She inhaled deeply, trying to find strength in the words from that old crop duster pilot quoting General Patton.
The vehicles passed within seventy yards of her position as they steered toward the wreckage, and peeking over the rim of the boulder hiding her, she felt a wave of panic.
The open truck beds were full of soldiers.
Iranian troops.
Amanda estimated at least a dozen men in each vehicle.
They pulled off the road and stopped a couple hundred feet from the remains of her jet. The soldiers piled out of the vehicles and spread out around the burning wreckage.
Two of the trucks had powerful spotlights that swept the area around the crash site, stabbing the night.
She checked her watch. Ricardo had flown away almost twenty minutes ago, meaning that CSAR should already be on the way, and hopefully with some escorts.
Swallowing the lump forming in her throat, Amanda continued watching the men below and heard a loud commotion when someone found her parachute and assorted flight gear. Several of the troops began walking in the direction of her discarded items.
The distraction is working, she thought, feeling a sense of hope. But then three soldiers armed with AK-47s decided to head the other way, their flashlight beams leading the way, up her hill.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She drew the Sig, whose magazine held fifteen jacketed hollow-point rounds plus one in the chamber.
Sixteen rounds would buy her only a short reprieve before the inevitable happened. But if Amanda were to be completely honest with herself, she would admit that she could only use fifteen rounds.
Because the last one would be for her.
No way those bastards are capturing me alive.
As the trio climbed up the hill and Amanda tightened her grip on the weapon, a single thought flooded her mind.
Ricky, where the hell are you?
The higher Ricardo climbed, the more daylight he saw over the horizon. As soon as he shot back over the Arabian Sea and in range of an E-2D Advanced Hawkeye, the controller gave him an initial vector to the nearest US Air Force KC-135R Stratotanker. Deciding that it was safe to turn on his AN/APG-79 AESA air-to-air radar, Ricardo promptly located the four-engine aircraft.
With assistance from a mission system operator in the Advanced Hawkeye, he had initiated a request for a navy HH-60H Seahawk strike-rescue helicopter. The CSAR vessel had already been dispatched.
With time slipping away and Amanda in grave danger, he closed in on the tanker at an excessive rate. With his experience, Ricardo felt confident he could handle the rendezvous without underrunning the tanker.
The KC-135R orbited at 25,000 feet and 250 knots. Ricardo maintained 470 knots until he glimpsed the tanker in a left-hand racetrack pattern. Expediting the rendezvous, Ricardo approached the aircraft on a constant bearing line to join on the left wing of the tanker.
“Jumbo Fifteen,” Ricardo transmitted in a clipped voice, “Dragon One-Zero-Eight has you in sight.”
“Roger, call port observation.”
“Copy that.” Ricardo waited until the last second before he simultaneously brought his throttles to idle and extended his speed brake. Slowing, he cross-controlled the airplane and leveled the F/A-18E at 24,500 feet and 285 knots. Extending his refueling probe, he rapidly ascended and stabilized his Super Hornet at 250 knots on the KC-135R’s port wing.
He keyed his radio and spoke rapidly. “Dragon One-Zero-Eight, port side, nose cold, switches safe, requesting nine point five.” The report indicated Ricardo’s 20 mm M61A2 Vulcan cannon was not armed and he wanted 9,500 pounds of jet fuel.
The tanker pilot responded, “Dragon One-Zero-Eight, cleared in for nine point five.”
“Roger, One-Oh-Eight cleared in.”
Ricardo eased behind the Stratotanker and smoothly plugged into the refueling basket on his first attempt. As the fuel gauges slowly climbed, Ricardo’s thoughts focused on Amanda, some four hundred miles away.
Amanda held her breath as the three soldiers approached her hideout, their yellow beams sweeping across the row of waist-high boulders. A few seconds later, she heard a familiar sound. The men also heard it because they immediately stopped and turned to look in its direction.
Nervously alert, when she recognized the telltale sound of an approaching helicopter, her heart jumped to her throat.
Oh God, let it be one of ours.
The soldiers remained focused on the noise, and Amanda sensed that none of them knew if it was friend or foe.
Time stood still as the sound of the approaching helicopter seemed to become fixed at a distant point. She counted the seconds hoping for a miracle. If the helicopter were Iranian, it would be overhead any moment.
Amanda closed her eyes for a moment, listening, then realized what was happening.
CSAR’s waiting for air cover!
She heard more orders being shouted, and she guessed it had to do with growing concern about the helicopter. The minutes seemed like hours as Amanda became jumpier… and the voices only grew louder.
Then the beams from their flashlights began to move again toward the hilltop, approaching her position.
While he watched his fuel state increase, Ricardo coordinated with the Advanced Hawkeye for more fighter aircraft to cover the rescue helicopter. Finally, after receiving 9,200 pounds of jet fuel, the waiting became too great. He eased out of the basket and retracted his refueling probe. “Jumbo Fifteen, thanks for the drink, switching.”
“Dragon cleared down and to the right, good luck.”
“Down and to the right, thanks.” He lowered the nose, selected burner, and switched to the Advanced Hawkeye. “Liberty Bell, Liberty Bell, Dragon One-Zero-Eight, any help on the way?”
“Roger that,” the mission systems operator replied. “You have two Rhinos at your seven o’clock, three miles, in burner. Dragon Four-Zero-Seven and Four-Zero-Two have a tally on you, switching them to your frequency.”
“Copy that.” Ricardo eased his power back and waited a few seconds. “Dragon Four-Zero-Seven and Four-Zero-Two, Dragon One-Zero-Eight with you.”
“Ricky Ricardo,” a calm voice came over the radio that he recognized as belonging to Lieutenant Commander Trey “Mullet” Malloy, leading a two-plane F/A-18E Super Hornet section. “We’re closing fast.”
“Bring ’em!”
Aboard the HH-60H Seahawk search and rescue helicopter, call sign Astro Six-Five, Lieutenant Commander James Borland, the helicopter aircraft commander, checked in as Ricardo, and his new wingmen began descending in burner.
“Dragon One-Zero-Eight, Astro Six-Five is holding. We have a visual on smoke from the crash site.”
“Roger,” Ricardo replied. “We’re inbound to clear you an LZ.”
When Ricardo had a visual on the wreckage, he keyed his radio. “Okay, Dragons, arm ’em up.”
“Roger that,” Malloy replied from Dragon Four-Zero-Seven.
“Zero-Two with a copy. Armed.”
With daylight only minutes away, Amanda couldn’t leave the boulders without being seen. The soldiers were coming closer. She said one last prayer, feeling raw panic in the pit of her stomach as she gripped the pistol in both hands and waited.
When one of the men came within fifty feet of her, she inhaled a breath and steadied her weapon.
Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. Maybe I should have stayed on the farm, she thought just before she started to squeeze the trigger. But she stopped when hearing the roar of jet fighters approaching. The soldiers paused and looked up at the trio of Super Hornets in trail formation. She heard boots pounding as the soldiers down on the road began running for their trucks. Then she heard what she presumed was their commanding officer yelling angrily, giving orders. It became clear the boss was planning to stand his ground, rather than run from the incoming jets.
“Diamond, are you clear of the wreckage?” Ricardo’s voice came over the radio, barely audible since she had turned the volume nearly to off. He sounded worried.
“Affirmative. I’m clear,” she whispered. “Top of the hill behind some boulders. Got three guys almost on top of me,” she whispered.
“I see you. Hang on.”