“We are in the river, Retainer. Maybe a hundred and fifty yards offshore. My systems operator and I are together. She is unconscious and I am injured. Left arm isn’t working so well.”
“Is there any enemy activity in your area, Moondog?”
“Not that I can see, Retainer.”
“What can you see? Can you give me any landmarks?”
“It looks like … two piers burning. Upriver. Maybe half a mile.”
Okay, those had to be the quays that the Duke’s cruise missiles had taken out. Arkady glanced up and spotted the same blaze. They were in the ballpark.
“Moondog 505, can you hear my rotors?”
“Affirmative, I can hear you down river. We have flares and strobes. Shall I illuminate?”
“No. Negative, Moondog. Let’s not advertise before we have to. Do you have I-R sticks lit?”
“Affirmative.”
“That ought to be enough. Stand by, we’ll pick up on you in a second.”
Arkady eased Zero One into a hover. “Gus, surface scan with the FLIR. Forward arc. You’re looking for active sources in the river.”
“Searching … got! Two active sources in close proximity.”
“All right!”
“I also got enemy vehicle activity on the bank, right beyond ‘em.”
Five miles offshore, Panda Three Three roared through the night. The SH-60 Oceanhawk had been lurking on call below the coastal radar horizon. Now she raced for the mouth of the Yangtze at full war power.
The helicopter had been especially configured for this mission.
The ASW systems console had been downloaded, along with the dunking sonar and torpedo racks. Replacing them were extended-range fuel tanks, a personnel winch, and a .50-caliber heavy machine gun mounted in the cabin door.
Instead of LAMPS system operators, a team of rescue swimmers, a gunner, and a hospital corpsman grimly rode the passenger benches in the cabin.
“Panda Three Three, this is Retainer Zero One.”
“Go, Zero One.”
“We have a fix on the Moondogs. They are in the southern estuary channel about one click east of Waigaoqiao. We are orbiting them at this time. The recovery zone is still cool, but this state of affairs will not last. Come a-runnin’.”
“We are balls to the wall, Zero One,” Three Three’s pilot replied. “Maintain the even strain. We’ll be up with you in about eight minutes.”
Nonetheless, the CSAR pilot twisted the grip throttle on the end of his collective lever a little harder, trying to nurse a few more horsepower out of his twin T-700 turboshaft engines. There was always a degree of friction between the rotor and fixed-wing factions within a carrier air group, but it was friction within a family. One of their own was in trouble now. This was not just a mission, this was a keeping of the faith.
“The air boss reports we have gunships over our aircrew, sir,” Commander Walker said quietly. “They are still clear and the recovery helo is inbound.”
“So far, so good, Jake,” Macintyre commented, crossing his arms and leaning back against the Pri-Fly chart table.
Tallman produced a noncommittal grunt. “Maybe, Eddie Mac. But just remember, victories come singularly. It’s the fuckups that gang up on you.”
In all probability, it was just a coincidence that the albatross is considered a sign of ill omen by mariners. A thousand miles west of the usual north polar-to-south polar migration route of its kind, this one had been driven off course by a summer storm. Gliding silently through the darkness on its ten-foot wingspan, it rested in the flying quasitrance that served as sleep for it on its months-long aerial odyssey.
So deeply oblivious was the great seabird that it didn’t even notice the approach of the other swift-moving night flier.
There was no warning. Just a flash of white and a tremendous slam.
“What the hell?” Panda Three Three’s copilot yelled, grabbing for his controllers.
“I dunno, Danny! It felt like a rotor strike!” the aircraft commander yelled back. A savage, jackhammering vibration was racking the big helo, blurring the instrument readouts almost into illegibility.
“We got rotor damage.”
“Oh, really? You think? Notify Task Flag that we’re aborting! Then notify the Cunningham that we’re coming in for an emergency recovery!”
“Skipper, we got men in the water!”
“Yeah, and sure as all shit, we’re going to be joining them in about two minutes if we don’t get a deck under us!” The copilot noticed some kind of matter smeared on the outside of his windscreen. Tearing open his side window, he took a swipe at it with his glove. Bringing his hand back into the cockpit, he examined it by the instrument lights. His glove was covered with blood, a single, bedraggled, white feather matted in it.
“Ah, for Christ’s sake! We hit a goddamn seagull!”
The chill of the water was starting to sink inward as well.
Neither Digger nor his S.O. had elected to wear anti-exposure suits on this run, and despite the mildness of the night, he was beginning to feel it.
Then there were the sounds carrying across the surface of the river. He’d heard trucks changing gears over toward shore a couple of times and had seen the flash of hooded headlights. Once, when the circling helicopters had swung clear, he’d even made out human voices.
Graves dug the waterproof SAR radio out of his sleeve pocket again. “Retainer Zero One, this is 505. The natives are starting to get a little restless down here, guys.”
“We see, Moondog. Don’t sweat it. We’re still with ya.”
“Roger that, Retainer. How far out is our pickup?”
“Yeah. Moondog, we’re having a little problem with that.”
Already cold, Graves suddenly felt considerably colder. A good friend of his had once used that “a little problem” phrase in just that same carefully offhand manner. He’d died in the crash that had followed thirty seconds later.
Suddenly, from upstream, a searchlight lanced out across the river, a blue-white beam that wavered through the darkness like a probing sword blade.
“Shit!” Arkady tore the night vision visor up and away from his eyes as it overloaded.”
“Searchlight truck on the bank, Lieutenant!”
“I see him.” The Sea Comanche darted toward the source like an angry hornet. “Select Hydra pods. Four rounds. Flechette.”
“Hydra’s hot, sir!”
The searchlight swiveled to target the diving helo, its glare flooding the cockpit and drowning out the Heads-Up Display.
Arkady’s hand flicked up to his helmet again, flipping down the sun visor. Then, boresighting down the light beam, he salvoed the rockets.
Four rounds were launched, but four rounds didn’t arrive on target. The Hydra 70 air-to-surface rockets were carrying M255 flechette warheads. As each round reached peak acceleration, a bursting charge exploded within it, releasing a swarm of 585 finned steel needles. A wave of more than two thousand hypervelocity projectiles swept over the searchlight vehicle, killing both it and everything else within a fifty-yard radius.
Night-blinded and a flier’s instinct away from a killing bout of vertigo, Arkady pulled out of the firing run and swung back over the river.
“Well, fuck a duck, Gus. It looks like we’re going to be putting in a little overtime tonight.”
“No shit, sir.”
On the aft monitors, the crippled Search and Rescue Seahawk could be seen settling onto the Duke’s helipad.
“One, this is the bridge. Get that helo stricken below with all possible speed. I want that pad clear!”
“Will do, Captain.”
The crisis load was building. Amanda’s hand danced across the communications pad, shifting constantly between the CSAR and command channels and the ship’s interphones, striving to maintain situational awareness.