“I’m runnin’, man. I’m runnin’!”
Ortiz raced back toward the swamp. The blast has ignited most of the palm trees around that section of the chain-link fence, or actually where the fence had been. The heat intensified. Ortiz himself had been lifted off the ground and thrown ten feet by the powerful explosion. He had landed a few feet from Zimmer, who had remained behind a palm tree.
Now they both ran as fast as they possibly could. The area was in flames and Ortiz was certain there would be hell to pay for this. The owners of that rocket would not be pleased to see it destroyed in front of their noses.
“What are we gonna do, man? What the fuck?”
“We move inland. Back to where we came from. Back to the — look, man, the second evac helo!”
“Mambo, Stallion One here. Do you copy?”
Static.
“Mambo, this is Stallion One, over.”
Nothing.
Crowe’s fears were being confirmed. The explosion had occurred very close to Mambo’s last tracked position. He exhaled.
“Stallion One, Blue Ridge here. What in the hell is going on over there?” It was Davenport’s voice crackling through his headphones.
“We lost Stallion Two, sir. That’s what in the hell is going on. It caught debris from the rocket and exploded the moment it hit the ground. Nobody could survive that. Jesus, sir! Why weren’t we told about the rocket? We could have avoided the crash. Damn!”
“What about the ground team?”
“Got something on radar, but nobody answers my calls.”
“Radio trouble?”
“Could be. I’ll hang around for a few more minutes, sir. Maybe I can spot them.”
“What’s your fuel situation, Stallion One?”
“Less than a thousand pounds, sir, but there’s always air-to-air refueling.”
“Stand by, Stallion One.”
Crowe pushed the cyclic forward and flew at less than five feet over the swamp with his landing lights on. They have to be around here somewhere, he thought as he shifted his gaze back and forth between the radar screen and the horizon.
He hit the intercom switch. “You guys see anything back there? he asked the two Marines.
“Ah, no, sir. Not a thing yet… wait… wait. I got something! I see a few men running away from the fence and into the swamp.”
“Which way?” Crowe pulled back the cyclic and stopped in a cold hover. He added right rudder and did a three-sixty scan. There! He spotted them. About three hundred feet to the right.
“Stallion One, Blue Ridge. Standing order is to return immediately. Repeat, return immediately!”
“Sir, I got soldiers in plain view. They look like our men, sir.”
“Have you made contact with them?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Listen up, Stallion One. This order comes straight from the top. Get your ass back here. You’re low on fuel and we have no authorization to get a tanker back this way. Come home. Repeat, come home now!”
Crowe tightened his grip on the cyclic. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Those men were so close. If he could only take a closer look, perhaps he—
“Kenny, if you ever want to fly again, get your ass back in here right now! We can’t afford another crash!”
Crowe eyed the fuel gauges. Nine hundred pounds plus a five-minute reserve. Barely enough. He hastily added power and rudder, and turned the helo around.
“Stallion One, returning to base.”
“Wait! Wait! We’re here! Come back!” Ortiz shouted when he watched the helicopter turn around.
“They’re gone, brother. The bastards left us!”
Ortiz turned his head left. Zimmer had just come up from his right. His face was covered with mud, save for his eyes and open mouth.
“Damn! I can’t believe they didn’t see us, Tommy.” He reached for his radio. It was gone. “Mierda!”
“What is it?”
“My radio. It’s gone.”
Zimmer looked for his. It was still strapped to his belt. He retrieved it and handed it to Ortiz.
“Puta! This is incredible,” Ortiz said upon inspecting the hand-held unit.
“What is?”
“Your radio’s busted. Look.” He showed Zimmer the crack along the back.
“Try it anyway.”
Ortiz exhaled and brought it to his lips. “Mambo One. This is Mambo One. Anyone out there, over?”
Not even static came through the small speaker. Ortiz shook his head.
“Well, this is just fuckin’ great,” Zimmer said. “What the hell are we supposed to do now? They probably think we’re dead!”
“Damn.” Ortiz set the radio back to emergency-transmission mode. The unit responded with a small blip. That portion of the radio was operational. He shifted his gaze back to Zimmer. “At least they’ll know where we are. It ain’t much, but it’s somethin’.”
Zimmer shook his head. “That could help another rescue helo to pinpoint us, but what about the rest of Mambo?”
“I don’t know. There were two radios per team. At our last radio check, Mambo Two had at least one working radio, but Mambo Three didn’t — that’s if any of ‘em’s still alive. So Mambo Two’s our only chance. The problem’s that the rocket exploded closer to them than us.”
“You think they…”
“Don’t know, hermano. All we can do is head for the rendezvous point ‘n’ hope the rest of Mambo does the same. If we can get a group of five or six, we might have a chance. Now let’s go before the enemy gets here.”
Stice hung up the phone. The operation had been a success but at the cost of one helicopter and a platoon of men. He would report it like that to the President.
He thought about a rescue operation, but in his mind that was too risky. Mambo was a disposable asset. They had done their job and now the U.S. government would take care of their families and at the same time issue a standard statement of denial of involvement if any part of the operation ever became public.
He closed the file and set it to the side.
“Houston? Lightning.”
“Go ahead, Lightning.”
“Things are getting too critical up here. The atmosphere inside the crew module has reached a toxic level. I’m reading seventy-six-percent nitrogen, nineteen-percent oxygen, and five-percent carbon monoxide. I’m afraid our initial estimates were too optimistic. The air is already unsafe.” Kessler kept his eyes on the oxygen level. A normal atmosphere was composed of seventy-nine-percent nitrogen and twenty-one-percent oxygen. Carbon monoxide was usually removed by Lightning’s atmosphere-revitalization subsystem, mixed with nitrogen and oxygen, and injected back into the crew module, but with Lightning operating only on one fuel cell and one oxygen tank, the subsystem could not maintain an adequate amount of oxygen in the air.
“We are confirming your reading, Lightning.”
“I’m afraid we’re gonna have to suit up. I’m finding it harder and harder to breathe in here.”
“We copy, Lightning. Don’t take any chances. Carbon monoxide will make you sleepy. Get in your suits and call us back.”
“Roger.”
Kessler dove through a hatch and reached the mid-deck compartment. Jones was still unconscious. Kessler approached the large Texan on the horizontal sleeping station, removed the retaining Velcro straps, and gently pulled him toward the air-lock hatch.