by Doug Beason
The Black Hawk rose to twenty feet, then slowly rotated. Bruce squinted; the side of the helicopter came into view. Sticking out of the side was a long-nosed minigun. A burst of flames came from the weapon.
The jungle erupted in a crash of sound as the twenty-millimeter rounds ripped through the foliage, again and again sweeping through the jungle.
Bruce crawled with his elbows over to Zaz. The young enlisted man bled from the mouth. His face was slack.
Bruce ran a hand over Zaz’s body. He couldn’t find the bullet wound. Nothing indicated where Zaz had been shot.
Bruce slapped the man to see if he was still alive. If the Black Hawk hurried, there would be time to get Zaz back to Clark, fly him straight to the hospital.…
The minigun stopped firing and Bruce jerked his head up. The Black Hawk’s engine coughed as the helicopter listed suddenly to the left, over-corrected, then wobbled to the right. The Black Hawk just slipped from the sky.
It twisted until it was nearly sideways. The rotor hit the ground and the craft suddenly whipped around, thrown by the rotor’s angular momentum.
The Black Hawk tumbled once, twice on the ground, bounced and started to fall apart. It didn’t explode, but tiny flames flared up all around it. Some of the fires died immediately, but flickering flames cast shadows out on the ground.
Screams. A shriek, then moaning came from the Black Hawk.
Bruce crawled to the site, only fifty yards away. If the Black Hawk had rotated any more, it might have crashed right on top of him. Bruce clawed at the ground, pulling himself forward.
The clearing fell silent. Bruce could hear the flames even from fifty yards away—and the sound of the diesel generator coming from the plantation once again.
He pushed everything out of his mind and concentrated on just one thing: reaching the Black Hawk.
He suddenly froze. Someone was moving, not too far away.
A figure crept out of the jungle and moved toward the crash. Rifle at ready, the person moved twenty yards to Bruce’s left. Bruce tried to make himself flat against the ground. In the glow from the helicopter’s fire, Bruce couldn’t make out who it was.
Bruce pulled the M-16 carefully around. He brought the figure into his sight, then slowly squeezed the trigger.…
Nothing. Bruce silently cursed. The cartridge was empty.
He rolled over and fumbled in his vest, pulling out a cartridge. He tried to slip the extra bullets into the automatic rifle without being heard; when the mechanism clicked he stopped, holding his breath, but the person continued to creep forward.
Bruce brought the rifle around. When he had the person back in his sights, he slowly squeezed.…
Cervante stopped. Moments before he had spotted the remnants of a bright yellow tarpaulin lying at the edge of the clearing. Were all the Americans on the helicopter? Had they all been killed in the crash, or were more hiding? And if they were hiding, then why weren’t they helping at the crash site?
It didn’t make sense to remain, to stay in the clearing—not with a rescue vehicle ready to whisk them away. Cervante convinced himself that there were no others.
He walked toward the helicopter.
“Fox One, Fox One—are you there? Come in Fox One.”
Catman tried to stretch out his body in the F-15 cockpit, tried to relive the stiffness. The moon lit up the clouds below them.
Skipper had failed to raise the helicopter. Contact had been abruptly broken when the Black Hawk landed for the pickup.
Vice President Adleman was still down there, and Assassin had to be with him.
“Maddog, check coordinates loaded into the LANTIRN. Come in from the south, and GIBs,” Skipper was referring to the “Guys-in-the-Back” seat, “Sing out those checkpoints. It’ll be tricky, but if you stay on the coordinates, you’ll do fine. I don’t want us splashed out on some mountaintop. I’ll try to take out the HPM weapons on the first pass. Check in.”
“Two,” said Revlon.
Catman clicked his mike. “Three.”
“All right. One’s in hot. Off to the right.”
Catman looked out the cockpit canopy. A mile in front of him, Skipper’s F-15E banked to the right and disappeared into the clouds. Another minute and Catman would be doing the same—screaming in from thirty-seven thousand feet, popping out of the cloud layer at three hundred feet, and taking out a target he had never seen.
