Waldo was listening on an extension and ran the numbers. “Figure another twenty-five minutes’ flying time to here, time on the ground, plus another twenty minutes to on station. Three hours.” He looked at them. “Too long. The Gomers will have their act together by then.”
Kamigami mashed the transmit switch on the phone. “Ask Colonel Sun to be airborne as soon as possible. One hour or less.” Although he never raised his voice, the command imperative was loud, clear, and overpowering. There was no doubt that Sun would make the deadline.
Below him, the angry voices were growing louder and coming from all sides. Shit-fuck-hate! Maggot thought. The soldiers had bracketed his position and were slowly closing in. It was only a matter of minutes before they shook his tree and he fell out. A lone soldier emerged from the brush swinging a machete. He hacked viciously at the trunk of Maggot’s tree. He looked around, took another hard swing at the tree, and disappeared into the foliage. They’re not taking prisoners today. More angry shouts. It was an easy decision. He reached for his survival radio and toggled it to transmit. “Chief,” he radioed, speaking as quietly as he could. “They’ve got me. Strafe my position. I’m in a large tree about forty feet up.”
“Can do. Any other options?”
“Not unless the fuckin’ Marines are around.” This wasn’t the way he wanted to die, but he preferred it to what was waiting for him. His voice grew stronger. “Hose the bastards.”
“I’m in. Do you have me in sight?”
“Negative. Press.” Maggot heard the Warthog, and in his mind’s eye he could see it fly a curvilinear approach, 200 to 300 feet off the deck before it popped for the final run in. He pressed his body against the branch, willing himself to become part of the tree. Below, the soldiers heard the approaching jet and shouted warnings as they scrambled for cover. He couldn’t help himself and had to look. He raised his head in time to see Duke in the pop, climbing to 800 feet. The Hog rolled 135 degrees as its nose came to the ground and pointed directly at him! He had never been on the receiving end of a GAU-8 cannon. “A bit to the left,” Maggot radioed. His voice was amazingly calm. At exactly 2,250 feet slant range, Duke mashed the trigger, and smoke rolled back from the nose of the Hog as the Gatling gun sent a train of death toward him, traveling faster than the speed of sound. The ground below him erupted in a man-made hell as the mix of depleted uranium and high-explosive slugs carved a path in the jungle. Then Maggot heard the growl of the cannon as his tree swayed dangerously back and forth. He held on for dear life as the jet passed over him, its sound wave finally reaching him.
I’ll be damned! he thought. I’m still alive. He raised his head. Below him, the jungle had been shredded, and shouts blended with cries of anguish echoed back and forth. In the distance he heard the Warthog reposition for a second run. He keyed his radio. “Duke, do it again. This time to fifty meters to the right.”
“Sure about the fifty meters?”
“Make it sixty.” Again Maggot pressed his body against the thick branch, his arms over his helmet. He didn’t look as his world exploded. Four shells hit the tree next to his, and it came apart, sending a shower of splinters into the underside of the branch Maggot was on. “Oh, shit!” he shouted as his perch collapsed from under him. He started to fall, but his parachute was still snagged in the foliage above his head. He swung out, dangling in his harness, still forty feet above the ground. Slowly he raised his helmet’s visor. “Whoa,” he breathed. The GAU-8 had carved two open alleys in the jungle, leveling everything in its path. But flying splinters had caused the real damage, shredding whatever they hit. A coppery taste flooded his mouth when he saw the body. A long, narrow splinter had pinned the soldier with the machete to a tree. A shower of slivers had turned him into mincemeat.
No wonder they hate us, he thought. The coppery taste was back and he fought the urge to retch. He swung back and forth, clear for anyone to see. Can’t stay here. He reached for the pocket on the left side of his survival vest and pulled out a lowering device, a long thin strap with a clip and a ratchet. He snapped the ratchet onto the chest strap of his harness and the clip onto one of the parachute risers above his head. He snugged up the strap before pressing the coke clips that released the risers from his harness. He fell about two feet before the strap pulled him up short. He quickly fed the loose end through the ratchet and lowered himself to the ground. He looked around, getting his bearings and listening. But there was only silence.
The two team leaders listened as Kamigami explained the drill in his strange mix of English and Chinese. The plan was simple in the extreme. The Warthogs would suppress all ground fire while the lead helicopter, call sign Gold, would ingress to extract the downed pilot. The goal was to spend as little time as possible in the target area and hit with overwhelming force. The second helicopter, call sign Red, would be held in reserve. But the situation was fluid, and they had to be flexible. “I’ll be on the lead helicopter with shooters from Dragon Gold,” Kamigami said. “Tel, I want you on the second helicopter with the Tiger Red team to coordinate on the radios.” He turned to Waldo. “Any changes?”
“The SAR commander’s call sign is Air Boss,” Waldo replied. “But Duke only has about twenty minutes left on station before he’s bingo fuel and has to RTB. Bag will replace him as Air Boss.”
“Not good,” Kamigami said. “That’s about when we’ll be arriving.”
“Bag’s done this before and can hack it,” Waldo promised. “We’ve also got four Hogs holding to the south, play time sixty minutes. Four more will be on station before they RTB for fuel.”
“I hope so,” Kamigami said. “Okay, any questions?” There were none. “Let’s do it.” He jogged to the waiting helicopters, holding his helmet in one hand, his MP5 in the other.
Kamigami braced himself between the pilots’ seats as the big helicopter barely cleared the treetops. The copilot pointed at his watch and held up five fingers, closed his fist, then held up five fingers. They were ten minutes out. Kamigami clutched the mike in his left hand. “Air Boss, how copy Gold on this frequency?”
“Read you five-by,” Duke replied. “Maggot is up and talking on Guard. He reports no activity in his area and is unhurt. As you ingress, there’s a karst ridgeline running north to south. To the east of the ridgeline you’ll see what looks like two cleared paths in the jungle. Maggot is between the paths near the middle. Hostiles have fallen back on the LOC and are using refugees as human shields. Bag’s on station and is now Air Boss. I’m bingo minus three and got to go.” Duke was three hundred pounds into his recovery fuel and cutting it close.
Bag’s voice came on the radio. “I’ve got it, Duke. Okay, everyone, listen up. The hostiles are fanning out from the LOC in a sweep toward Maggot.”
“How far are they from Maggot?” Kamigami asked.
“Less than a kilometer,” Bag answered.
Kamigami ran the numbers in his head. They would be arriving in the area about the same time as the hostiles. If they were able to shoot down a Warthog, a helicopter would be twice as easy — unless there was something between them. “Have Maggot move toward that ridgeline to the west. If he can get on the far side, we can use it for terrain masking.”
“Copy all,” Bag transmitted.