by Bob Mayer
Trace switched frequencies. Still nothing. After five minutes, she finally gave up. The impact must have broken the radio. At the very least she knew the condition of the helicopter meant the antenna had been sliced when the tail boom was cut off.
She cast her mind about, searching for a way out of her situation, but the options were not just limited, they were nonexistent. She would have to wait and hope.
“What now, recondo?” Trace asked herself out loud.
These very hills on the military reservation were where she had earned her “Recondo” badge her second summer at West Point. Billed as a mini-Ranger school, the eight-daylong Recondo training was designed to introduce “yearlings’ ‘ to the basics of patrolling but, more fundamentally, was designed to introduce cadets to the military practice of being forced to perform difficult mental and physical tasks while under the influence of stress, and sleep and food deprivation.
“Good training” Boomer would call it, and Trace knew he was right.
Combat was one of the highest stressors a human could go through and it was almost always under the worst possible conditions.
Despite her predicament. Trace had to grimly smile as a freezing rain began to fall outside. It seemed things were getting even worse.
Trace leaned back in the pilot’s seat, as comfortable as she could be with immobile legs. She forced her mind away from her pain and discomfort and traveled back. She remembered Camp Buckner and the time her patrol of twenty-six cadets had charged a small hill defended by a squad of 82nd Airborne soldiers. They’d run screaming at the top of their lungs up the grass-covered slope to be met by a barrage of smoke’ and CS grenades. Hacking and coughing from the tear gas, they’d turned and run back downhill as swiftly as they had advanced. All except one classmate. Trace’s bunkmate, Linda Greenberg, who’d simply frozen, standing still among the stinging gas.
Since the powers-that-be had not thought to issue the cadets gas masks — and the 82tei was not supposed to be using the gas — the cadets could only stand at the bottom of the hill and watch as Linda gagged and vomited all over herself, until finally the gas dissipated. At which point, not to Trace’s surprise — she’d already seen enough in her first year at West Point — her male classmates had gathered around Linda and ridiculed her for embarrassing them in front of the enlisted men of the 82nd squad who were laughing from on top the hill at the spectacle of the female cadet covered in puke. They were especially thrilled when it was discovered that Linda had also lost control of her bladder under the effects of the tear gas.
Trace had taken Linda away from the jeers of their classmates and cleaned her up as best as she could in a nearby stream, giving her the extra set of fatigues from her rucksack to wear. A week later, just after the formal graduation from Recondo training where the cloth patches denoting successful completion of the training were given out by the cadre from the 10th Special Forces Group, the cadets of Trace’s company had held their own ceremony where they gave out their own awards. Linda was issued a pair of rubber panties and a vomit bag.
Trace was given a Recondo patch made of moleskin — the medic’s tool to treat blisters — a reflection on the six runs she’d missed with foot problems during the summer training.
It was sexist and it was brutal and most certainly “politically insensitive” in modern jargon, but as Trace sat there pinned in the pilot’s seat, she also knew it was reality.
The Academy had not been designed to prepare cadets to enter the normal world. It had been designed to prepare them to lead in combat and that in itself was the most brutal of all man’s endeavors, despite such trappings as glory and honor. That cadets could be so nasty to those who failed to live up to their own standards was not surprising.
A moan escaped Trace’s lips. Her leg was throbbing again, even stronger than before. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Trace suddenly remembered the plastic case. She twisted her head and looked between the seats where she had jammed it on takeoff. It was still there.
That was all that mattered right now. Trace reached for the case, but the pain that jolted out of her right leg was enough to blanket her mntitin darkness.
4 DECEMBER
7:45 A.M.LOCAL 1245 ZULU
Trace hacked and coughed her way awake. Her chest felt terrible and she had a pounding headache. She blearily opened her eyes and quickly closed them. In the pale gray daylight, her current predicament was all too real. She could see the rock wall just in front of the cockpit and the tangle of metal.
She opened her eyes again and looked down at her legs.
There was a dull throbbing pain coming from her left leg and although it was much less than it had been last night she knew if she didn’t get help soon, that the situation was going to be very serious. She tried the radio again, on that faint optimism people in grim situations have that something might have changed for the better. It hadn’t.
She glanced around, inventorying everything within reach. The survival vest with its knife. The plastic box. The crushed instrument panel.
The overhead controls.
Very carefully. Trace reached down with her left hand and picked up the box. She drew the knife from the survival vest hooked to the right wall behind her and slit the layers of duct tape around the seam. It took her a while and she was glad to have something to keep her mind off her situation although it took an inordinate amount of attention for her to do this simple task. With the tape gone, she found that a small clasp kept the two sides closed. She unfastened it and opened the box.
Inside, an object wrapped in black plastic awaited her gaze. She drew out the object and slowly began peeling away the inside layers of protection. Whoever had hidden this had certainly wanted to make sure that it was protected from moisture. With her fingernails. Trace tore open the last thin sheaf of plastic’ and touched leather. She completely uncovered the object, and a leather-bound diary rested in her hands. On the cover, embossed in gold, were the initials: BRH.
