Now a path of bullets swept erratically across their craft. There were two, maybe three, thuds as the bullets hit and passed through. The boat was intended to be self-sealing, and they held their breaths. It was! But it was built for occasional damage, not .50-caliber slugs.
The helo circled away, this time climbing slightly.
“Oh, shit! You know what that means,” Denny hollered. “The heavy stuff — rockets!”
And as he uttered the final word, they saw the telltale wisps of smoke. One — two — three. They could see the rocket trails, make out the rockets themselves as they bore down on them. The first struck twenty yards in front, erupting in a cloud of water and shrapnel. The second passed close overhead, cutting the air with a howl in concert with the blast as it hit the water fifteen yards away. The final one was too close. It might have been a good aim or a lucky shot. In any case, the buzz of metal shards told Ryng there was no more time.
The hiss of escaping air added a new dimension to the sounds around them. Looking down, Ryng saw a large tear in the rubber, no more than an inch to the left of his knee. There was no way any self-sealer was going to solve that problem. Before he could call attention to it, Denny was reaching around him, jamming his shirt into the hole.
“That’ll buy us a couple of minutes,” Denny shouted above the sound of the helo making its next approach. “I hope to hell they’re not developing a style up there. That last was too close.”
This time the helo came in much closer. Now they could even hear the pop as the rockets were fired and the whooshing noise of the weapon as it raced at them. Above it all, Ryng heard the steady chatter of Denny’s gun, clip after clip, working so rapidly that he functioned like a machine gunner.
Whump! A rocket burst directly in front, not more than ten yards away. A second exploded into the water within yards of Denny, the third passing well astern. Clouds of water poured down on them. The helo was bearing down now, diving behind the rocket fire, machine guns blazing. Ryng rolled into the bottom of the boat, hands over his head, knees drawn up. Operating only by instinct at that moment, trying to hide like an ostrich, thinking he couldn’t be seen if his head were buried.
Then he looked up as the helo roared overhead, a perfect target, but Denny was no longer shooting. Ryng noticed a wisp of black smoke, then a rush of it from the exhausts behind the engine. The helo banked sharply, increasing altitude at the same time. The smoke! They’d hit it!
“Look at that! No shit, will you look…”
Bernie Ryng turned impulsively, overcome with joy. Just as quickly it became horror. He found himself staring in fear at what was beside him. Denny was as dead as could be. There hadn’t been a sound, no shout, no thrashing to indicate he’d been hit. A shard of metal protruded in grisly fashion from his forehead. There was no blood. It was impossible to tell how deeply the chunk of shrapnel had penetrated, but it was enough to have killed Denny instantly.
Ryng rolled into a sitting position from the corpse. The boat was riddled with innumerable holes. Air hissed out, water sputtered in as it hopelessly tried to seal itself. The jagged tears were so deep that there was no chance the boat could float. Water was already lapping over one corner, its weight dragging the craft down.
The helo now hovered a few hundred yards off, still smoking. The engine was powerful enough to keep it airborne, but Ryng could sense the ragged sound of a machine struggling with itself.
There was only one option left. Ryng threw the last ammo bag around his neck and rolled off the shoreward side into the piercing-cold water less than fifty yards from land. He doubled over to pull off his shoes, then thought better of it. Once on land, he had a long way to go. He knew that the terrain was rough, all sharp stone and gravel, midsummer tundra that had defrosted down a foot or so. And there were innumerable rocky hills and cliffs along the shoreline.
The tempo of the helo’s engine increased as it dove toward him, machine guns once again blazing. The line of bullets raced toward him. He dove, struggling against the double fear of icy water as a contrast to bullets. When his lungs burned more than he could stand, he surfaced, his face in the direction where he expected the helicopter to be. It was there, hovering like a bird of prey. He sucked down another breath and arched his body to dive again. But he stopped at the last minute.
More smoke was pouring out of the craft now, dense black clouds. It was in as much trouble as he was. Maybe it would have to turn back. The odds of any man surviving alone in this water much longer were poor.
Ryng struggled toward shore, his eyes never leaving the helo. Then he saw what he had never expected. The helo was making one last pass, but it wasn’t shooting. He watched in numb curiosity, ready to dive until he saw an object fall from the side of the fuselage. As it seemed to grow in size, he realized from a distance what it was. A depth charge! The helo was equipped for antisubmarine duty. He thrashed frantically for shore.
The charge tumbled end over end, hitting the water with a huge splash, followed by a graceful waterspout.
Ryng’s mind went blind with fear. Then he grabbed his knees, rolling into a ball. The ensuing explosion thundered through his head, driving the air out of his lungs, pressing inward, forcing water down his throat, into his eyes, creating pressure like a giant sledgehammer. Time seemed to stop from the pain. He had no idea if he was conscious — no idea if he was alive or dead.
Then he found himself struggling for shore. Was there enough strength left in him to make the beach? Would he crawl out onto the sand to die in agony, spilling blood across the sand from his ruptured guts?
Strangely enough, he had some energy left, though he could hear nothing but a ringing in his head. He splashed awkwardly through the water, but there was little feeling in his hands and feet. He rolled over onto his back, expecting to see his nemesis swooping down, machine guns blazing.
But there was nothing. In the distance toward Longyearbyen, he made out a smoky cloud descending toward the land. It must be, he thought. The damned helo couldn’t stay up any longer. Then he realized the ammo bag, with his only weapon, was gone!
He turned back on his belly and pulled for the shore, not more than twenty yards away now, though it seemed like miles. Each yard closer to the beach became interminable. But his will to live won out. Only sheer determination got him the last few feet to the water’s edge.
Dragging himself out of the water onto the beach was an even greater effort. There was some sand, but mostly rocks. Yet they were like a down pillow to him, so soft and welcoming after the terror of nearly drowning.
There was some scrub brush farther up the beach beyond the high-tide mark. He half crawled, half dragged himself into it, then fell forward on his face. It seemed natural to him that he should pass out. It would be his body’s way of telling him that he had abused it past redemption. But he remained conscious. His first physical sensation as he lay there collecting his thoughts, mentally identifying the various parts of his body that were still intact, was from his stomach. It was churning violently.
Could this be the way it would be? Safety, then death? Was it now that the insides that he couldn’t feel would suddenly turn on him? His body jerked in a spasm as he felt the sudden contractions of vomiting overwhelming him. But it didn’t matter. He had never in his life been so overjoyed at being ill. Great quantities of seawater — not blood — came up.
As his stomach completed nature’s job, he slumped down again in relief. The pressure from the depth charge must have forced all that water down his throat. He remembered the unbelievable weight on his head, his eyes. And he realized that the water must have been too shallow for the depth charge to do the job they’d intended. At that depth, the bottom must have deflected the blast upward. He vaguely remembered the tremendous waterspout. The explosion probably occurred right on the bottom so that it went straight back up rather than spreading out as it was designed to do. There had been only one blast. If they dropped any others, the water must have been too shallow to set them off!