Outsourced

by R. J. Hillhouse

  “Marhaba,” a voice said as someone fumbled with the padlock on the shed door.

  She immediately sat down and leaned against the wall and drew her legs up close to her body. It was time to paint the picture of a compliant, fearful female. The Muslim fundamentalists had such a low opinion of women, she was determined to give them what they wanted.

  Fresh air rushed inside as the door opened.

  “Stay against back wall, please,” a young man said in heavily accented English as he set a large bucket full of water inside the shed. A guard stood outside the door with an AK pointing in at her.

  “Don’t hurt me,” Camille said, making her voice crack as if she had been crying.

  “Water to clean. Prepare yourself.” He tossed Camille a light gray jilbab and a head scarf.

  “Prepare myself for what?”

  “Tonight—marriage. The mut’a, insh’allah.”

  Camille wanted to laugh and toss the clothes back into his face, but instead she said, “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Tonight, you marry or you die.”

  “No!” She pretended to cry and raised her bound wrists in front of her face and put her hands together as if praying. “I don’t want to die. Help me, please.”

  He looked away.

  “Who is the groom?” Camille said.

  “Al-Zahrani, may peace and blessings of Allah be upon him,” the messenger said as he closed the door.

  “And may al-Zahrani fuck off and die,” Camille whispered as she got back on her hands and knees and continued her search for more nails.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  39° 45' 10.02 N, 65° 09' 15.12 E (Uzbekistan)

  Three hours into the operation, Hunter was still awake, unable to snooze like he usually did during insertions, and his body had grown stiff and achy. The seats were nylon stretched over an aluminum frame and they were only marginally better than the alternative, which was the metal floor. More than once he’d sat on the floor for entire missions when the seats had been removed so more troops could be crammed inside. Usually the troop doors of the helicopter were also removed for easy access, but given the sandstorm that they had already gone through, he was happy Iggy had decided against it, probably to reduce drag and conserve fuel. Hunter stretched as much as he could, but with Iggy and GENGHIS sandwiching him, he could move only enough to keep some circulation going in his lymph systems so his muscles didn’t get worse. At least his legs had room to stretch out toward the pilots.

  The only light in the Pave Hawk was the glow from the partial glass cockpit. Hunter watched the line of the color weather radar sweep the area, then glanced over to the Doppler navigation system and the LCD map of their location. The Pave Hawk was an older model that seemed to have been retrofitted with the latest in glass cockpit avionics.

  An orange light to the left of the pilot flickered, indicating a warning light had gone off. Hunter turned his head to read the caution message on the middle display, but before he could see what the problem was about, it went off. He prayed it was an anomaly. They were pushing the equipment to its limits because Stella couldn’t wait. Right after the sandstorm one of the Cobras had had to turn back because of fluctuating turbine gas tempature. They didn’t need any more problems that might force them back. Iggy had established liberal go/no parameters of one Hawk and one Cobra, but Hunter had his own: as long as one bird would stay in the air long enough to get him within walking distance, it was a green light. Hell, as long as he was still breathing, it was a go.

  Beach Dog’s ass was numb and his mind wasn’t far behind. Extended range missions had a way of grinding him down with boredom. Top Guns who retired to long hauls in civilian aircraft must go out of their minds, he thought as he relieved himself in his pee bag.

  As usual with a black mission, radio contact was minimal. Today the Pave Hawks were using the calls signs JACKAL ONE and TWO and the remaining Super Cobra was DRAGON ONE. He laughed when he heard that the MC-130’s designation was COWBIRD. Those gas station attendants either had a self-image problem or they didn’t get what the game was all about.

  Finally they were approaching the point STARLIGHT and some action. He knew it was too early to start searching for the tanker, but he couldn’t help but watch the radar screen as if it were a video game. Any minute the race with his wingman would begin to see who would be the first one to make radar contact with the tanker.

  The radar swept around and around on the screen. He saw a blip, then it faded. A few sweeps later, it reappeared. He was trying to get a fix on it when he heard the voice of the second Pave Hawk’s pilot. “JACKAL TWO, contact five right for forty, beaming south at 120 knots.”

