“Let’s move it, gentlemen! We’ve got ourselves a red alert.”
The diver flashed Grodsky a brief how did you know look. Pushing their trays aside, they scurried from the mess and headed quickly toward the ship’s stern.
Upon first glance, the USS Eagle looked sparsely armed. One of America’s newest warships, the sleek, modular destroyer’s only visible weapons were a pair of 5-inch Mk 45 lightweight cannon mounted fore and aft, and a single ASROC box launcher located forward of the bridge.
Most of the ship’s offensive capabilities were hidden. They included six torpedo tubes capable of firing both Mk 32 torpedoes and Harpoon missiles, a NATO Sea Sparrow launcher and two Phalanx CIWS gatling guns. Other features included a powerful SQS-53 bow sonar array, a pair of LM 2500 gas turbines, which gave them excellent speed with low noise emission, and, lastly, the ability to carry two helicopters.
The ability to carry its own airborne vehicles was most important. Not only was it necessary for effective anti-sub-warfare operations, it also allowed the Eagle to launch its present mission.
The helicopter hangar was located to the rear of the after-funnel uptakes. The Eagle’s chopper crew arrived just in time to help the support team slide open the large metal door and tow the Kaman SH-2 outside. The pilot then ducked into the cockpit and activated the Seasprite’s two General Electric T58-8F turbo shafts With a staccato roar, the 44-foot-diameter intermeshing rotor blades spun into action.
The body of the dark-green vehicle vibrated and the chopper gently lifted.
Gerald Grodsky made his way to the copilot’s seat while the diver put on his wet suit. As Grodsky buckled in, he turned to his left and asked, “Where the hell are we off to. Lieutenant? I haven’t seen you move this quickly since last month’s surprise leave came down.”
The pilot answered while scanning the instruments.
“Hit the chin radar switch and you should be able to see for yourself.”
Grodsky reached out and activated the Marconi LN-66HP unit. His monitor came instantly alive and he had no trouble picking out a rapidly approaching, low-flying bogey.
“Whatever it is, it better pull up quick. That aircraft can’t be more than two hundred feet above the ocean.”
“Do we have a visual yet?” the pilot asked.
Grodsky picked up a pair of binoculars and hastily scanned the northern horizon. His intense survey abruptly halted forty-five seconds later.
Focusing on one particular patch of sky to his right, he cried out incredulously, “I can see it! It’s a big, old four-engine turboprop job, with a bright red star on her tail.
Lieutenant, that poor Russian is headed for a certain appointment with Davy Jones’ locker.”
“That’s the idea,” the pilot replied.
“Get back and give Simpson a hand with the rescue gear. Our job is to pull any survivors from the drink.”
Grodsky could now see the lumbering, silver skinned aircraft without the binoculars. It continued toward them, a mere one hundred feet from the water’s smooth surface. Shaking his head in wonder, he returned to the rear compartment to point out their quarry to the diver.
The Seasprite was still a good thousand yards from the plane when the IL-38’s engines feathered to a halt. In response, the aircraft slowly settled downward, skimming, then making contact with the waiting water. Its angle of descent allowed the vehicle to absorb the primary landing shock with its rear fuselage.
Only then did the nose pull down, and the wings hit the Pacific, dragging the IL-38 to a frothing halt. Grodsky had seen several ditchings, but never one so perfectly executed. Inwardly praising the Russian pilot’s skill, he slid back the side hatch and began preparing the rescue harness.
Beneath the roar of the Kaman’s rotors, he peered down at the choppy sea. They were hovering now, only fifty feet from the downed aircraft, which amazingly enough was still afloat. The wet-suited diver took a position beside Grodsky and both men scanned the plane for any signs of life. Fingers of smoke could be seen rising from the still engines, when suddenly the tail section began sinking.
The diver hit Grodsky on the arm and signaled that he wanted to enter the water. Grodsky signaled him to wait. Until any survivors showed themselves, it would be both useless and dangerous to risk one of their own men.
As the tail continued to sink, the crew of the Seasprite began to fear that their rescue attempt had been futile, when a hatch, set into the IL-38’s upper cockpit, miraculously popped open. Each of the naval aviators saw this movement and moved to their action stations. The chopper dipped to a mere twenty-five feet above the surface. The diver cupped a hand over his diving mask and jumped feet first, into the Pacific. Grodsky watched him slice into the ocean, then bob up and begin swimming toward the downed aircraft. Meanwhile, Grodsky began lowering the rescue harness. This sturdy canvas shoulder strap was attached to the Seasprite’s powerful winch by a thick, steel cable.
A green, jump-suited figure could be seen now, slowly crawling out of the hatch set into the plane’s upper fuselage as the aircraft continued to sink. The entire back half of the fuselage was now underwater; any moment the wings would tip backward and the plane would go down.
Grodsky attempted to urge the man on. With leaden, ponderous progress, the Russian yanked his torso up and kicked his legs free. As he slipped off into the ocean the ship plunged beneath the surface, leaving nothing but a swirling vortex in its wake.
A handful of anxious seconds followed; the survivor was no where to be seen. Had he been sucked down by the plane’s maelstrom? The Seasprite’s diver was visible, searching the area into which the Russian had jumped. This would be the ultimate tease — to lose him after they had come so close.
The men of the U.S. Navy did not concede defeat easily, and the crew’s persistence paid off shortly when a man’s head popped to the surface.
The diver was quickly at his side. Skillfully, he secured the rescue harness and signaled Grodsky to haul away.
The downdraft of the rotors bit white into the surrounding waters as the winch strained and the cable tightened. Without incident, both men were eventually pulled into the chopper’s interior.
Grodsky’s concern centered around the Russian.
The man was pale and shaking, clearly traumatized by both hypothermia and shock. A bloody gash on his forehead oozed steadily. Grodsky did his best to stem the flow. Then, stripping him of the soaked flight suit, Grodsky covered him up with a thick wool blanket.
His trembling soon passed, and a gleam of awareness returned to the survivor’s bloodshot eyes. A slight, trembling grin shaped his thin lips as he returned the concerned stares of his rescuers. This feeble attempt at a smile was short-lived, for a wave of tears was soon falling down the man’s sharply angled cheeks.
Both Americans looked at each other, unable to comprehend if these were tears of joy or sorrow. Their confusion was increased as the Russian began babbling a simple phrase, constantly repeating it over and over.
The diver leaned forward to see if he could make any sense of the strange words which, he supposed, were spoken in the man’s mother tongue.
“Grodsky, your people were Russian, weren’t they?
What in God’s name is he saying?”
The ATO, who indeed was of Russian heritage, placed his ear near the man’s lips and closed his eyes to aid in concentration. Though it had been many months since he had last heard his Ukrainian grandparents use this very same dialect, the words were easy to translate. Sitting up, he opened his eyes and caught his co-worker’s worried gaze.
“Well, Grodsky, can you understand him? What is he trying to tell us?”
The Seasprite’s air tactical officer icily replied, “I don’t know what the hell it means — but he keeps repeating it like all of our lives depended upon it.”