Cobra tsf-4

by David E. Meadows

  Duncan pointed at Beau and motioned to the top of the depression. Beau touched HJ, and the two hurried away at a crouch with Chief Wilcox following.

  Duncan held his hand out, trying to stop the two from following Beau. He had assigned HJ and the chief to defend the landing area.

  “Expect to arrive in two minutes.”

  He dropped his hand and turned his attention to the approaching helicopters. “Roger, Viper Four Six.”

  Over the sound of the radio, the noise of approaching rotors filled the air. Duncan and the others turned toward the east, shading their eyes, looking for the light green silhouettes to mark the helicopter formation.

  Machine gun fire erupted from Mcdonald and Monkey at the edge of the depression. The loud explosive fire of the heavy machine guns mixed with the slightly louder approaching rotor noises. “Come on!” Beau shouted, his voice barely audible above the increasing decibels of battle. He pointed HJ toward the right, where Monkey fired. He crawled to the left side of Mcdonald. Chief Wilcox went up the center to take position halfway between the two machine gunners.

  “Here they come!” shouted Monkey.

  “Viper Four Seven, be advised we are taking fire. Zone is hot. I repeat, zone is hot!” Duncan shouted into the microphone.

  “Roger, we will clear the area around you to give the heavy an opportunity to land. We have you marked, James One. Break flare,” Viper Four Seven said. Then, after a couple of seconds, she asked, “You are still near the 53? Confirm.”

  “Affirmative, we are north fifty feet from the 53. Shallow depression several hundred yards this side of the highway.”

  “Roger, I have you in sight.”

  Dale Cochran pulled a flare from his kit and ran to the front of the damaged helicopter. He pulled the tag and tossed the flare about fifty feet on the other side of the disabled Super Stallion. The red smoke rose straight into the air for about twenty feet before the light desert breeze pushed it northward. He shaded his eyes and searched the sky for the Cobras; the approaching noise told him they were inbound. They sounded as if they were overhead. Airplanes and helicopters are hard to spot when cruising at low altitude. A reflection of the sun off one of them caught his attention to the east. The two inbound, thin, cross-sectioned Cobras were flying so low they resembled two huge motorcycles driving across the desert. Sand blasted out and away from the underbelly of the two assault helicopters as they zoomed toward the embattled position. A hundred yards out, the two deadly choppers shot up to about fifty feet altitude.

  Before he could warn anyone, the low-flying Marine Corps AH-1 Cobra gunships blasted by overhead, the rotors blowing sand into the air and temporarily blinding Duncan and the others. Hands flew to faces in a late attempt to protect their eyes.

  “Viper Four Seven, you just blinded us.”

  “Roger, we have you now, James One.” “God!” Beau said. “How many times does she need to confirm us?” He blinked his eyes as he rubbed them, trying to get the sand out.

  Rockets from the other two Cobras roared overhead, heading toward the rebel positions. Explosive impacts sent asphalt, beach, and bodies tumbling into the air.

  A second pair of Cobras approached on both sides of the small depression, their twenty-millimeter chain gun cannons blasting the area where rebel fire was originating. The small arms fire tapered off and stopped. Above the noise came the heavier rotor sound of the approaching heavy. Duncan spotted the first pair of Cobras circling to the east, preparing what he thought was going to be an east-west run along the beach against the rebel positions.

  “That’s a Super Stallion!” shouted Captain Dale Cochran, his shout drowned out by the noise. “I’d recognize the sound of my own aircraft anywhere.” He turned his hand upside down and wiggled his fingers at Luke, giving the Marine Corps hand sign for a CH-53. A hand with the index finger pointing over three curled fingers with the thumb cocked as if making a pistol symbolized a Cobra.

  Duncan couldn’t hear what Dale was shouting, but the first thought he had when he glanced back at the two Marine Corps pilots was they had had too much sun. Luke Blair had his free hand shaped like the pistol he held in his right, pointing the finger at Dale Cochran, while Dale, with a large grin on his face, enthusiastically wiggled his fingers upside down in reply.

  More twenty-millimeter cannon fire filled the air. The smell of cordite and smoke from something the Cobras had destroyed blew across the depression, causing Monkey and Mcdonald to slide down from the rim. Beau scurried across the bottom of the depression, his body bent beneath the smoke rolling over the position.

