by Karen Foley
As they approached the FOB, Chance could see the dense sandstorm hadn’t yet reached this region. They’d been flying with low visibility for the past thirty of forty miles, ahead of the storm front. While the air here was tinged with an orange hue from the storm, they could still see the surrounding landscape, although he suspected that would change as the day progressed and the front drew closer.
Now the FOB came into view several miles ahead of them, bordered by low hills and jutting rocks. Chance scanned the area, alert for any signs of trouble. Sangin was notorious for being one of the most dangerous spots in Afghanistan. In the Black Hawk, the door gunner sat with his rifle poised, ready to respond if a threat was detected. Although the tac ops officer had assured them that the transport of the high-value package had been kept under tight wraps, there was always a possibility that information had leaked out to the local tribal leaders. Numerous local nationals worked on the American bases in Afghanistan, and although the U.S. did background checks on each of them, history had proven that not all were trustworthy. Over his headphones, he heard the Black Hawk pilot, Captain “Mongo” McLaughlin, contact the FOB.
“Sangin Ground, Alpha-Three-One-Six-Zero-Foxtrot, four miles out, north by northeast, with two Apache escorts. ETA is five minutes. Over.”
“Sangin Ground to Alpha-Three-One-Six-Zero-Foxtrot, ETA acknowledged. Use south ramp. Over.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Chance saw a bright flash on the ground, coming somewhere from the rocky hills to their left. A white plume arced into the sky, headed directly toward them.
“Incoming SAM at nine o’clock—deploy countermeasures!” he barked into his headset.
Immediately, the air was filled with a brilliant burst of light as each aircraft launched its diversionary flares. Chance watched as the surface-to-air missile turned, moving fast, and expended itself on contact with one of the flares. The resulting explosion was close enough that the shock waves buffeted the helicopter.
“That was just a little too close,” muttered Fishhead, peering through the windshield. “Where the hell did it come from?”
“Let’s go in for a closer look,” Chance suggested. Even as he said the words, a burst of gunfire exploded from the ground beneath them. “Taking fire, breaking right!”
“Where is it? Where is it?” This came from his wingman, Captain Tony “Teacup” Fuller, the pilot of the second Apache. They’d been roommates during flight school and had been stationed in the same unit together. They’d flown more missions together than Chance could keep track of, and there wasn’t another pilot he’d trust more than Teacup. Through their years of flying together, they’d reached a level of communication where each knew what the other was thinking without any words spoken.
Now, across the airspace that separated them, Chance could see Teacup craning his head to look through the lower chin windows, before turning his aircraft in the direction of the attack.
“Nine o’clock, nine o’clock!” said Chance, but Fishhead was already pounding the hillside with a steady stream of fire from the 30 mm automatic cannon mounted beneath the fuselage.
“Mongo, complete delivery of package to Sangin. Over,” Chance instructed the Black Hawk. Right now, their only mission was to ensure the safe delivery of the cleric. He watched as the Black Hawk and the second Apache wheeled away from the gunfire. Chance pushed forward on the collective, angling his own aircraft into a steep descent as he grimly surveyed the landscape beneath them.
“I see the bastards,” Fishhead muttered, and gestured toward an outcropping of rock. As they swept overhead, Chance saw an ancient, covered truck. They were close enough to make out a group of men, dressed in local garb, pulling weapons out of the back. Without hesitating, Fishhead raked the area with gunfire. Several of the men fell, while others scrambled for cover on the rocky ground. Chance hovered over the site for an instant so he could get a fix on the truck. With a press of his finger, he deployed a Hellfire missile and watched in satisfaction as the entire area was obliterated.
A flash of light to his left caught his attention, and he looked in time to see two men with a shoulder launched missile taking aim at the other helicopters. The men had managed to scramble to a high vantage point several hundred feet from the site of the blast, and were in a perfect position to fire their weapon.
“Live MANPAD!” he shouted. “Incoming!” He depressed a button that launched a second Hellfire missile. In an instant, the spot where the two men had been standing was engulfed in a massive explosion, but not before the missile had been launched, screaming through the air directly toward the other two helicopters.