  “Damn,” Beach Dog whispered to himself. The first round of drinks after the mission was completed was now on him. He confirmed that the MC-130 was five degrees to their right at a range of forty nautical miles. “Contact,” Beach Dog said over the radio.

  “JACKAL ONE is channel 50, looking for gas,” Beach Dog said.

  “JACKAL ONE, COWBIRD is holding at STARLIGHT, three thousand feet.”

  Beach Dog picked him up on the situation display. He punched the data into the flight computer and it confirmed his rendezvous heading. Pulling up on the collective, he pushed the Pave Hawk to match the plane’s airspeed and worked the cyclic so that the helicopter began to climb up to meet the MC-130. He searched the dark skies for the turboprop aircraft. He had lost the beer in the first bet, but he could still win the second round of drinks from his wingman if he could be the first now to make visual contact.

  Several minutes passed and he couldn’t spot it, although the radar told him he was getting close. He hated to roll over and ask for an assist, but he squeezed his mike and did it anyway. “COWBIRD, JACKAL ONE. No joy. Request Christmas tree.”

  A flash of red and green caught Beach Dog’s eye as the Combat Talon briefly turned on its exterior lights. “Tally the tanker, one-thirty, high, seven miles,” Beach Dog said to his copilot as he spotted it. He leveled his helo out at two thousand feet, a thousand feet below the tanker and a mere three hundred above the highest terrain. Keying the mike, he said, “COWBIRD, JACKAL ONE, you’re seven-thirty, low for seven.”

  JACKAL TWO also called in its position relative to the tanker, indicating that it was also below it and seven nautical miles away.

  “JACKAL FLIGHT, you are also cleared into the right observation position,” the commander of the tanker said, giving permission for both helicopters to approach.

  Beach Dog climbed five hundred feet above the tanker and positioned himself a thousand feet abeam its wing line so that the MC-130’s commander could see him. Then he heard, “JACKAL FLIGHT. COWBIRD has a tally. Cleared into the stabilized position, left hose. Check nose is cold, switches safe.”

  Beach Dog turned off his radar and glanced at the panel to confirm that all weapons switches were off. “COWBIRD, JACKAL ONE’s nose cold, switches safe.”

  “COWBIRD, JACKAL TWO’s nose is cold, switches safe,” the second Pave Hawk pilot said.

  “JACKAL FLIGHT ready,” Beach Dog said as he had hundreds of times before.

  “Cleared to plug,” the MC-130 commander said as he banked the aircraft into a tight circle with the helos on the inside so that they could close on the tanker using their smaller turn radius since they didn’t have excess speed to narrow the gap.

  Beach Dog and his wingman were about to pull within feet of the airplane, out of sight of its commander who was relying upon intercom reports from observers watching from the aft side doors. The slightest error could cause a collision in the pitch black night.

  Pucker time.

  Beach Dog lived for these moments.

  Holding his breath, he studied the small yellow light on the pod hydraulic system. It was ready to plug and play. He tapped the controls, coaxing a little more speed out of the craft.

  “Forward three, down two,” the commander said as Beach Dog moved toward the basket at the end of t
he long invisible hose trailing from the aircraft. He fought the airplane’s wake as he stabilized the helicopter just below and behind the tanker. The basket was at his one o’clock. He caressed the controls and flew the fixed probe on the front of the Pave Hawk into the basket. It mated and the gas pump started.

  Now Beach Dog had to keep it steady for the next seven or eight minutes. At least the air was smooth tonight. This was his most vulnerable time and he trusted the Cobra was somewhere out there, covering his back. He lowered his seat and ducked down so he could keep an eye on the green refueling light. The world faded away as he focused on the slow dance with the tanker. As much as he wanted to use his feet, he forced himself not to touch the pedals and risk overcompensating. When necessary, he lightly tapped the controls, adjusting his position.

  Several minutes later, the red light came on and the transfer was complete. He reduced power and drifted aft for disengagement from the basket and to position the helo on the outer edge of the airplane’s wake.