With grimy fingers. Trace flipped open the cover. There was an inscription in large, flowing script on the inside:
To my son, Benjamin, on this most happy day of your life, may the words you write within tell a tale of service and honor.
Love mother. 12 June, 1930
“Hooker, you asshole,” Trace muttered. The effort it had taken to open up the case had exhausted her. She put the diary back inside and slumped back against the seat.
After a few minutes she passed into an uneasy slumber.
Trace started awake. For a few brief seconds her mind consoled her with the illusion that she was someplace else.
Then she saw the crumpled cockpit surrounding her and felt the throb of pain from her legs and she returned to reality.
She knew she was close to hypothermia. The lower half of her body was in especially bad shape. Besides the broken leg, she was damp, having been forced to urinate where she sat.
Trace wrapped her arms tighter around herself and tried to keep her teeth from chattering so loudly. This time of year the training area was deserted and Trace knew the odds of someone stumbling across her location were slim. Looking at the grim side of the equation, she also knew that if no one came before nightfall, she didn’t think she could make it through another night.
Even though it was only three in the afternoon according to the clock on the dashboard, the sun was already low in the western sky. The temperature was also dropping in preparation for nightfall. Trace coughed, trying to clear her throat, but it was no use. The chill had settled into her lungs and the coughing only made it worse.
There was no feeling in her left leg now, and that worried Trace more than the pain she had felt the past twenty-four hours. Whatever was happening in her lower limbs was bad. She was parched but didn’t feel hungry. She leaned her head back against the hard metal of the seat and wished for unconsciousness, but even that desire worried her because she was concerned about waking up in the middle of the coming night. She just wanted it to pass, so
that she would be able to wake and see the sun come up the next morning, but the logical, trained part of her mind told her she might not see the next morning.
Trace frowned through the negative thoughts swirling in her mind.
Something was different. She froze, turning her head from side to side and peering about, listening carefully.
Trace cocked her head. There was no doubt about it now, as the sound grew stronger. A helicopter was heading this way.
In the cockpit of the OH-58 observation helicopter Captain Isaac had the controls while Major Quincy was scanning the terrain below with binoculars. They’d waited all night, checking in with local airports and the state police, waiting for a report of the stolen helicopter, but nothing had come in.
“She could have gone anywhere,” Isaac said, keeping Route 293 directly below.
“She had to land somewhere,” Quincy said.
“You can’t hide the helicopter on the ground.”
Isaac shook his head.
“We’re looking for a needle in a haystack. She could have gone anywhere,” he repeated.
Quincy pulled away from the rubber eyepiece.
“You want to tell the general that?”
“No, sir.”
“Then fly.”
Trace reached into the shoulder pocket of the survival vest and pulled out the small pen flare that was standard equipment. She leaned over as far as she could, gritting her teeth as pain exploded anew in her left leg, and pointed the end of the flare up and out the hole in the windshield. She popped it and watched it arc up through the trees.
“There!” Quincy yelled over the intercom.
“To the right. See it?”
Isaac looked in the indicated direction and caught the tail end of the small flare as it went back down among the trees.
“I got it.” He banked hard right.
Quincy pressed the send button for the radio.
“Gray Six, this is Gray Four. Over.”
Inside Building 600—the Academy Administration Building — the radio call was picked up by a hastily rigged antenna on the roof of the 160-foot tower — the tallest all-stone-masonry building in the world. On the floor just below the roof. General Hooker grabbed the handset.
“This is Gray Six. Go ahead. Over.”
“We’ve spotted a flare. Going to investigate. Vicinity south end of Bull Pond. Over.”
“Roger,” Hooker responded.
“I’ll have a ground unit en route. Out.” He put down the handset and turned to two young captains dressed in fatigues and wearing 9mm pistols on their hips. They had flown up with him from Alexandria.
“You heard. Get going.”
“Yes, sir.”
At the MP station. Sergeant Taylor smiled as the radio went dead.
Stupid sons of a bitches were using the frequency listed as reserved for the superintendent in the West Point CEOI — communications electronics operating instructions.
Taylor had been asked to monitor both that frequency and the phone lines, and it sounded like he had hit paydirt. He grabbed the phone and dialed the number of a local motel he’d been given.
“Harry! Things are moving.”
Major Quincy looked down through the Plexiglas pedals at the wreckage below.
“Surprised she’s still alive,” he commented.
“How are they going to account for the chopper?” Isaac asked as he held the OH-58 in a hover.
Quincy laughed.
“Shit, captain, you haven’t seen anything yet. I remember back in’ eighty-eight we took out a Blackhawk full of Rangers just to get rid of the 1st Ranger battalion commander because he was making waves. One fucking Huey isn’t going to be missed.”
Captain Isaac’s knuckles were white on the controls as he maintained a hover. Eight years ago when he’d been approached by The Line it had seemed a golden career opportunity. Now though, after seeing it in action, he was starting to question his decision. Unfortunately, it was too late for questioning. He was in.
“You might as well call Gray Six and tell them there’s no rush. She must be trapped in the cockpit.”
