He crawled inside the air lock, grabbed a folded personal rescue ball, and pushed it through the hatch into the mid-deck compartment. He unzipped it and brought it closer to Jones. The rescue ball was also made out of tough Ortho fabric over alternate layers of Mylar and Dacron.
He guided Jones into the ball, making sure that his upper body remained straight. Kessler bent Jones’s legs, zipped up the ball, and activated the life-support system on its side. The ball quickly filled with oxygen.
Satisfied that his friend was safe, Kessler suited up and returned to the flight deck. In the twenty minutes that it had taken him to suit up and get Jones inside the ball, the oxygen level had dropped another two percent.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CONFLICTING BELIEFS
“So the Defense Department gave you the order to pull back?” snapped Pruett over the radio as the Skipper of the Blue Ridge gave him a status update on the mission.
“Yes, sir.”
“And do what? Wait?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Ah, no, sir. We got visual confirmation that the target was destroyed, but in the process it destroyed one of the rescue helicopters with its crew of four. Two pilots and two Marines. The second helo hovered around the area for a few more minutes but couldn’t see a thing. He reported that the entire side of the compound was ablaze, including the area where our unit was supposed to be.”
“Have you tried communicating with them?”
“Repeatedly, sir, but got no response. The pilot claims to have picked up an emergency distress signal on radar. It’s possible that some of the men have made it out alive from that inferno with partially functioning radio gear, but that’s just a guess. It could also mean the enemy got ahold of a radio and is trying to draw us back in. Hard to tell without proper communication with the surviving troops, again if any of them’s still alive.”
Pruett rubbed his eyes and massaged his burning chest. He had achieved his mission, but at what cost? Four men confirmed dead, and no confirmation on ground casualties. For all he knew, the entire team could still be intact on the ground with busted communications gear. Pruett frowned. He knew he had to proceed from that assumption. Those men, at least some of them, could be alive and on the run, and it was his job to get them all out. How could Stice call the helo back? It should have remained in the area and then refueled midair. Damn that Stice!
“All right,” Pruett responded. “Call me back immediately if you hear anything. In the meantime have the returning helicopter refueled and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Got that?”
“Yes, sir!”
Pruett passed the mike to the radio operator before looking at Cameron and Marie. “Got all that?”
“Why would Stice do something like that?” asked Marie.
“I’m not sure, but I intend to find out immediately.”
Cameron nodded. “You gotta get a helo to them and get them out. Every second counts.”
Pruett nodded and reached for the phone on the wall. He dialed the White House.
Crowe walked away from the decelerating rotor as the crew tied the Sea Stallion onto the flight deck. Although he had hardly slept in the past twenty-four hours, the adrenaline kept him frosty, fully awake. His thinking was clear, his determination firm. He spotted Davenport coming up to meet him.
“What the hell happened, Kenny?”
“What do you think happened, Skipper? I was ordered to leave American soldiers behind. That’s what the hell happened! And that damned rocket blew up in our faces. Why didn’t you tell me that a launch was in progress? Our approach would have been different! Jesus Christ, Skipper, why the secret? And why in the world did we leave them there? I had them in sight!”
“Calm down, Kenny. We all follow orders around here, and no, you thought you had them in sight. You didn’t have any confirmation.”
“Well, sir. Whoever gave you that order not to let me rescue them is a fucking moron! You tell him that. You tell him that his idiotic decision will cost the lives of American servicemen. Those men won’t last—”
“Just who in the fuck you think you’re talking to? I will tell you one last time, Commander. Keep your damn mouth shut and do as I tell you to! If I tell you to fucking plunge your helo into the ocean you will do it because that’s an order. You go that, mister?”
Crowe didn’t respond. He could see Davenport’s arteries throbbing in his neck. Crowe lowered his gaze and stared at the flight deck.
Davenport exhaled. “Look, we all know that we should have stayed in the area a little longer and looked for survivors, but orders are orders. What’s the matter with you anyway? Every operation has its risks, especially covert ones. You of all people should know that. You were in Vietnam, weren’t you?”
Crowe inhaled deeply through his mouth, clenched his teeth, and slowly exhaled through his nostrils. Davenport was right. In covert operations, standard procedure was not to acknowledge the team until it had left enemy territory.
“Now tell me,” Davenport continued, “you’re sure about the blip on your screen?”
Crowe closed his eyes for a brief second and then stared into Davenport’s intelligent blue eyes. “It was for real, Skipper. It lasted ten minutes and slowly disappeared as I left the Guiana coast.”
Davenport didn’t respond. He simply turned around and walked back toward the bridge. Crowe followed him. “Sir, what the hell is going on?”
“Get your craft ready to go at a moment’s notice, Kenny. You’re dismissed.”
“With all due respect, sir. I’m ready to go right away. Those men—”
Davenport stopped walking, turned around, and got within inches from him. His voice was ice cold. “You listen to me, and listen very carefully. I just gave you a direct order and I expect you to follow it to the letter. I know about those men out there, but I also know the proper chain of command. We need authorization to go back in and get them out. Got that?” Crowe stood mute. “I said did you get that, Commander Crowe?”
“Yes, sir. I got it.”
“Good. That’s all.”
Davenport turned and continued toward the bridge.
Crowe just stood there, flight helmet in his right hand. He looked over the dark sea toward the Guiana coast. Soldiers were there, American soldiers, most likely outnumbered and outarmed, and he was being asked to sit tight and wait for some Washington bureaucrat to make up his fucking mind about whether it was “advisable” or not to go back in. The old familiar pain returned. He hadn’t felt it for nearly two decades, yet it was there once again. The knot in his stomach he’d always gotten when soldiers suffered the ill effects of politicians trying to make military decisions; a feeling he became all too familiar with in Vietnam. He hated it with an overwhelming passion. In a burst of rage, he threw his flight helmet against the flight deck with all his might, startling several mechanics. Davenport, who was still on the flight deck, also turned his way. No words were spoken.
Crowe slowly walked toward the edge of the flight deck and simply stared at the dark sea. It looked so peaceful. The stars above lazily shed their minute light on the ship’s wake. He watched it in silence.