Shattered Bone

by Chris Stewart

  By mid-afternoon, everything was in place. The pilots and pararescue specialists, or “PJs” as they were called, paced around their helicopters, snapping insults and jokes at each other, checking their gear, and watching the sun as it faded in the hazy sky. As the sun set over the blue-green waters of the Marmara Sea, one of the Pavehawks spun up her engines and took to the air.

  Four hours later, the helicopter had finished air refueling and was speeding to the north, flying just five feet over the water. Approaching the Ukrainian coast, it pulled up to cross over a wall of white rock, barely clearing the crest of the pale granite cliffs, then dropped toward the trees on the other side. Its blades slapped the air as it pounded along. Two gunners stood at each of the side doorways, their 7.62 caliber mini-guns set on the maximum rate-of-fire of 4,000 shells per minute. Between the aft bulkheads, three PJs hunkered down in their seats and inventoried their rescue and medical equipment once again.

  The helo was fighting a buffeting headwind from a bitter cold front that had moved down from the Arctic Ocean. The temperature was below freezing and dropping very quickly as they flew further north. The survivor was another 300 miles up ahead. He had been down for almost twenty-four hours. He wouldn’t live another night on his own.

  The night was pitch black. As dark as a cave. The pilots were using their night-vision goggles to see. The world appeared ghostly green as they peered through their goggles, but still they had no problem making out the trees, rivers, and valleys as they sped along. The helicopter remained very low, pulling up only to clear high-tension power lines and an occasional long row of trees. The pilots steered the helicopter through the valleys, staying clear of even the smallest towns. They made their way to the north, undetected by anyone except an occasional Ukrainian farmer who stopped and wondered at the noise in the night.

  Ninety minutes later, the copilot heard the first tiny warble of the downed pilot’s emergency locator beacon. The Pavehawk’s internal computer also picked up on the beam and commanded a three degree change of heading to the right. It also updated the distance to the survivor. Only thirty-eight miles to go.

  The satellite communications radio started to chatter, rattling out a deciphered code onto a three-inch-wide strip of white paper. It took the flight engineer a few seconds to notice the clattering SATCOM. It wasn’t supposed to come on. Not here. Not now. They should have already been told what they needed to know. The flight engineer pulled the paper from the printer the second it stopped and read the report, then swore to himself.

  “NRO detects unidentified Bandits in the area,” he announced over the intercom system. “Multiple fast movers, riding shotgun for some choppers underneath.”

  One of the pilots grunted. “So we’re not the only ones looking for this guy, huh?”

  “No, sir. Not by a long shot.”

  A very long pause. The pilots knew there was more. “Okay, give it to us, Pup. What else have you got?”

  The young flight engineer, no more than a teenager, read the SATCOM report to himself once again and then said, “Two Ukrainian brigades have been moved up from Khar’kov, with their associated triple A and support vehicles. They are fanned out in a search semicircle. They are estimated to be in the area now.”

  The pilot swore. One of the door gunners jammed his mini- gun off of safe and adjusted the focus on his goggles. The copilot stared at his navigation screen. Twenty-six miles to go.

  “What side of the survivor are they approaching from?” the pilot hurriedly asked.

  “Doesn’t say, sir. But I bet we find out.”

  The pilot swore once again. “Two full brigades! Are you certain? Two full brigades?!”

  “That’s what it says, sir. Do you want me to ask for verification?”

  The pilot paused for only a second. “No,” he answered. “Screw it. Doesn’t matter. So they want him. We want him worse. We’ll be there in less than twelve minutes. Now everyone, you know what to do!”

  Beneath them, the frozen ground scurried by. The door gunners trained their mini-guns to fire forward of the helo’s position. One of them threw a huge green ball of bubble gum into his mouth. “Left gunner’s ready!” he called out.

