“Yes, there is.”
Amanda’s right hand went to the main throttles and shoved them forward.
She felt the faint surge of acceleration across the small of her back, and the indicator bar of the iron log began to creep up its scale.
Amanda took the throttles to their stops. The mine-hunting sonar was irrelevant now; she had the bearing she must steer.
Her left hand had gone to the helm controller, her fingers closing around the tiny spokes of the miniature ship’s wheel, holding the course line.
She heard the building wail of the next incoming salvo, building into the ripping roar of their arrival. With the bridge open, the shell detonations were as loud as the word of God … and away beyond the Duke’s stern.
For the moment, she had jerked her ship out of the enemy’s gun sights. Scylla had been passed. Now came Charybdis.
The Cunningham was rolling down on the datum point of the watchdog mine. Impassively, she watched as the image of her ship and the mine merged on the screen. There was nothing else to be done, except to take a deep living breath a moment later as they passed over it and swept clear of the minefield.
Another Chinese salvo dropped farther astern. Amanda became aware of the other people crowding onto the bridge, corpsmen tending to the injured and replacement hands taking over the functional workstations. A new helmsman was standing by at her shoulder.
She also became aware of the breeze flowing in through the empty windscreen frame, clearing away the stench of blood and explosives.
“Keep her in the main channel,” she said. “We have some people waiting for us.”
Inland, the Communist guns grated against the limits of their traversing range, no longer able to track their target. The engineers who had laid out the battery had never visualized a foe that would dare to pierce so deeply into Red territory.
The men who manned them were patient, however. They would clear away their dead and wounded, and they would wait. Their enemy had passed them to gain entry to the river.
They would have to pass once more to escape.
“What in the hell is the holdup on that support strike, No-I an?”
“We had to upload a new set of Mission Data Modules, sir. Those coastal-defense installations were not classified as a potentially critical target. We never visualized one of our ships having to go upriver like this.”
“Admiral,” the communications rating called out from his station. “Battle-damage report coming in from the Cunningham.”
“How bad?” Tallman demanded, striding across to the communications console.
“Shell hit … ” the radioman relayed. “Forward gun mount out … Casualties … Ship still operational … Clear of the minefield. Proceeding to recovery point.”
“Acknowledge the message.”
Jake Tallman looked as if he wanted to hit something, just once, very hard.
“Take it easy, Jake,” Macintyre said slowly, leaning back against the Pri-Fly bulkhead.
“It’s going to pieces, Eddie Mac. This operation is going to pieces, and we’re going to lose all those people out there, and it’s my fault.”
“Every operation always goes to pieces. And then we have to trust in the people we send out there to put it all back together again. Don’t count Amanda Garrett out of this, Jake. The Lady has the touch.”
“I get that impression. I just hope I haven’t wasted it, and her.”
The Pri-Fly windows buzzed softly and a booming roar leaked in from the flight deck. Twinned cones of blue-white exhaust flame climbed away from the end of the carrier’s catapult as an F/A-18 Super Hornet hit the sky.
“Support strike launching now, sir,” the air boss reported.
Tallman shook his head slowly. “Too late. Too damn late. By the time they can form up and get over the target, this thing is going to be over. One way or another.”
Digger Graves again heard the angry slap of a rifle slug skipping off the water. He was becoming too familiar with that sound. Thanks to the light from the burning gunboat, the Communist riflemen were beginning to get their range.
The current was also drawing them closer to the bank. He had tried swimming farther back out into the channel, but burdened with a dislocated shoulder and Bub’s limp form, he hadn’t been able to make much headway. In growing despair, he groped for the CSAR radio.
“Retainer, we are getting down to the wire down here! We are getting fired on! Can you get these guys off of us?”
There was a long pause before the cool, steady voice Graves had come to hang on to replied. “No can do, Moon dog. No ammo left.”
No ammo left. That was going to be one shitty epitaph.
“Retainer. How long till pickup?”
“I don’t know, Moondog. I’ve lost contact with my ship. I’m out of contact with everybody. No relays. We’re sort of alone out here.”
He wasn’t going to have to make that decision about staying in the Navy after all. It took Graves a second to work up the will to lift the radio to his lips again. “I think that’s it, Retainer. You’d better call it quits, man.”
“Hang in there, Moondog. We’re still working the problem.”
“Jesus, Retainer! Don’t be stupid! There’s nothing more you can do! We’re going to be dead here in a second anyway. There’s no sense in you going out with us. Beat it!”
“I said, we are still working the problem!” the helo pilot’s voice snarled back. “I am fucking well not giving up on this thing yet, and you fucking well aren’t either. Stand by!”
Graves felt a hysterical laugh build up within him. Somehow he had never conceived of anyone ever having to order him to stay alive. Another bullet strike close enough to spray water in his face sobered him up abruptly. Digger Graves suddenly hoped that Retainer Zero One knew what he was talking about.
“Moondog, you still with me?”
“Still here, Retainer.”
“But not for long. I’m getting you guys out of there right now.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t do a lift-out?”
“I can’t. But I do have a dunking sonar onboard. I’m going to lower the sound head so you can grab on to it. Then I’ll tow you guys back out into the center of the channel. That’ll at least get you out of rifle range. Got it?”
“I’m not arguing, Retainer.”
“Rajah! Stand by, we’re coming in.”
The noise of the circling helo began to grow. Scanning the darkened sky upstream, Graves picked up the angry insect silhouette of a Sea Comanche, outlined against the flames of the gunboat. The sound head was lowered, and it swung pendulously fifty feet beneath its sonar pod.
“Yeah, Bub,” he whispered. “Maybe he’s right.”
“Okay, old buddy,” the voice of the Retainer said over the CSAR. “You’re going to have to talk me in the last couple of feet. I can’t see you once you’re in under my nose.”
“Roger, Retainer. Just get close.”
The rotor growl was dominating now, beginning to drown out all outside noise. But Graves could see a growing number of slug strikes on the water’s surface around him. The locals were apparently unhappy with the notion of losing their prey.
The tracer stream of a light machine gun cut the night, not aiming at the two downed fliers but up-angled at the approaching helicopter.
The blast of the downdraft began to sheet-spray across the river’s surface, and the sound head struck the water some twenty feet away. All too fast, it began to swim in his direction.
Graves had to have a hand free! He laced his left arm through the straps of Bubbles’s life jacket. Ignoring the pain of his dislocated shoulder, he watched the tether approach through narrowed eyes. Waiting for the right instant, he lunged. A grunt of agony escaped him as he felt the drag on his injured limb and his fingers brushed braided Kevlar.