  Time for the Beach Dog to surf the wave.

  Banzai!

  Expecting to come free of the aircraft, he felt a small vibration, then a tug, so he looked outside. The Pave Hawk was still connected to the tanker. Working the controls, he tried to gently move away from the basket. The MC-130’s take-up reel was supposed to retract the hose. Nothing happened. They were stuck together in midair. The basket needed a little more convincing to let go. He cut back on the throttle and lifted the nose higher to cause drag to slow down his helo so the damn hose was jerked away by the faster plane.

  He felt a jolt. The helicopter shuddered and he saw the guide lights under the plane move away. The Hawk yawed to the right, then dropped. Something smacked the windshield with a loud clap and he jumped. It whacked again and again.

  Beach Dog worked the controls as if they were an extension of his own body. The Pave Hawk stabilized, but something kept whipping the helo, pounding the glass like an out of control dominatrix.

  The hose.

  With each whack, Beach Dog was sure the window was going to give and send daggers into them. As the helicopter was thrown around and beaten, he suddenly pictured the steel hose flipping into the path of the rotors. If that happened, that would be it. The forward motion had to stop fast. His airspeed was still over one hundred knots. He shoved down the collective and tipped the nose right up to the edge, daring the craft to flip while he used the airframe to brake. His stomach did a somersault, but the Hawk slowed and the thumping stopped. A caution light flashed on the console to his left. He glanced at the center panel and a gearbox chip light winked at him. The controls were responsive, but the light was now glowing steadily. The detector screened for ferrous particles in the system and if it was telling the truth, the tail rotor’s gearbox was chewing itself up.

  “JACKAL ONE, declaring an emergency and setting down.”

  Beach Dog slowly looked around below him for suitable landing terrain.

  Iggy grabbed the extra headset and gave orders as they were losing altitude. That guy was a true operator, never giving up, giving orders even when Beach Dog wasn’t completely sure they were going to make it.

  “JACKAL TWO this is TIN MAN. Activate bump plan. DRAGON ONE, hold position and stand by.”

  The helicopter descended straight down. Hunter had thought Beach Dog had it back under control, but they were going straight down so fast, he wasn’t sure anymore. Suddenly, the descent slowed and a few seconds later it kissed the ground. Everyone clapped and whistled and Beach Dog reached over and petted his lucky cat attached to the dash.

  “Sierra Hotel,” Hunter congratulated him with insider lingo for shit hot.

  Hunter and GENGHIS made eye contact with each other and GENGHIS shook his head, closing his eyes as he said, “Dodged another one. You know my big fear is I’m not going to go in combat. I just know it’s going to be some dumb-ass accident like this because somebody packed the fucking apricots and ate the goddamn Charms.”

  Hunter smiled. He had never really believed the old WWII myth among mechanized infantry that every time a tank had been blown up, it had been found to have had a can of apricots inside. He told himself that the modern version about the Charms candy was equally untrue and it couldn’t possibly have been the cause of the difficulties earlier. Urban combat legend or not, he wasn’t about to admit that when he’d downed a MRE in Bagram, he did eat a handful of Charms before he realized what he had done. Bad juju was not something he wanted to mess with.

  Everyone sat inside the helo waiting for the dust and sand to settle before getting out. The second Pave Hawk would be there any minute and they would swap aircraft according to Iggy’s bump plan. If this helo could be fixed, it would follow with the second chalk as soon as it was airworthy. The delay shouldn’t cost them more than five minutes, Hunter told himself while he tried not to think about how they were down to one Hawk, one Cobra and one team. Thinking about how bad things were could only jinx them further.

  At least the weather was good, Hunter was thinking, when he saw a bright flash of white lightning, then a firestorm of arching electricity. A blue fireball ballooned about thirty meters away from them in the air, to their three o’clock, then he felt their Pave Hawk shake as the blast wave passed through them.

  Oh god. JACKAL TWO. Power lines.

  An electrical line had snagged another bird.