Isaac could see part of an arm moving about inside the wreckage. She was damn lucky to be alive, he thought as he took in the entire scene and the steel cable from the power lines. A pilot himself, he could well imagine what had happened: she’d been flying the lake surface, pinned down below the clouds when she hit the lines, always a pilot’s nightmare.
“Maybe she’ll die of natural causes,” Quincy joked as he keyed the mike.
Trace peered up. An Army OH-58 was hovering about 100 feet up. They’d obviously seen her. She assumed they were radioing for help.
“Thank God,” she said out loud, leaning back in the pilot’s seat to wait.
She thought of Boomer. First thing she would do when they got her to a hospital was call him. Her head snapped forward. How the hell did she know those people in the helicopter above were friendly? Boomer would tell her to assume they weren’t.
Trace gathered up the diary. She opened it and randomly tore out some pages, stuffing them inside her jacket, pushing them through a hole she tore in the bottom of the inside pocket, then smoothing them out, hidden inside the liner.
Then she began to look for a place within arm’s reach to hide the book.
The white military van with the two captains rolled out Washington Gate and turned left onto 293.
A battered El Camino turned right out of the Mountain View Motel on Route 9W and headed north. Harry Franks checked the topographic map of the West Point Military Reservation laid out on the passenger seat. The map was held in place by the weight of a 9mm Heckler & Koch MP5SD5 submachine gun with silencer. His finger traced the route he needed to take. In three miles 9W intersected with 93. Turn left there and head west.
“Gray Four, this is Gray Five. Over.”
Quincy keyed the mike.
“This is Four. Go ahead. Over.”
“We’re passing Camp Natural Bridge. Over.”
“Take a right onto Bull Pond road. You should be able to see us when you get up near the pond. Over.”
“Roger. Out.”
The helicopter was still up there, which left no doubt in Trace’s mind that she had been spotted. Nothing to do now but wait. She’d jammed the diary up underneath the pilot’s seat. Although she wasn’t sure that was the greatest idea in the world, it was all she could think of.
The white van climbed up the steep incline as Bull Pond road went up the side of Blackcap Mountain. It hit a split-to the right to Bull Hill and the fire tower to the left the sign indicated Proctoria Road.
Both captains had spent summers out here in training when they were cadets and knew where to go. They turned left, looping around the south end of Bull Pond. They could now see the helicopter above.
“Gray Four, this is Five. Over.”
The captain in the passenger seat answered.
“This is Four. Go ahead. Over.”
“We’ve got you in sight. There’s a small knoll off to your right. The crash site is on the other side of that knoll. Over.”
“Roger.” The van pulled to a halt and the two men got out. They circled to the left of the knoll. As they crested the shoulder of it, they could see the wreckage about 200 meters ahead on the bottom side of the high ground there.
They dipped down as they continued and immediately struck swamp. They cursed as cold, mucky water seeped into their jungle boots and they had to beat their way through the thick, dead vegetation. The outlet for Bull Pond ran this way and meandered a bit, causing the swamp they were negotiating.
Back at the intersection of Bull Pond and Proctoria Road, the El Camino cruised to a halt. Harry could hear the helicopter ahead. He edged off under the thick cover of some pine trees and parked the car. He checked his map one last time, folded it and tucked it into the cargo pocket of his camouflage fatigue pants. Harry slipped on a combat vest bristling with killing tools and picked up the MP5. Keeping off
the road, he began making his way to the west at a slow Jog.
He hit the swamp closer to Bull Pond than the two officers.
There the vegetation was thicker, but he had less trouble with it, slipping through the growth, rather than fighting it, years of hard-earned combat experience in a distant jungle coming back easily.
“Shit,” the captain in the lead muttered as he splashed through the creek in the center of the swamp and started up the other side. He drew his 9mm Beretta Model 92 and chambered a round, his partner doing likewise.
Overhead, Isaac’s concentration was focused on keeping his present position. Major Quincy was following the two officer’s progress through the swamp and relaying that information back to Building 600.
“What a fucking mess,” were the first words Trace heard. She watched the two men in fatigues come up out of the swamp, their boots layered in mud and their exposed skin covered with red scratches.
She didn’t say anything, her attention focused on the pistols in their hands, the rank on their collar and the large rings glittering on each man’s left hand. She felt her small reservoir of energy empty; the hope of rescue that had kept her going for over thirty hours snuffed out.
“Well, looks like you’ve got yourself in a pretty mess here,” the lead officer said as he leaned into the hole in the front windshield. The nametag on his uniform identified him as Karien. The second officer joined him — his nametag said Marks — and the two stared at her like she was an animal in the zoo.
“Hurt bad?” Karien asked with a grin.
Trace tried to speak, but her mouth was bone dry. She worked around a little saliva and tried again.
“My legs are pinned,” she rasped.
“Hmm, too bad,” Karien said. He looked around, taking in the attitude of the crashed helicopter and the wreckage.
“Seems like she should have at least broken her neck on impact, don’t you think?” he said to Marks.
“At the very least. Maybe some internal damage also,” Marks said as he clambered in the left cargo door and removed an emergency ax from its mooring on the left rear firewall. He climbed over the co-pilot’s seat and squatted down next to Trace.