  The pilot looked at the distance to the survivor’s location. Twenty-one miles to go. He pulled back on the cyclic while adding a touch of power. The Pavehawk lifted gently over a 200 meter ridge of ancient glacial rock. Descending once again, the helicopter’s four blades slapped at the air. The pilot followed the stcering cross on his navigation computer and wondered for the thousandth time, Who is this guy we are after?

  NORTHERN UKRAINE

  When the sun had set, Ammon pulled his parachute in with his teeth and gathered it over his body, hoping to keep himself warm. But as the north wind picked up and the temperature dropped, he quickly realized it wouldn’t do much good. He lay tucked up under the rotting log, shivering again from the cold. He had pulled his arms from the sleeves of his jacket and tucked them close to his body, not so much to keep them warm, but more to limit the pain that the useless limbs caused as they dangled at his side.

  He was bitter cold. And very hungry. And far more thirsty than he ever had been in his life. He was lonely and tired and had given up hope. From his hole, he could just make out the north star. As he stared out into the darkness, his breath crystallized in the bitter cold, leaving tiny, white prisms of frozen breath. He couldn’t feel his feet any more. When he closed his eyes, his lashes froze themselves shut. He swallowed a thick wad of spit and licked at the frozen moisture on the underside of the log.

  The parachute signal had been his last hope. No, that was not correct. The signal had been his only hope. The only hope that he ever had. If they were looking, they would have seen the signal. If they were searching, they would have picked up on his locator beacon. If they had chosen to, they could have sent some type of rescue chopper.

  But they didn’t. He had waited all day. Holding on through the cold and the pain, hiding himself among the trees, he had waited. And now it was too late. It was too cold. He wouldn’t last until morning.

  A muffled sound drifted through the forest. Barking dogs. Through the trees. Far off in the distance. Then the sound of shouting voices. Ammon nearly stopped breathing. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach, and he pushed himself even further under the log.

  JOLLY 21

  “Jeff, we’ve got a major highway up ahead,” the copilot announced as he studied his moving-map-display. “I’ve got significant west-to-east traffic. Looks like a column of military vehicles. Turn left now, heading three-zero-zero. That should take us about a mile behind the last vehicle.”

  “Coming left,” the pilot replied as he banked the helicopter aggressively up on her side. Inside his helmet, the tone of the locator beacon continued to build. The Pavehawk had a very good lock on the survivor’s location, and he was just where they thought he would be. As the pilot rolled out, he, too, could begin to make out the dark ribbon of paved road that made its way to the east, along with a column of boxy vehicles with high backs and big tires. A dozen or so, mostly troop transports. No sign of any missile launchers or triple A.

  The helicopter was just over a mile from the road, and barely skimming over the trees. They would pass behind the short convoy of trucks. The Ukrainians probably wouldn’t even know they were there. With any luck....

  “Break right! Tracers in the sky! Get down pilot! Get her down now!” The right door gunner was screaming his head off. Both pilots jammed the stick forward to push the helicopter even lower toward the trees. Twisting his head to the right, the copilot saw a terrifying sight. Long arches of white and green tracers sprouted up from a small clearing in the trees to chase after the low-flying helicopter. Snaking lines of 23mm fire reached out with their long, bony fingers.

  “Break left! Now! Now! Bring her around!” the gunner called again.

  The pilot reacted by instinct. Pulling the chopper into a tight turn, he jerked up on the collective to add more
power, which forced the helicopter around even more. Pulling back on the stick, the helicopter began to climb. Twisting through the sky, the pilot banked the chopper left and then right in an effort to break the attacking gunner’s aiming solution. The copilot twisted in his seat, hoping to locate the incoming line of fire. At first, the tracers passed just over their heads. Then suddenly, they jerked to the front of their nose before trailing off below and behind them. The pilot let the helicopter drop. The top of the trees rushed up to meet them and began to brush their under-carriage. Broken pieces of wood and scattered pine needles thrashed through the air behind the fleeing chopper. The tracers died off.

  The Pavehawk turned back to heading. Only eight miles to go.