  “You win the prize, Captain,” said Beau. Even as he said it, the slight north wind blew the covering smoke away from them and back toward the Mediterranean Sea.

  The Cobras broke apart, one making a tight turn to the north over the rebel position and the other south passing about a hundred feet west of the SEALs. Duncan saw it first and keyed the microphone to warn Viper Four Six. “Viper Four Six,” Duncan started.

  HJ pointed. No one had time to say anything. The contrail from a handheld surface-to-air missile rose above the rim, heading toward the Cobra gunship on the left, looking like a comet crossing the sky.

  “Oh, no!” shouted Luke Blair, the Marine Corps copilot of the damaged Stallion. “Climb, mutha fucka, climb!”

  Flares exploded from the rear of the Cobra milliseconds apart as the gunship fought for altitude. The bright magnesium flames overshadowed the heat signature of the Marine Corps gunship. The missile locked on the third flare, drawing it away from the gunship to explode harmlessly meters behind the small helicopter. The Cobra stood on its tail as Duncan, amazed, watched the Marine Corps fighter pilot in the gunship climb. A second missile burst over the rim. The Cobra on the right zoomed overhead, heading for the area where the missiles originated, its cannon firing continuously. The other two Cobras appeared over the depression, sending sand again into the ak and blinding them. Decoys dropped in a constant stream from the gunship in a vain attempt to stop the missiles.

  They heard the missile hit. It punched into and through the rear rotor, blowing the tail off the Marine Corps gunship. The Cobra seemed to stop and hover in midair for a second before it began a twisting, uncontrolled tail-first fall out of the sky. The gunship burst into flame. Duncan saw the two crewmen; the gunner in front and the pilot sitting slightly above the crew member in back. Held motionless by centrifugal force, the two crewmen could do nothing but wait for impact.

  Fire enveloped the cockpit.

  What do you do in the last seconds of your life, when you know it’s about to end? thought Duncan.

  The gunship hit the ground a hundred yards to the west and exploded. No one said anything.

  “Viper Four Six, James One; Cobra down two hundred feet northwest our position.”

  “James One, Viper Four Seven; that was Viper Four Six. Area is too hot.

  Heavy is being recalled.”

  Duncan looked at the microphone in his hand. They were aborting the rescue. It felt as if a fist had hit his stomach, even as he knew the Marines had no choice. It would do little good for the heavy to land, only to have them all killed by a surface to-air missile.

  Rebel shouts and yells drew their shocked attention toward the direction of the enemy. “Here they come again!” shouted Monkey and Mcdonald together.

  “Beau, you three get up there and help Monkey and Mcdonald. Not you, Gibbons,” Duncan said, grabbing the radioman by the sleeve as he turned toward the battle sounds. “I need you here to work with the helicopters.”

  Beau, HJ, Bud, and Chief Wilcox ran to the edge of the depression and scrambled up the incline again. Aligned along the edge, they brought their weapons to bear on the attacking rebels. The sounds of “Allah alkbar” filled the air as the Islamic fanatics charged. Many had already made it across the highway during the fighting with the Marine helicopters. Encouraged and morale fueled by the crash of the United States Marine Corps gunship, they came en masse.

  �
�Like shooting candies from a baby,” Beau offered.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Commander?” HJ asked irritably.

  “Candies from a baby?”

  “Hey, Lieutenant, you use your metaphors, and I’ll make up mine.”

  “At least get them right, sir,” she said, gritting her teeth as her carbine jerked against her good shoulder. HJ saw two rebels go down.

  “That’s two sets of balls less.”

  Beau fired several shots at a group of rebels to the right and was rewarded with them diving to the ground. “Your mind is in the gutter, young lady.”

  “At least I have a mind.” She was not going to allow herself to be taken again. HJ rose to one knee and fired at several rebels crawling toward them fifty yards to the left. A bullet caught one in the head, flipping the man up and on top of two rebels behind him. She fired a controlled burst, as the two pushed the dead man off them, hitting one in the right hand and the other in the left. The moisture on her cheek made her realize she was crying. She shook her head a couple of times and forced herself to stop. Christ! Get a grip.

