"You thinking about the Smoky Mountains?" asked Hardin.
"Right. My wife is from Tennessee. We love the mountains. I'd like to find something near the park, either in Tennessee or Carolina."
"Ever been to Beech Mountain?"
"Driven around there. Pretty scenery."
"I do some skiing over there occasionally. One of those chalets would make a great place to retire."
"I agree. But Karen's always had this ambition to open a dress shop. She'll probably want a little more populated area."
It was 12:55 a.m. local time as Roddy watched the moving green map-like display of the terrain-following radar. The small mountain village lay quietly in the darkness up ahead. Captain Schuler worked on a final fix from the GPS.
"Target fifteen miles at three-two-zero," Schuler called over the intercom.
"Roger," Rodman replied. He made a slight course adjustment. "Better alert your troops, Major Hardin. Four minutes to LZ, Nickens. Get your gunners ready."
"Will do, Colonel," said the flight engineer. He pushed up from his position between the pilots and moved back through the near darkness.
"Think we'll need those guns?" the copilot asked warily.
"I hope to hell not," Roddy said, eyes darting between the instruments and the navigation display. Recalling his earlier apprehension, he added, "We aren't taking any chances. The ECM should let us know if we've got any real nasty problems."
The chopper's sophisticated electronics countermeasures system could detect SAMs and warn of active radars or infrared devices. The plane was equipped with chaff dispensers, infrared jammers and other high-tech protective measures.
"Guns are hot, Colonel," Nickens reported. "The Major has his troops ready."
"Roger, Barry. Heads up, everybody. Hopefully this will turn out just another milk run. Two minutes to touchdown."
Roddy pushed up on the throttles as they scoured the horizon for chemlites.
"There she is. One o'clock." Captain Schuler's excited voice broke the silence. Chemlites. A nice, neat square. Plus an IR strobe in the center."
"ECM's quiet," Roddy advised. "Keep a sharp eye out, guys." He circled the area at about two hundred and fifty feet.
"Can't make out anybody close by, Colonel," said Schuler. "Guess they're keeping back out of the way."
The FLIR showed a few vehicles at the far end, including a large one that was probably the stolen tanker truck.
"Okay. We're going in," Roddy said.
That undefined sense of apprehension returned suddenly as he pushed the nose down and the MH-53J dropped straight in toward the center of the cleared area. And as the chopper approached the ground, his worst fears became reality. The muzzle flash of rifles suddenly flickered in the darkness around the perimeter of the LZ, appearing like super-bright fireflies swarming on a summer night. Bullets immediately peppered the sides of the chopper.
"Ambush!" Captain Schuler screamed over the intercom.
"Return fire!" Roddy called, but the electrically operated miniguns had already begun to pour a torrent of ammunition into the area.
The aircraft was equipped with titanium armor plating, which kept down the automatic rifle damage. But as Roddy reached for the throttles to put on full power in preparation for a quick retreat, the fruits of Iran-Contra suddenly came to haunt him. A wire-guided TOW anti-tank missile slammed into the Pave Low amidships. Since the TOW was steered by sight, the high-tech electronic countermeasures system was powerless against it. Because the chopper was descending, the gunner's aim had been high. In fact, another few inches and it would have sailed harmlessly over the fuselage. Most of the force of the explosion was dissipated upward and outward, but part of the missile knocked out one engine and, more fatally, shredded a rotor blade.
Immediately after the impact, Roddy saw the port engine fire warning light flash on. He called, "Bold Face… engine fire!"
The emergency action signal would normally have alerted the flight engineer and copilot to give the good engine full throttle, shut off the malfunctioning engine, activate the fire extinguisher and take other steps to cope with the life-threatening situation. But before they could act, the heavy chopper dropped like a wingless bird. The imbalances caused by destruction of the rotor blade made it a lifeless albatross.
Dutch Schuler shouted "Mayday!" into his microphone, unaware that he was transmitting to a deaf bird in the blackness of space.
Roddy had been aiming for the cleared center of the LZ, but the impact of the missile, the disintegrating main rotor and the still spinning tail rotor deflected the helicopter to one side. It plunged onto an outcropping of rock, striking a wedge-shaped formation that acted as a blunt but formidable blade, shearing off the cockpit from the rest of the airframe. The bulbous nose, with the two pilots still strapped, tumbled forward on the rocky ground, coming to rest with its armor-plated bottom facing aft. That was the only thing providential about the mission's untimely end. The commander's last utterance before the crash was a fragmentary prayer for his crew and passengers.
As the rear portion of the Pave Low was slammed backward from the rock formation, parts of the blazing engine plunged into an auxiliary fuel tank, creating a giant Molotov cocktail. To those crouched around the LZ, it looked like a large bomb exploding. The cabin appeared to pulverize. The aircrew members and the Delta Force team died instantly in a ball of flame and a hail of fragments.
8
He opened his eyes, blinked groggily, and looked out. His first impression was of flying over fields of snow, precise white rectangles set in a regular patchwork pattern. Then a particularly bright one sent shock waves to his dilated eyes, like a massive reflection of the sun off the shimmering surface of a lake. It touched off unspeakable jolts of pain in his head. As he slammed his lids shut, he heard voices nearby and the click-clicking of wheels. Slowly he came to realize that he wasn't flying at all. He was rolling. When he peeked out again, he saw that the snowy fields were in reality white ceiling tiles, the mirror-bright lake merely the glass surface of a light fixture. He was lying on his backside staring straight up. When he tried to turn his head to look around, he got another sharp stab of pain for his trouble.
"Where am I?" he mumbled, dazed, to no one in particular. His voice sounded shaky and unnatural. And his mouth, God how dry it was. He must have gone a week without water. He tried to move his right arm but something seemed to be restraining it.
The rolling stopped suddenly and the smiling face of a black-haired young airman in a white coat loomed above him.
"You're in the Air Force hospital at Wiesbaden, Colonel. Welcome back."
Wiesbaden? That wasn't far from his base at Rhein-Main. What was he… slowly he began to experience vague snatches of memory, like old black and white photos pulled at random from a box long hidden in a closet. There had been a crash. But where? When? It was all much too vague. His mind seemed encased in fog.
And then he realized what held his arm. It was connected to an IV tube that snaked out from under the sheet toward a glucose bag hanging out of sight.
"Glad to be back," he said shakily. "I think."
The airman laughed, an odd chuckle. "I'm sure your wife'll be happy, sir. I'll have you back in your room in a jiffy. God knows how long you've been in X-ray."
How long had he been unconscious, he wondered? Then a muffled "tat-tat-tat" sound reached his ears. It sounded arguably like machinegun fire. A fleeting picture stole across the screen of his mental monitor. Guns firing and an explosion that rocked the chopper. It was gone as quickly as it had come, but it left him breathing hard, a chore that seemed to tear at his insides. He felt sweat trickle down his neck despite the coolness of the hospital corridor. As he concentrated on the gunfire-like sound, he realized it was a compressed air drill somewhere outside the building.