By mid-afternoon, everything was in place. The pilots and pararescue specialists, or “PJs” as they were called, paced around their helicopters, snapping insults and jokes at each other, checking their gear, and watching the sun as it faded in the hazy sky. As the sun set over the blue-green waters of the Marmara Sea, one of the Pavehawks spun up her engines and took to the air.
Four hours later, the helicopter had finished air refueling and was speeding to the north, flying just five feet over the water. Approaching the Ukrainian coast, it pulled up to cross over a wall of white rock, barely clearing the crest of the pale granite cliffs, then dropped toward the trees on the other side. Its blades slapped the air as it pounded along. Two gunners stood at each of the side doorways, their 7.62 caliber mini-guns set on the maximum rate-of-fire of 4,000 shells per minute. Between the aft bulkheads, three PJs hunkered down in their seats and inventoried their rescue and medical equipment once again.
The helo was fighting a buffeting headwind from a bitter cold front that had moved down from the Arctic Ocean. The temperature was below freezing and dropping very quickly as they flew further north. The survivor was another 300 miles up ahead. He had been down for almost twenty-four hours. He wouldn’t live another night on his own.
The night was pitch black. As dark as a cave. The pilots were using their night-vision goggles to see. The world appeared ghostly green as they peered through their goggles, but still they had no problem making out the trees, rivers, and valleys as they sped along. The helicopter remained very low, pulling up only to clear high-tension power lines and an occasional long row of trees. The pilots steered the helicopter through the valleys, staying clear of even the smallest towns. They made their way to the north, undetected by anyone except an occasional Ukrainian farmer who stopped and wondered at the noise in the night.
Ninety minutes later, the copilot heard the first tiny warble of the downed pilot’s emergency locator beacon. The Pavehawk’s internal computer also picked up on the beam and commanded a three degree change of heading to the right. It also updated the distance to the survivor. Only thirty-eight miles to go.
The satellite communications radio started to chatter, rattling out a deciphered code onto a three-inch-wide strip of white paper. It took the flight engineer a few seconds to notice the clattering SATCOM. It wasn’t supposed to come on. Not here. Not now. They should have already been told what they needed to know. The flight engineer pulled the paper from the printer the second it stopped and read the report, then swore to himself.
“NRO detects unidentified Bandits in the area,” he announced over the intercom system. “Multiple fast movers, riding shotgun for some choppers underneath.”
One of the pilots grunted. “So we’re not the only ones looking for this guy, huh?”
“No, sir. Not by a long shot.”
A very long pause. The pilots knew there was more. “Okay, give it to us, Pup. What else have you got?”
The young flight engineer, no more than a teenager, read the SATCOM report to himself once again and then said, “Two Ukrainian brigades have been moved up from Khar’kov, with their associated triple A and support vehicles. They are fanned out in a search semicircle. They are estimated to be in the area now.”
The pilot swore. One of the door gunners jammed his mini- gun off of safe and adjusted the focus on his goggles. The copilot stared at his navigation screen. Twenty-six miles to go.
“What side of the survivor are they approaching from?” the pilot hurriedly asked.
“Doesn’t say, sir. But I bet we find out.”
The pilot swore once again. “Two full brigades! Are you certain? Two full brigades?!”
“That’s what it says, sir. Do you want me to ask for verification?”
The pilot paused for only a second. “No,” he answered. “Screw it. Doesn’t matter. So they want him. We want him worse. We’ll be there in less than twelve minutes. Now everyone, you know what to do!”
Beneath them, the frozen ground scurried by. The door gunners trained their mini-guns to fire forward of the helo’s position. One of them threw a huge green ball of bubble gum into his mouth. “Left gunner’s ready!” he called out.
The pilot looked at the distance to the survivor’s location. Twenty-one miles to go. He pulled back on the cyclic while adding a touch of power. The Pavehawk lifted gently over a 200 meter ridge of ancient glacial rock. Descending once again, the helicopter’s four blades slapped at the air. The pilot followed the steering cross on his navigation computer and wondered for the thousandth time, Who is this guy we are after?
When the sun had set, Ammon pulled his parachute in with his teeth and gathered it over his body, hoping to keep himself warm. But as the north wind picked up and the temperature dropped, he quickly realized it wouldn’t do much good. He lay tucked up under the rotting log, shivering again from the cold. He had pulled his arms from the sleeves of his jacket and tucked them close to his body, not so much to keep them warm, but more to limit the pain that the useless limbs caused as they dangled at his side.
He was bitter cold. And very hungry. And far more thirsty than he ever had been in his life. He was lonely and tired and had given up hope. From his hole, he could just make out the north star. As he stared out into the darkness, his breath crystallized in the bitter cold, leaving tiny, white prisms of frozen breath. He couldn’t feel his feet any more. When he closed his eyes, his lashes froze themselves shut. He swallowed a thick wad of spit and licked at the frozen moisture on the underside of the log.
The parachute signal had been his last hope. No, that was not correct. The signal had been his only hope. The only hope that he ever had. If they were looking, they would have seen the signal. If they were searching, they would have picked up on his locator beacon. If they had chosen to, they could have sent some type of rescue chopper.
But they didn’t. He had waited all day. Holding on through the cold and the pain, hiding himself among the trees, he had waited. And now it was too late. It was too cold. He wouldn’t last until morning.
A muffled sound drifted through the forest. Barking dogs. Through the trees. Far off in the distance. Then the sound of shouting voices. Ammon nearly stopped breathing. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach, and he pushed himself even further under the log.
“Jeff, we’ve got a major highway up ahead,” the copilot announced as he studied his moving-map-display. “I’ve got significant west-to-east traffic. Looks like a column of military vehicles. Turn left now, heading three-zero-zero. That should take us about a mile behind the last vehicle.”
“Coming left,” the pilot replied as he banked the helicopter aggressively up on her side. Inside his helmet, the tone of the locator beacon continued to build. The Pavehawk had a very good lock on the survivor’s location, and he was just where they thought he would be. As the pilot rolled out, he, too, could begin to make out the dark ribbon of paved road that made its way to the east, along with a column of boxy vehicles with high backs and big tires. A dozen or so, mostly troop transports. No sign of any missile launchers or triple A.