  “Must you keep showing off, HJ? Just because you were the number two on the Academy’s firing squad,” Beau said. His focus on the charging formation in front kept him from glancing at HJ.

  “Rifle team,” she said, her composure regained. “Firing squads were saved for freshman Saturday formations and those who exceeded the allowable demerits for the week. Personally, I preferred the whips and chains.”

  “I bet you did. And tight leather.”

  The crossfire from the M-60s began to have an effect. About one hundred yards from their perimeter, the surviving rebels turned and ran back toward the paved road, some crossing and disappearing into the depression on the other side.

  “And spike heels, Beau.”

  “Hey, team!” shouted Duncan from below. “Viper Four Seven has identified where the rebels’ vehicles are parked. They’re going to blast the rebels to keep their heads low and give us time to get to the parking area.

  After that, we steal a truck and drive into Algiers. How the hell is that for a plan?” Duncan shook his head, realizing how unrealistic it sounded when said aloud.

  “Duncan, who the hell came up with that idea?” Beau asked as he slid down the incline to where Duncan stood. He hit the bottom, squatted, and checked his carbine quickly, wiping the sand away from the ejection mechanism.

  HJ and Bud Helliwell followed.

  “Well, I did, to be honest. It seemed a better idea until I voiced it.”

  “I guess the next question is how do we get there without getting ourselves shot?”

  Duncan pushed his soft hat back on his head. “Here is what we are faced with. The heavy can’t land, and we can’t stay here. We’re going to run out of ammo before the Marines can clear the area, and we are already low on water. They may be able to clear the area later. The third reason we have to move is, according to Viper Four Seven, a rebel column is moving toward Algiers and most likely will arrive here by tonight. The other alternative, and I discussed this with Viper Four Seven, is that we fight our way to one of those trucks, hot-wire the son of a bitch, and hightail it down the road toward Algiers. Viper Four Seven and the other two remaining Cobras will escort us to the city. She has called for backup, and the USS Kearsarge has launched Harriers. The Harriers should be here by the time we get to the trucks.”

  “How far is it to the trucks?” Bud asked.

  “A mile.”

  “A mile!”

  “Yes, Beau, a mile.”

  The two CH-53 pilots overheard. “Are we planning on leaving the crew chief’s body?”

  “No. SEALs don’t leave anyone behind. I told you that. But you two are going to have to carry him.”

  “Monkey, Mcdonald, Gibbons!” Duncan shouted. “Get down here.”

  Duncan pulled his handkerchief out and wiped his forehead. “Water.

  Without water, we wouldn’t last today. According to Viper Four Seven, the trucks are west, so we are going to have to go a mile farther away from Algiers before we can turn around and head to the city.” “Captain,” HJ interrupted. “Why don’t we just head toward the city and have the helicopters provide protection? We can walk it.”

  Duncan shook his head. “It’s a good twenty kilometers. Twenty kilometers of sand and rough scrubs cutting into our cammies and twenty kilometers of blazing sun. Between the sun and the enemy out there, we’d never make it.” He shook his head again. “No, the trucks are our best chance. Right now, they are our only chance.”

  Duncan pointed behind him, past the damaged helicopter. “Viper Four Seven reports a shallow ravine about one hundred yards behind us that trails off toward the west. It should provide us cover until it peters out.” “So, when do we do it?” Chief Wilcox asked.

  “We do it now,” Duncan replied. “You pilots grab the crew chief’s body.

  Chief, you and Monkey take point. Hit it.”

  They watched as the two SEALs, crouching, began a zigzag run to the south.

  “Bud, you and Mcdonald bring up the rear.” A hundred yards south of their position, Monkey turned and waved. They watched as he and Chief Wilcox disappeared into the shallow ravine spotted by Viper Four Seven.

  Dale Cochran lifted the crew chief’s body and draped it across his shoulder. Luke Blair held a pistol in his right hand and stood beside the man. “We’re ready, Captain,” he said, nodding at Duncan.

  Duncan pointed to where Chief Wilcox had reemerged and squatted with his carbine. “There’s your destination, Captains. Good luck, keep your head down, and keep moving.”