“Mongo, incoming! Deploy countermeasures!” Fishhead shouted into his headset.
Chance watched as the Apache released another round of diversionary flares, but even he could see the Black Hawk was flying too close.
“Mongo, pull up, pull up!” he shouted, and watched as the rocket exploded perilously close to the big helicopter. In that instant, he realized it could easily have been Jenna piloting that Black Hawk. Just the thought of her in this kind of danger made his stomach drop. Would she have been able to handle a combat situation? As a transport pilot, she’d probably never seen any hostile action, and although he knew she’d been upset about not being selected for this particular mission, he was thankful as hell that she was back at Kabul, where she was safe.
He watched in helpless astonishment now as debris from the missile exploded outward, striking the tail rotor of the Black Hawk and causing it to go into a dangerous spin. Their altitude was still high enough that unless McLaughlin regained control of the helicopter, the resulting crash would likely kill all souls aboard.
The Black Hawk yawed hard to the right and began to plummet downward, still spinning crazily. Without the tail rotor, the only thing McLaughlin could do was to try to keep the bird level. He might have a chance if he hit the ground on his wheels. The worst-case scenario would be if he tipped sideways and hit with his rotors. The force could tear the helicopter apart and spark an explosion.
“Sangin Ground, Alpha-Three-One-Six-Zero-Foxtrot, we have a Fallen Angel. Repeat, we have a Fallen Angel.” He bit out the term used to signify a downed aircraft. “Request immediate ground support and medics. The area has been secured, over.”
Even as he finished speaking, the Black Hawk hit the ground with a hard thud and, still spinning crazily, tipped forward, its rotors digging into the ground with enough force to send up a spray of dust and debris. The helicopter tipped onto its side and Chance saw the door gunner fall out and land on all fours, then pick himself up and scramble for safety, scant inches ahead of the deadly rotors. The helicopter careened wildly in a circle, sending chunks of rock and dirt flying into the air. Finally, it came to an abrupt stop, and Chance watched the gunner make his way back toward the wreckage.
“Alpha, I’m going down to lend assistance. Over.” The radio transmission came from Teacup as he hovered over the crash site.
“Roger that, Teacup,” Chance replied.
“Got you covered,” Fishhead assured the other pilot.
They circled the area as the second Apache landed on the ground near the crash site, and Chance watched as the copilot climbed out of the cockpit and ran over to the wreckage. He kept an eye on the rescue mission, periodically searching the surrounding hills for any sign of further insurgency, but everything was quiet. Only the smoking ruins of the pickup truck and some burning brush gave any indication of the firefight. Below them, a convoy of armored vehicles left the forward operating base and made a beeline toward the downed Black Hawk, traveling fast.
Chance and Fishhead maintained a circular flight path around the wreckage site, alert to any signs of attack, until all of the crash victims had been extracted from the Black Hawk and loaded into the ground vehicles. Chance had no idea how serious the injuries were or if there had been any casualties, and that information would not be relayed over the radio, just in case their transmissions were being monitored.
> Finally, the convoy of vehicles circled back toward the base and the second Apache lifted from the ground. The pilot gave Chance a thumbs-up, indicating there had been no fatalities, and they both flew in close formation over the convoy until it was safely behind the security perimeter of the base. Only after he and Teacup had performed one last check of the surrounding hills did they finally bring the birds in for a landing. Whether or not the military would retrieve the remains of the Black Hawk or destroy the aircraft altogether depended on the severity of damage sustained.
Once they had landed, a team of maintenance technicians descended on the Apaches to perform inspections and repairs. Chance walked over to where Teacup was talking with his copilot. He turned as Chance approached and extended his hand.
“That was some nice flying, T-Rex. And some damn nice shooting.”
“Thanks. Did the package get delivered safely?”