And the whole time, relying on Robin to keep him from pranging it into the ground.
All for the team.
Man, he felt stoked.
Now he realized why he could never quit the Air Force and fly for the airlines, even at twice the pay.
Cervante moved slowly through the jungle. Soon … soon!
Bruce slowly squeezed the trigger. Was it Cervante, that madman about whom Pompano had spoken so bitterly?
The shrieks of pain coming from the burning helicopter turned to sobs. There was only one voice. And whoever was moving toward the helicopter had to be going to finish off the survivor. As the person got closer to the helicopter, Bruce noticed the figure walking with a limp. Stocky, squat features … it reminded Bruce of … Pompano!
Bruce struggled to a sitting position. “Pompano— Pompano! It’s me—Bruce!”
Pompano swung around, bringing his rifle barrel around with him.
“Bruce?” A faint voice came from behind him. Bruce turned—Yolanda stepped uncertainly from the jungle. “Bruce—you were not on the helicopter?”
“Yolanda—no!” Pompano waved her back into the foliage.
“Bruce!”
“Yolanda!” Pompano crouched and started toward the jungle; he looked around. “It is too dangerous!”
“Father …” She spoke to Pompano, but looked at Bruce.
Pompano hissed, “Yolanda!”
A shot rang out. Pompano whirled and dropped his rifle. He clutched at his arm. “Yolanda, get down!” He fell to his knees. Another shot …
Bruce swung his M-16 up and fired into the jungle. Yolanda threw herself onto the ground. Bruce fired over her.
Bullets peppered the area around Bruce.
Bruce shot off a few more rounds, fanning the jungle. Popping another cartridge into the M-16, he waited. The sniper was still out there.
Another moan came from the helicopter. Bruce wasn’t more than twenty yards away, but the sniper would surely try to stop him. He wet his lips. “Yolanda.” His voice was hoarse. “Yolanda, don’t answer. Stay where you are—I’m going to help your father.”
Bruce crawled backward. He aimed the M-16 at the jungle, keeping cover on the sniper.
He gritted his teeth from the pain. Sweat trickled into his eyes, mixing with the grime and mud, causing him to blink. He wiped a hand across his face.
As he approached Pompano, the sobbing from the helicopter grew louder.
Bruce had to hurry. The sniper could take potshots at Bruce all day long unless Bruce drew him out of the jungle. That was the only way he would have a chance of stopping him.
Sweat ran down Barguyo’s face. Moments earlier, bullets, hurled from unseen gargoyles in the clouds, had peppered the area around him. The bullets had spat up globs of mud as they struck the ground. He heard screams from his fellow Huks as they were hit from the burning metal raining from the sky.
But now the clearing was still from bullets, quiet. Except for a growing whine of jet noise, descending from the clouds.
Barguyo pressed his thumb against the HPM firing button. He pushed his head against the throbbing metal capacitor bank and wished that the invisible electromagnetic waves would take out the rest of the American force.
How well it had worked! Bringing down the vice president’s plane, that helicopter in the field … If only the HPM weapon would hold out for this final onslaught of American attackers …
Barguyo drew in a breath and strained to keep the firing button depressed. The sound of an American fighter jet grew louder and louder. It must be making a run toward the plantat
ion. Barguyo pushed up from the control panel and tried to look through the clouds. Nothing. The sound increased. He wet his lips.
Cervante was nowhere to be seen. No other Huks were in sight. Had they deserted him? Had the remainder of the New People’s Army left the plantation to escape through the jungle? The thought sent a surge of fear though his body. Was he all alone, left here with the injured?
The memory of Cervante befriending him as a youngster raced through his mind. He had been all alone then, and Cervante had taken him in. Could he now stay here to repay the debt he owed him? Certainly Cervante was still around…?
A high-pitched whine caused Barguyo to jerk his head up. He tried to cry out, but his larynx couldn’t react fast enough to what he saw: A long, tubular missile was breaking through the clouds and racing straight for the HPM antenna. He couldn’t make out any of the missile’s features in the scant milliseconds left in his life. His final thoughts exploded in a mishmash of white light as the HPM weapon died with him.
