roar of the rotors and all of the systems alarms blaring for attention. She concentrated on landing without killing them.
On the next spin, she initiated a roll. Larry leaned his support into the rapidly failing controls and she was glad for every ounce of help.
By tipping the wounded Black Hawk well onto its side, she managed to counter the spin that the rudder pedals could no longer wholly fix. But it also meant she was losing altitude—at little better than a plummet.
There was now as much red inside the cockpit as outside. What electronics were still with them were blinking red warnings. Alarms were blaring but she didn’t have time or the free hand to silence them.
Larry took a hand off the collective to kill the worst of them. But it was clear by how his hand fumbled slightly that he still couldn’t see and was doing it based solely on training.
The Ides of Matt 2015 Page 6