  NORTHERN UKRAINE

  Ammon heard a shot fire out. Another fired twice in reply. The dogs snarled and barked at each other. He pushed himself deeper under the log and prayed that his parachute would not be seen. But he knew that it would. And he knew that even were he completely hidden, it wouldn’t matter. They were coming. With the dogs, they would find him.

  It was then that he heard the beat of the rotors. He sucked in his breath and didn’t dare move, thinking the sound wasn’t real. For a second or two, the sound faded away. Then, with a deep whoop, the HH-60 approached the side of the hill.

  “I’ve got the landing zone straight ahead,” the copilot announced. “There! On the south side. Near the crest. Just below the outcropping of pines.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it,” the pilot replied. “Are you sure that’s the place? It’s half the size I thought it would be!”

  ’The copilot nodded his head. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m certain.”

  In the back of the chopper, the rescue team began to store their equipment in preparation for the assault landing.

  The pilot turned to the copilot. “Try the radio once again,” he demanded. “Try both the primary and alternate channels. He’s got to be there, and I want to hear his voice before we commit ourselves to going into such a small LZ!”

  The copilot keyed his microphone switch, though he knew it wouldn’t be any use. He had been through this before. The guy simply wasn’t answering their radio calls. But still, he did as he was told.

  “Unknown Hiker, Unknown Hiker, come up on two fifty-five point four.” He paused for ten seconds, then keyed the switch once again. “Unknown Hiker, Unknown Hiker, if you hear this transmission, identify yourself by popping one of your flares.”

  The pilot slowed the helicopter and circled over the LZ, peering down with his goggles as he passed overhead. It was bare. No signal. No parachute. No fire or smoke from a flare. No sign of any life at all.

  “Maybe his survival radio is busted,” the right door gunner said. “Maybe he’s incapacitated. You know, a broken arm or something. And with hostile troops all around him, you know he can’t set off a flare.”

  For a moment no one spoke.

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” the copilot finally offered. “But maybe he’s already been captured. Maybe there is someone down there waiting for us. And maybe it isn’t our friend.”

  The pilot set up for one more pass over the LZ. “We’ll take one more look,” he said. “Then we’ll decide what to do.”

  The helicopter flew right over his head. Ammon could scarcely believe it. He rolled out from underneath the dead log, wincing with pain, and struggled to his feet, his eyes on the sky, following the sound of the chopper. The clear whoop of the blades reverberated through the night air. He stared into the sky as the sound receded into the distance.

  “No! No!” he silently pleaded. “No, I’m here. You’ve got to come back!”

  Then he heard them again. Shouts. And the dogs. They seemed to be gathering around him. The sounds echoed through the trees. He glanced up at the sky, not knowing what to do. He only had a few seconds. The helicopter would only make one more pass.

  Dropping to his knees by the log, he bent over and buried his face in the dirt. Grabbing a thin strand of nylon parachute between his teeth, he staggered to his feet and dragged the parachute out from under the log. The sound of the chopper faded, then turned back toward his direction as it set up to make one more pass. He dropped to the forest floor once again. An animal bolted from the treeline to his right, rustling the leaves in his path. Ammon sucked in his breath as the rabbit scampered into the brush, its frightened eyes gleaming in the dark. Ammon bent over, his broken and swollen arms jolting with pain. He fought down the urge to cry out. Quickly, he grabbed more of the chute in his teeth, then pushed himself backward, sliding along the soft pine needles and powdery snow. Pulling the bright parachute from under the log, he stretched it into a thick orange and white streamer. Gasping for breath, he fell down on the ground. He listened to the sounds in the forest. And waited to see who got to him first.

  “Jeff! He’s there. He’s laying on top of his chute!” The copilot was nearly screaming. The chopper passed over the LZ for the second time. “He’s there. We’ve got to go in!”

  Suddenly the aircraft shuddered and leapt to the side as the mini-guns started to blaze. “We’re taking fire! We’re taking fire!” The left gunner screamed. “I’ve got multiple targets, all along on this side!”