Teacup nodded. “A few bumps and scratches, but otherwise okay. McLaughlin busted his arm and shoulder when the chopper tipped over, and his gunner is one lucky son of a bitch. If he was two seconds slower, he’d be toast. Sliced thin.”
More than ever, Chance was glad that Jenna hadn’t been part of this particular mission. If that had been her chopper that had taken the hit, or if she or one of her crew members had been injured… He knew men who’d quit flying for less. He glanced at his watch, anxious to be back in the air and on his return to Kabul. To Jenna. “Let’s get the debrief over, so we can get back to Kabul.”
“You actually think we’re heading back there today?” Teacup’s voice registered disbelief.
“Sure, why not? This should be an easy debrief. We were attacked and we responded to the threat.” But even as he spoke the words, he knew he was kidding himself.
The other man’s eyebrows went up. “I wish I could be that optimistic. We have a dozen or more dead insurgents, an injured pilot and crew, not to mention the other passengers on board, and an MH-60 that’s badly damaged or a hunk of scrap metal.” He made a scoffing sound. “This will cause a shit storm of paperwork and meetings. I wouldn’t plan on going anywhere for at least a couple of days.”
Teacup was right. Whenever there was a loss of life or aircraft, the resulting investigation could last for days, sometimes weeks. The forward operating base would want to send a team out to the hillside to inspect the area to try to determine who the insurgents were and if a threat still existed. Then there would be the endless debriefings and analysis of what had gone wrong and why they had failed to detect the threat earlier. The top brass would make every attempt to get him back into the air as quickly as possible, but it couldn’t be soon enough for Chance.
He wanted to howl with frustration.
He’d promised Jenna that he would back at Kabul that night. If he was stuck at Sangin for the next couple of days, she would definitely be gone by the time he returned. No sandstorm lasted that long, and eventually her own command would insist upon her return. In fact, his own unit would feel the pinch of having two less Apaches at their disposal.
“Okay,” he muttered, “let’s get this done.”
* * *
NIGHTFALL CAME QUICKLY in the desert, and even without the sandstorm, the darkness was nearly impenetrable. Jenna sat on her bed, propped up against her pillow and duffel bag, reading by a small light. But the words danced on the page and she couldn’t focus on the narrative. She glanced at her wristwatch. Nearly seven o’clock, and still no sign of Chance. The team had departed ten hours ago; where the hell was he? He should have been back by now. Or maybe he’d returned and had decided not to come and see her. Either way, her insides were a jumble of nerves.
“Why don’t you just go over to the operations shack and find out if they’ve returned,” Laura suggested. “You’ve been sitting there, sighing and fidgeting, for over an hour, and quite frankly, it’s driving me nuts.”
Looking up, Jenna saw the other woman watching her. Their door gunner lounged on one of the bunks behind them, listening to music on her iPod, oblivious to their conversation. Giving up any pretense of reading, Jenna set the book aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, blowing out a hard breath. “I just have a bad feeling. What if something happened to him?”
Laura frowned. “What could happen? The guy’s flying an Apache. He’s virtually indestructible.”
“What if the sandstorm caused a mechanical failure?”
“Just go over and find out, would you?”
At that moment, the door was flung open and Sergeant Melissa Robbins, their crew chief, stumbled inside. She closed the door behind her and then leaned against it, gasping for breath, her eyes wide behind her goggles. Seeing the expression on the other woman’s face caused alarm to leap in Jenna’s chest.
“What is it?” Her voice came out sharper than she intended.
“McLaughlin’s chopper went down,” the sergeant blurted. “Just outside Sangin. They were ambushed.”
Someone gasped, and Jenna realized it was her. For just an instant, a wave of dizziness washed over her and her heartbeat thudded loud and insistent in her ears. It took a moment before she identified the sound as someone banging loudly on the door of the containerized housing unit. Galvanized into action, Jenna stood up and pulled the door open.
Chance stood there, a bandana covering his lower face and his eyes grim behind a pair of goggles. Relief caused her knees to go a little unsteady, and only the knowledge that the other women in the CHU were watching kept her from throwing herself into his arms.