  The Cobras screamed by overhead, this time bracketing the depression and sending sand clouds blowing up along the edges and blocking the view of the Americans from the Algerian rebels. The sounds of their rotors beat the eardrums harshly and repeatedly. The two Marine Corps pilots hurried as fast as the weight of the dead crew chief permitted.

  Twenty-millimeter cannon fire tore up the rebel positions along sides of the road, while intentionally avoiding hitting the highway. The SEALs would need the road later.

  Chief Wilcox waved them on, pointing toward the ditch.

  “Okay, Beau, you take the cover position at the ditch. Bud, as soon as you see everyone in the ditch but Beau and the Chief, vacate toward us.

  We’ll provide cover.”

  Beau nodded and took off for the shallow ravine that offered their only escape route.

  “Come on, Mcdonald,” Bud said, slapping the heavy machine gunner on the shoulder. The two hurried up the unprotected rim of the depression and threw themselves on the ground. Cannon and rocket fire from the gunships told Duncan that Viper Four Seven and the remaining two Cobras had engaged the rebels.

  “Let’s go, HJ, Gibbons,” Duncan said.

  The three of them, bent at the waist, ran toward Chief Wilcox and Beau at the edge of the ditch, zigzagging as they ran. As they neared, Monkey’s head popped up fifty yards farther up. His M-60 machine gun positioned on the edge of the floodwater ditch, pointing toward where Bud and Mcdonald held the rear.

  Duncan and HJ threw themselves to the ground and pointed their carbines back toward the depression. “Call them in,” Duncan said to Gibbons, who squatted behind the two officers.

  HJ pulled her brick out, pressed the Transmit button, and said, “Bud, vacate now. We have the cover.”

  A huge explosion filled the air from across the road where the rebels had dug in during the night. Another surface-to-air missile shot out of the smoke and sand around the rebel site to pass harmlessly skyward before arcing north in a circle to explode on the beach.

  The two remaining SEALs zigzagged as they ran. Duncan, along with the other SEALs, watched the crest of the depression, expecting any second to see rebels appear over the top.

  “Keep going,” Duncan said, pointing down to the ditch.

  Bud slid down the sand into the ditch.

  Behind him and Mcdonald came Beau and Chief Wilc
ox. HJ pulled the men upright as they slid into a small ravine. The two pilots could be seen about fifty yards ahead. The crew chief’s body now shared between the two men as they stumbled along the rough bottom of the floodwater ditch.

  The ravine was a deep but narrow ditch created by the few rains that drenched the coastal plains of Algeria during the short rainy spring seasons. Duncan figured the ditch about seven feet deep and four feet across. It was enough to hide them but also closed in enough to permit them to be trapped. It took a helicopter to find this ditch even with them being only a hundred yards from it all night and the early part of this morning. Their survival depended on speed. It would not take long for the Algerians to discover the helicopters were a decoy. When that happened, the rebels would head back to the depression and come after them.

  “We got everyone?”

  “Yes, sir,” said HJ, who had taken muster as they entered the ditch.

  “Mcdonald is ahead at point. Told Monkey to wait for us … separated our M-60s.”

  Duncan nodded. “Good.”

  “Bud, grab Monkey when we go by, and you and him bring up the rear.

  Chief, you get your butt up ahead with Mcdonald.”

  Wilcox rose to move out, but Duncan stopped him. “Chief, avoid any confrontation. With luck, the rebels may think we struck out on foot toward Algiers. If we avoid them for the next thirty or forty minutes and they keep chasing the ground beneath those easterly moving helicopters, we should have our truck and then—”

  “I know, Captain. Then we pray for more luck.” Wilcox grinned. The grin revealed a long scar along the right jaw.

  “Yeah, more luck. But that’s what we SEALs do best, isn’t it, Chief?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Make luck.”

  “Well, sir, then we better get busy generating some. So far, the factory ain’t turned out a lot of it this trip.” Chief Wilcox shifted his carbine to his left hand and hurried off, soon passing the two Marine Corps pilots with their burden. Duncan, Beau, and HJ followed with several feet of space between them, with the exception of Gibbons, who stayed near Duncan, keeping the radio available if needed. Monkey trailed with his M-60, constantly scanning behind them and along the rim.