Skipper watched the heads-up display, paying no attention to the swirling clouds outside the cockpit. As they drew closer, a popping sound grew in his earphones. The LANTIRN projected a rectangular target onto the display. The rectangle blinked furiously. Panther yammered in the backseat, “Pull up, pull up! We’re being jammed!”
Skipper kept on, oblivious of the warning. He focused on taking out the HPM weapon. He jabbed the bomb switch. “Maddog One, bombs away. Off to the right!”
A voice came instantly over the radio. “Maddog Two, in hot.”
Pop pop pop pop! As Skipper pulled back on the stick, the high-definition TV in the middle of the console exploded, sending glass flying into the heads-up display.
“Mayday, mayday!” Skipper still had hydraulics, but he couldn’t tell where he was going. Keep it cool, don’t panic! “Panther—what do you read?” She didn’t answer. “Panther? Panther?!” He flipped to the Guard frequency and fought to keep the fighter level, although without any instruments he couldn’t tell up from down. “Mayday, Mayday! Maddog One …”
A noise caught Bruce’s attention—a piercing whine that started to rocket up through the frequencies. Then a flash—and the plantation exploding in a fireball. A burst of flames rolled over the house, igniting the wood frame. The sound of a jet thundering overhead caused him to turn, but he couldn’t see anything in the clouds.
Seconds later there came the dull thud of something huge hitting the ground, ripping through the jungle—and the subsequent shock of an explosion. Bruce didn’t wait to guess what had happened, who in Maddog had just bought the farm.
He slowly positioned his body, then rolled to the helicopter. He tried to keep the plantation in view as a reference point as he rolled, around and round.…
Shots hit the mud around him. Bruce stopped rolling and swung his M-16 up.
The sniper stood at the edge of the clearing, aiming at Bruce.
Cervante brought up his rifle. Pompano, or the American? He knew that Pompano had the stamina to survive, but this American needed to be taken care of. He pulled off a round of shots.
Bruce squeezed the trigger as hard as he could, trying to coax more energy into the bullets. He fanned the area, spraying metal into the jungle.
A second bomb hit the plantation, shooting debris and burning wood high into the air. Bruce allowed the brilliant flames from the explosion to guide him as he covered the jungle with round after round of bullets. When his weapon ran out of ammunition, he quickly inserted another cartridge.
He brought the M-16 up.…
The first bullet ripped through Cervante, stunning him. It did not even hurt! He was a god, indestructible, able to accomplish anything he pleased.…
Seven other bullets spun him around, causing him to fling out his rifle. His vision blurred; acidic vomit crawled up his throat.
The last thing he saw was Yolanda’s body, her silhouette against the burning plantation house.…
By the light of the fire Bruce could make out a figure sprawled face down in the mud, just inside the clearing. A rifle lay by his side.
The sound of moaning caught Bruce’s attention. He dragged his M-16, but as he approached the helicopter set the rifle down. “Mr. Adleman? Gould … Head?”
No answer. He had to get in.
Bruce pushed up and tried to straighten. Flames still flickered inside the Black Hawk. He could use the helicopter’s structure to support himself when he entered. He had started to hop in when Pompano’s voice stopped him.
“Bruce.”
Bruce turned. Pompano’s face was bloodied and his left arm hung limp by his side. But in his right hand he held the pistol given to him by the First Special Operations Squadron—the thirty-eight with a silencer.
Pompano motioned with the gun. “Bruce … leave your vice president alone.”
“What?”
“Move away.”
Bruce reached out and placed a hand on the Black Hawk’s fuselage. It was not hot to the touch, so he supported himself. “Pompano … we’re through.…”
The roar of a jet rolled over the clearing. A volley of bullets from the strafing fighter’s cannon tore into the house and jungle, taking out the rest of the vehicles that had been untouched. The jet engines echoed throughout the area, finally dying with deep reverberations.
