Jazz raised his weapon, flipping the fire selection switch from “SAFE” to “SEMI.” He put it in his shoulder, sighted it at the officer and pulled the trigger. The sound of the helicopter turning and his earplugs prevented him from hearing the rounds going downrange. Jazz did feel a slight kick and he smelled the familiar gunpowder residue of the 5.56 ammunition as he swept the rifle down the line of soldiers.
The wash from one of the Hurricanes lifting off pushed against him. The Albanians now broke into a run back toward the building they emerged from. Jazz could not tell if they hit any of them.
Time to skedaddle, he thought.
Quickly, Jazz surveyed the scene. It was Hurricane 218, Denke’s helicopter, that took off. Denke, Dee, Sinclair, and Quinn, however, were still on the ground.
Keeping their weapons pointed at the main building, the men of Det Four moved toward Jazz. He motioned toward Hurricane 224.
“GET ON THE BIRD! LET’S GET OUTTA HERE!”
Jazz and Keating went through the starboard door while the others climbed up the ramp in the rear. Jazz noted that one pallet remained. As the helo lifted off, Jazz counted heads twice. All of Det Four was onboard.
“Anybody hit!” he called out.
Keating patted himself down and shook his head, “No.”
“Hey back there! Senior Chief! Anybody hit!”
Denke also shook his head, “No.”
Jazz was surprised.
He sat down in the seat next to Keating and put on his safety belt, just in time.
Suddenly the aircraft started to shudder. The aircrewman up front with Keating and Jazz fell over as the helo banked violently to the left and began to descend. Jazz’s stomach went up into his throat. He tried to reach for something but found his hands flailing. The aircraft righted itself, but then nosed forward. Now hydraulic fluid began to pour from the overhead just behind the cockpit. Through the window, Jazz could now see treetops sprinkled with snow. Just when he thought they were going to hit, the nose came up again violently. He felt the aircraft’s descent slow slightly and the blades thwopped louder as it seemed they were trying to grip the air.
Then they hit.
Jazz did not remember getting out of the aircraft. It was as if he woke up sitting under the tree just outside the starboard door. His whole body ached.
“Uh.”
As the helo in front of him came into focus and his ears stopped ringing he heard several moans.
“Who’s up!” came Denke’s voice from his left.
Jazz looked toward the aircraft’s tail and saw Denke standing there.
“LT, are you okay?”
“Uh, yeah. I think so. What happened?”
“We crashed.”
“Huh?”
“I think those soldiers were shooting at the aircraft. That’s probably why 218 left without us. We were certainly next, though.”
Jazz scratched his head trying to understand. Then he noticed that the side of the aircraft was peppered with bullet holes.
They were shooting right over our heads.
Keating emerged from the cabin.
“Oh, fuck. That fucking hurt like a motherfucker.”
“Is everyone up there okay!” Denke called out again.
Keating turned and stepped back into the aircraft. He emerged with an ashen face.
“Aircrewman looks dead. Pilots are out but I think they are alive.”
Jazz remembered that the aircrewman who was up front with them was tethered to the aircraft on a running line, but he was not strapped into a seat.
“Lieutenant, where is your weapon?” Denke asked.
“What?”
“Your weapon. Where is your long-gun?”
Jazz realized that he was more out of it than he thought. He got up and stepped into the cabin.
The aircrewman was on his back, feet together, arms folded neatly over his chest. Jazz figured that Keating must have done that. His helmet was cracked and his face looked swollen. Jazz had a morbid thought.
He just looks broken.
Jazz realized that he did not even know the name of this man he flew with, cruised with, served with. He pulled off the Velcro nametag on his flight suit.
SAM MARTON
AD2(AC) USN
Jazz saw his weapon on the deck. It was still on “SEMI.” As he clicked it back to “SAFE,” Jazz cursed himself.
Damn that was careless.
He stopped for a moment and tried to gather his thoughts. How had the weapon come unslung from his carabineer? Jazz looked down and noticed that the ‘beener was still on the sling of the M-16. The force of the impact had ripped it off of his load-bearing vest.
Jazz stepped up to the cockpit to check out the pilots. They were starting to stir. When he turned around, he paused again. Something felt wrong. He slung his rifle over his shoulder. He looked at his hands as he tried to catch his breath. They were shaking.
With his right hand, Jazz reached down and pulled his knife out. He gripped it, held it up, and tried to concentrate on it.
Do this. This is why you are here.
“LT, are you okay?” said Ashland from the doorway.
“Yes,” he replied firmly and replacing the knife. “How is everyone else?”
“Banged and bruised, sir,” he heard Delgado say from outside.
Jazz stepped back into the light.
“Quinn, Sinclair, rig up a body bag somehow for Sam here. Ash, you and T-Ball get the pilots out. See if they need any first aid. Are the other aircrewmen okay?”
“Yes, sir,” said Denke. “They are doing a once-over on the bird for fuel leaks and such. I think we are alright though. So what’s your plan, Lieutenant?”
“Well, first we gotta salvage the wreck and call the Inchon. Second we should set up a security perimeter and prepare for extraction. That may entail moving out of these trees to a more suitable landing zone.”
Fortunately the pilots did a good job of crashing the airplane. As a result the det was able to get most of the gear out including the ammunition. Each man stuffed essentials into his vest and his three-day pack, leaving their kit bags behind.
“Well, their radio isn’t working,” said Ash.
“Do you have the E and E radio, LT?” asked Quinn.
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s get the ‘chon up on that.”
Jazz got the radio, the PRC-112, out of his bag. He leaned against the helo as he turned it on. The pilots were now out of the bird sitting under the tree where Jazz had been. They still looked groggy.
He looked over to the sleeping bag that now held Marton.
“Bright Star, Bright Star, this is Tiburon Four, over.”
Denke was directing the members of the det to form a perimeter around the aircraft. They appeared to be in a relatively level spot, but it was in the bottom of a valley.
“Bright Star, Bright Star, this is Tiburon Four, over.”
After ten tries, Denke came over next to Jazz. He spoke in a hushed tone.
“You turn the on-off switch, sir?”
“I did, Senior.”
“Well, we’re too far, too low, or nobody’s listening.”
“Maybe 218 saw us go down.”
“I’m sure of it, sir. The pilots were probably talking the whole time.”
Denke turned to one of the aviators. “Lieutenant, does 218 know that we are here, that we went down?”
“Uh, I don’t know. They got hit in the field, had a mechanical issue and decided to split.”
“Yes, I’d noticed that.”
“Anyway, I don’t know if they heard us.”
“Well, at the very least, Tirane will notice when we don’t return,” remarked the co-pilot.