  The helo smacked into the ground and an orange fireball shot a hundred feet into the air, turning night into day. Within seconds, ammunition started to cook off and began popping and shooting out in all directions. Bullets rained on them, pinging against their Hawk while rockets screamed overhead, flames streaming behind them as they launched themselves from the crashed Hawk. Damn Charms.

  Hunter ducked, then felt stupid for doing it.

  A few moments later, more rocket trails spewed wildly as their motors detonated. Hunter felt for the seven men aboard, then he realized he had just witnessed the rescue mission going up in flames.

  Stella.

  “Beach Dog,” Iggy said as he released the safety restraints. “You think you can pry that cage off the fuel intake?”

  “NSDQ.”

  “Night Stalkers don’t quit, I know—but did the Hawk quit us?”

  “The coupling didn’t disengage. We were stuck to the end of the fuel hose until the hose finally broke. Without the fuel and air pressure to hold the basket on, you should be able to pull it straight off—don’t even need a hammer.” Beach Dog was already pulling out a toolkit.

  “So what’s that for? Something you failed to tell me?”

  “The gearbox chip light came on.”

  “Serious?”

  “Could ground us. You get a lot of false readings in desert conditions, but it can also mean the tail rotor’s gearbox is ready to go. I need to check it out.”

  “Do that first. I need to know if she’s airworthy.” Iggy turned to the rest of the crew. “Wilson, get that piece of crap off the probe. Monroe, Ashland, secure the perimeter. Stone, GENGHIS, check if anyone was thrown clear. Look out for the electrical wires and the unexploded ordnance that’s still cooking off.”

  “If the aircraft checks out, is the mission a go, sir?” Hunter said, fully aware they were dancing on the edge of the go/no go parameters. He felt to make sure his sidearm was still in place.

  “If there are survivors, we have to scrub and work out something else for tomorrow night.” Iggy shook his head. “This is going to hell fast and I can’t leave men here to die.”

  “Then call in the Cobra, bump the gunner and let me take the front seat. You can insert me tonight and I’ll gather intel for a second shot tomorrow night. You know Stella might not have until then. Hell, she might not have until morning.”

  Iggy ignored him as he put his hand on the fuel probe. The metal arm extended from the right front of the helicopter and was half the length of the crew cabin, but didn’t go out as far as the rotors. The tip was mated with the metal basket and a couple meters of hose d
angled from its end. Most of the rubber sheath had been stripped away from the steel hose.

  Hunter stood staring at Iggy, waiting for a response. Iggy looked up at him.

  “You go in there, Rambo, without support, you’ll get yourself and Cam killed. I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to get her.”

  “Sending me in tonight might be her only hope.”

  “We’re not there yet.” Iggy reached for the metal basket and tugged. It slid off. He threw it as far into the desert as he could, then a transmission from the Cobra came over the headsets.

  “TIN MAN this is DRAGON ONE. Be advised we are at joker.”

  The Cobra had reached the fuel state where it needed to start thinking about getting onto the ground so the Hawk could refuel it. The Cobras were killer machines, but they had one critical flaw: they couldn’t refuel in the air.

  The burning wreckage continued to send out sporadic rocket fire and bullets. Iggy wanted to wait as long as he could to let the fireworks die down before bringing the Cobra in. They would have to stay in the air until their fuel situation reached critical—bingo. At that moment it didn’t look like the mission would proceed and there was no need to risk another bird if he didn’t have to. He keyed his mike, “DRAGON ONE, TIN MAN. Land at bingo. Caution high-voltage lines.”

  The Pave Hawk lay on its side, its tail rotor broken off. Hunter could see bodies burning inside the airframe and he could feel the heat increasing. He and GENGHIS walked around it, giving it a wide berth due to the popping ordnance. The fire crackled with gunshots as bullets aboard the downed craft heated up, but the electric lines troubled him more. When they were near the line, both he and GENGHIS shuffled along, keeping their feet close together and in contact with the ground at all times to avoid electricity arcing through them. The flames were so bright they made his night vision goggles useless.