“Can I come in?”
Jenna stepped back, opening the door wider, her gaze devouring him. She was only vaguely aware of her crew scrambling to their feet as they recognized the gold oak leaf on his uniform, signifying his rank as a major. Something wasn’t right, though, and even as Jenna took in the special forces insignia on his sleeve, he removed his goggles and dragged the bandana away from his face, revealing a heavy growth of beard.
Chase!
Jenna gaped at Chance’s twin brother, her stomach fisting in renewed fear.
“Chance is fine,” he said without preamble, accurately reading her expression. “But they came under heavy fire just outside of Sangin. The MH-60 went down and McLaughlin was injured.”
Relief at hearing Chance was okay drained the remaining strength out of Jenna’s legs and she sat down heavily on the edge of her bunk. At least it wasn’t Chance who’d been injured. Immediately, guilt washed over her at the unbidden thought. She might not like McLaughlin overly much, but she’d never wish him any harm. At the end of the day, he was still one of the good guys.
“Is McLaughlin going to be okay?”
“He’s busted up some, but he’ll live. They medevaced him to a coalition hospital at Kandahar and he’ll be airlifted to Landstuhl in the morning. His aircraft won’t be flying any more missions for a while, though.”
Jenna gaped at him in horror. If McLaughlin was being airlifted to Landstuhl Hospital in Germany, then his injuries must be fairly serious. “What happened to him?”
“He’ll need surgery on his shoulder and he sustained some internal injuries, but his prognosis for a full recovery is excellent. He’ll be back in the air within six months, if not sooner.” He looked at the female crew, who still stood behind her, listening, before his attention flicked back to her. “I came to tell you to head over to the operations shack. They need you to fly out to Sangin and pick up the rest of McLaughlin’s crew and return them to Kandahar.”
“Tonight?” Jenna couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.
“No, first thing in the morning. The worst of the storm will have passed, although you’ll be flying with poor visibility until the dust settles. Literally.”
“Okay, I’ll just grab my gear and head over.”
“I’ll wait.”
Surprised, Jenna looked at him. “You don’t need to do that. I can find my way.”
“I’m sure you can, but I’m heading that way myself, so we may as well go tog
ether.” His tone was polite but firm, and in that instant Jenna could see that his resemblance to Chance went more than skin deep.
“Okay, then,” she murmured, and turned away to pull on her BDU jacket and grab her hat from the peg where it hung alongside her weapon. When Laura began grabbing her own gear, Jenna paused to give the other woman a questioning look.
“What?” Laura demanded. “You don’t think you get to do this all by yourself, do you? I’m the copilot, so I’m going with you. That way I get to hear the report first hand and you don’t need to repeat yourself.”
Jenna gave her friend a brief smile, grateful for her support. “Thanks.”
Outside, she was surprised to see a military vehicle waiting for them. An orange rotating light mounted on the roof cut through the thick, dark air. She slanted a speculative glance at Chase. He opened the door and hustled them in, before climbing in beside them.
“How’d you manage this?” she asked, removing her goggles. The flight ops shack was within walking distance of the housing area, and during brownout conditions, only emergency vehicles patrolled the streets of Kabul.
Chase shrugged and gave her a wry grin. “I have a few connections.”
Jenna suspected that was an understatement. As an elite special forces commando, he probably had all kinds of connections. She was still struck by how much he looked like Chance, but despite the fact he was a gorgeous guy, she didn’t feel the same tug of awareness that she did with his brother. In fact, she couldn’t believe she’d thought he was Chance when she’d first seen him standing on her doorstep. Her only excuse was that he’d been wearing his goggles and bandana; had she been able to see his eyes clearly, she’d never have made that mistake.
Within minutes, they arrived at the operations shack, and Jenna saw the lights were still on in the briefing room. Now that she understood what was required of her, she was anxious to depart. She didn’t want to wait until morning, but she knew the tac ops commander wouldn’t allow her to fly at night during a sandstorm, no matter how experienced she might be.