  “Roger that!” the right gunner called. The six barrel Gatling gun spun on its mount, spewing white-hot bullets through the forest and trees, mowing down everything in its path. Within a matter of seconds, the two gunners had fired off nearly a thousand rounds of ammunition.

  “Can we land?” the pilot asked in desperation.

  “I don’t know,” the copilot shot back. “It’s going to be tight. But let’s get down there and see.”

  The pilot shot a quick look to his right. The copilot answered his question with a nod of his head.

  The mini-guns continued to cut through the forest. The HH-60 shook and vibrated with every round. Two of the PJs pulled themselves to the door gunner positions and helped feed the chain of ammunition from the ammo bins to make sure the guns didn’t jam. A white arc of light traced up to the chopper. The air frame buffeted violently as three shells passed through the thick aluminum of the tail boom housing. The pilot jerked the aircraft around and turned for the LZ while slowing down. They were committed. They were going in. The right gunner held his fire as he searched for a target. The chopper settled over the tall pines and came to a hover as it blew up dust and snow and small limbs from the trees. Slowly, it moved forward until it was over the small clearing on the side of the hill.

  The left gunner called out over his mike, “You’ve got three feet on this side. Maybe four. But no more.”

  “Maybe two feet on this side,” the right gunner called out. “You’re going to take out some limbs, but I think we can do it. Now let’s not screw around. This place is crawling with grunts. Let’s get going. Let’s bring her down now.”

  The pilot concentrated on holding his position, then shifted the huge helicopter two feet to the left. He pushed gently down on the power. The HH-60 immediately began to settle through the trees.

  Ammon threw himself across the blowing parachute, then kicked it out of the way to keep it from being sucked up into the turning rotors. The sound of the two jet-turbine engines and spinning rotors beat at his ears. The downdraft nearly blew him over and he had to squint to keep the blowing snow out of his eyes. He tucked his face down next to his chest as he stumbled to the side of the clearing and fell behind the protective cover of the trees.

  The soldier was no more than ten feet away. The Ukrainian jerked his machine gun up to his chest and let off a short burst of fire. A flash of light strobed the air, lighting the forest with an unnatural light. The tree limb next to Ammon’s head exploded into a thousand pieces. Ammon turned and ran.

  The copilot glanced down at the engine instruments and gave the pilot a quick thumbs up. The mini-guns had fallen silent for the moment. As they settled through the trees, the gunners lost their overhead view, and the enemy became more difficult to locate. A quick muzzle flash stro
bed through the trees. The right gunner let his mini-gun roll, saturating the area around the muzzle flash with a long burst of 7.62 caliber shells. The tree limbs gave way, scattering in every direction as he fired at the source of the light. The pilot took out even more power. The HH-60 dropped like a rock through the trees, cutting its way down through the broken limbs and blowing leaves.

  Ammon ran awkwardly through the pines on the perimeter of the clearing as he watched the helicopter settle through the narrow hole in the trees. Debris and snow blew into his eyes. He felt the air break with a crackle as one of the door gunners opened fire, sending a burst of shells raining down through the forest to impact the frozen ground where the Ukrainian soldier had been. Ammon never looked back to see the result. The chopper was nearing the ground. He could see the look of the door gunner’s face. He saw a PJ standing with one leg on the helicopter’s landing gear, half in and half out of the cabin, a thick canvas belt strapped around his waist. He was waving at Ammon, beckoning him to come. Ammon left the cover of the forest and bolted toward the hovering chopper suspended three feet in the air. The forest lit up with a burst of machine gun fire. Ammon pushed his broken body forward, his arms still tucked in his jacket, his face covered with dirt and red mud. He slipped in the snow and almost fell down. Stumbling forward, he lunged into the PI’s waiting arms. The PJ wrapped his arms around Ammon’s shoulders and pulled him into the air. Another set of hands reached down to grab him. The helicopter shifted just slightly. Ammon was lifted and jerked inside.