Bruce glanced at the chopper. “Pompano—the helicopter will explode! We’ve got to get him out of here!” Pompano simply clicked back the trigger. “Pompano! For God’s sake, why? After all this … why?!”
The Filipino spoke softly. “I only went with you to save my daughter. She is safe.”
“But the vice president!”
“No—he is your President now. And what do you think your Chief Executive will do about the Philippines when he takes office? Be kind to them and pull your bases out, because he was mistreated?” Pompano shook his head. “I assure you, if Adleman lives, the bases will stay. This whole event will only convince him of the necessity of keeping an American presence.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Why did you help rescue him?”
“I have already told you—to save my daughter.” Pompano’s eyes grew misty.
“But to let Adleman die …”
“… would surely convince most Americans, your public, that the Philippines are not worth their while, not worth the billions they are spending here. For if your President is not safe here, then no other American would be safe.”
Bruce stared. He drew in a breath. “I can’t allow you—”
Pompano motioned with his head. “Move away from the helicopter.”
Yolanda’s voice interrupted them. “Father.”
Pompano kept the pistol trained on Bruce. “Yolanda—get back.”
“No, Father.” Bruce swung his eyes to where she stood. She held a rifle, the one the sniper had used, and it was pointed at Pompano. Her father. “Father—don’t make me use this.”
“Yolanda—you do not know what you are doing!”
“Yes I do. Leave Bruce alone.”
Pompano hesitated. “Little one … Think of the future of your land, your people.”
“I am, Father. This … this is a different world now. We cannot go back to the old ways. I have seen this vice president suffer. He tried to make them stop using me. My people raped me … not the Americans.”
Pompano took a step backward. “Yolanda, little one. You don’t know what this will do to us. The chance this gives us …”
“Put down the gun, Father.”
“I cannot … This is my life.”
Yolanda’s voice wavered. “Father?”
They stared at each other. Bruce tested his leg. If he’d been in better shape he’d have leapt at the old man, tried to take away the gun.
Pompano whispered. “I can’t, Yolanda.” He turned back to Bruce and raised the gun slightly.
Yolanda screamed. “No!” Her rifle wavered.
Bruce leaned to the left, onto his good leg.…
He
fell to the ground and rolled to the side, away from the helicopter. Three shots rang out. A bullet tore into Bruce’s arm. It felt like someone had taken a hot needle and jabbed it straight through his flesh. Another bullet whizzed by his head, spraying mud.
He grabbed his arm and rolled over, expecting to be finished off.
Nothing.
Bruce peered up. Yolanda stood with her hands over her mouth. Pompano grimaced. Bent over, he gripped his leg where Yolanda had shot him.
Bruce started to push up. Yow! Between the arm and his right ankle, he was falling apart.
He hobbled into the helicopter, stepping over the bottom edge of the hatch.
Peering around the edge of the cockpit, he saw Gould and Head strapped into their seats, night-vision goggles in place. A line of blood ran from Head’s mouth.
A moan came from the back.
Bruce tried pulling himself into the craft, but couldn’t make it with one arm. He hopped around to the back and looked inside.…
Crumpled up against the corner, one of the gunners and Vice President Adleman were pushed under the troop seat that ran down the length of the back. Bruce reached in and grabbed Adleman’s arm. The vice president groaned.
It took Yolanda’s help, but ten minutes later, Gould and Adleman were lying at the edge of the jungle. Bruce pulled Pompano away from the others. All three were still alive.
They left Captain Head’s, Zaz’s, and the two gunners’ bodies by the helicopter.
Bruce held Yolanda with his left arm. They sat, quietly watching the Black Hawk burn. They had sat for only a few moments before the helicopter exploded, sending a thick fireball rolling up into the air.
A minute later, a fleet of eight HH-3 Jolly Green Giants swooped down into the clearing. A cadre of Navy SEALs thundered out of the helicopters and fanned out into the clearing.
They found Bruce and Yolanda sitting mute and holding hands.
***
Postlude
0225 Monday, 3 December
En-route to Travis AFB, CA