The helicopter was just over a mile from the road, and barely skimming over the trees. They would pass behind the short convoy of trucks. The Ukrainians probably wouldn’t even know they were there. With any luck…
“Break right! Tracers in the sky! Get down pilot! Get her down now!” The right door gunner was screaming his head off. Both pilots jammed the stick forward to push the helicopter even lower toward the trees. Twisting his head to the right, the copilot saw a terrifying sight. Long arches of white and green tracers sprouted up from a small clearing in the trees to chase after the low-flying helicopter. Snaking lines of 23mm fire reached out with their long, bony fingers.
“Break left! Now! Now! Bring her around!” the gunner called again.
The pilot reacted by instinct. Pulling the chopper into a tight turn, he jerked up on the collective to add more power, which forced the helicopter around even more. Pulling back on the stick, the helicopter began to climb. Twisting through the sky, the pilot banked the chopper left and then right in an effort to break the attacking gunner’s aiming solution. The copilot twisted in his seat, hoping to locate the incoming line of fire. At first, the tracers passed just over their heads. Then suddenly, they jerked to the front of their nose before trailing off below and behind them. The pilot let the helicopter drop. The top of the trees rushed up to meet them and began to brush their under-carriage. Broken pieces of wood and scattered pine needles thrashed through the air behind the fleeing chopper. The tracers died off.
The Pavehawk turned back to heading. Only eight miles to go.
Ammon heard a shot fire out. Another fired twice in reply. The dogs snarled and barked at each other. He pushed himself deeper under the log and prayed that his parachute would not be seen. But he knew that it would. And he knew that even were he completely hidden, it wouldn’t matter. They were coming. With the dogs, they would find him.
It was then that he heard the beat of the rotors. He sucked in his breath and didn’t dare move, thinking the sound wasn’t real. For a second or two, the sound faded away. Then, with a deep whoop, the HH-60 approached the side of the hill.
“I’ve got the landing zone straight ahead,” the copilot announced. “There! On the south side. Near the crest. Just below the outcropping of pines.”
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” the pilot replied. “Are you sure that’s the place? It’s half the size I thought it would be!”
’The copilot nodded his head. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m certain.”
In the back of the chopper, the rescue team began to store their equipment in preparation for the assault landing.
The pilot turned to the copilot. “Try the radio once again,” he demanded. “Try both the primary and alternate channels. He’s got to be there, and I want to hear his voice before we commit ourselves to going into such a small LZ!”
The copilot keyed his microphone switch, though he knew it wouldn’t be any use. He had been through this before. The guy simply wasn’t answering their radio calls. But still, he did as he was told.
“Unknown Hiker, Unknown Hiker, come up on two fifty-five point four.” He paused for ten seconds, then keyed the switch once again. “Unknown Hiker, Unknown Hiker, if you hear this transmission, identify yourself by popping one of your flares.”
The pilot slowed the helicopter and circled over the LZ, peering down with his goggles as he passed overhead. It was bare. No signal. No parachute. No fire or smoke from a flare. No sign of any life at all.
“Maybe his survival radio is busted,” the right door gunner said. “Maybe he’s incapacitated. You know, a broken arm or something. And with hostile troops all around him, you know he can’t set off a flare.”
For a moment no one spoke.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” the copilot finally offered. “But maybe he’s already been captured. Maybe there is someone down there waiting for us. And maybe it isn’t our friend.”
The pilot set up for one more pass over the LZ. “We’ll take one more look,” he said. “Then we’ll decide what to do.”
The helicopter flew right over his head. Ammon could scarcely believe it. He rolled out from underneath the dead log, wincing with pain, and struggled to his feet, his eyes on the sky, following the sound of the chopper. The clear whoop of the blades reverberated through the night air. He stared into the sky as the sound receded into the distance.
“No! No!” he silently pleaded. “No, I’m here. You’ve got to come back!”
Then he heard them again. Shouts. And the dogs. They seemed to be gathering around him. The sounds echoed through the trees. He glanced up at the sky, not knowing what to do. He only had a few seconds. The helicopter would only make one more pass.
Dropping to his knees by the log, he bent over and buried his face in the dirt. Grabbing a thin strand of nylon parachute between his teeth, he staggered to his feet and dragged the parachute out from under the log. The sound of the chopper faded, then turned back toward his direction as it set up to make one more pass. He dropped to the forest floor once again. An animal bolted from the treeline to his right, rustling the leaves in his path. Ammon sucked in his breath as the rabbit scampered into the brush, its frightened eyes gleaming in the dark. Ammon bent over, his broken and swollen arms jolting with pain. He fought down the urge to cry out. Quickly, he grabbed more of the chute in his teeth, then pushed himself backward, sliding along the soft pine needles and powdery snow. Pulling the bright parachute from under the log, he stretched it into a thick orange and white streamer. Gasping for breath, he fell down on the ground. He listened to the sounds in the forest. And waited to see who got to him first.
“Jeff! He’s there. He’s laying on top of his chute!” The copilot was nearly screaming. The chopper passed over the LZ for the second time. “He’s there. We’ve got to go in!”
Suddenly the aircraft shuddered and leapt to the side as the mini-guns started to blaze. “We’re taking fire! We’re taking fire!” The left gunner screamed. “I’ve got multiple targets, all along on this side!”
“Roger that!” the right gunner called. The six barrel Gatling gun spun on its mount, spewing white-hot bullets through the forest and trees, mowing down everything in its path. Within a matter of seconds, the two gunners had fired off nearly a thousand rounds of ammunition.
“Can we land?” the pilot asked in desperation.
“I don’t know,” the copilot shot back. “It’s going to be tight. But let’s get down there and see.”
The pilot shot a quick look to his right. The copilot answered his question with a nod of his head.
The mini-guns continued to cut through the forest. The HH-60 shook and vibrated with every round. Two of the PJs pulled themselves to the door gunner positions and helped feed the chain of ammunition from the ammo bins to make sure the guns didn’t jam. A white arc of light traced up to the chopper. The air frame buffeted violently as three shells passed through the thick aluminum of the tail boom housing. The pilot jerked the aircraft around and turned for the LZ while slowing down. They were committed. They were going in. The right gunner held his fire as he searched for a target. The chopper settled over the tall pines and came to a hover as it blew up dust and snow and small limbs from the trees. Slowly, it moved forward until it was over the small clearing on the side of the hill.