Chopper Ops co-1

by Mack Maloney

  He had trained them well.

  Their official unit title was actually a secret. They were known instead by various nicknames, depending on the operation. Organized in 1991 to take care of some post-Gulf War messes around the Persian Gulf, the classified Marine unit had first been tagged Zebra Company. When the scene shifted to Bosnia, they were coded Company 801. In Somalia, they were known as Task Force 22. Since then they had bounced around Africa, Asia, and the subcontinent, putting out fires too small for the big units like Delta Force or taking on things the SEALs simply weren’t interested in, or were too busy to do. These days they were known as Team 66.

  This was a good name because Chou likened the unit to a team of utility infielders. Indeed, most of them had just missed making the big leagues. Many were jarheads who couldn’t quite pass the training for the SFALs or Delta Force, or any number of other deep programs run by the U.S. military. Some had missed making it into these higher-echelon units simply because of things as minor as a 5-percent hearing loss in one ear or a rare allergy. One guy was missing the tip of his left hand’s index finger. Several others were color-blind. Many of the men wore glasses or contacts. Some had flat feet. This made them no less strong, no less capable, no less loyal or effective. They took on the jobs no one else wanted with gusto. As a result, their mission record, though little known, was full of success stories.

  Chou had been in charge of them since 1996 and since becoming CO, he had emphasized their versatility. That was now their real forte. They could do wet operations with the best of them; they could do para-drops. They were as adept in the jungle as in the snow. They were excellent at hand-to-hand and silent combat; they could work the latest and biggest infantry weapons. They excelled at rescuing hostages, tracking terrorists, handling nuclear or biological threats.

  They were a very special group and their handlers at the Pentagon knew it. That was why they never hesitated to loan them out to the CIA or the NSA or any other Spook outfit needing some quick firepower somewhere around the world.

  But for all their successes and experience, there was one thing Team 66 had never done: They had never worked from helicopters.

  And this worried Chou.

  For many reasons.

  Thus the need for this unusual drill.

  * * *

  He had them form up again, and then ushered them wordlessly into the huge hangar.

  There they found two helicopters, the contents of the third and fourth C-5 deliveries earlier this stormy night. About the same size as the Hook, and also designed by the Russian military, they were Mi-26 Halos. They were pure, dedicated troop carriers with cargo holds nearly as big as that of a C-130 Hercules. The Marines just stared at the huge copters. Just about all of them could fit inside one. That was how big these choppers were.

  “We will be conducting ingress and egress exercises with these helos for the next few hours, gentlemen,” Chou told them. “I suggest that in between, you familiarize yourself with these rather unusual aircraft. You will be seeing a lot of them in the future.”

  Chou then split his company into two, and with the aid of a whistle and a stopwatch, loaded them onto the two helicopters. Then, with the blow of the whistle, the doors were opened again and his men piled out and deployed in protective rings around each chopper.

  On the first try, it took the eighty-two Marines forty-eight seconds to completely deploy out of the choppers and set up their defensive perimeters.

  Not bad, Chou thought. But he knew they would have to cut that time at least in half. So he had them do it again. And again.

  And again.

  By 0630 hours, the Marines had done the drill no less than fifty-eight times and had cut the time to thirty seconds. Again, not bad at all for so many fully equipped troops to stand up, straighten their gear, pile out of each copter, and go into a full combat mode by surrounding each aircraft in its own protective ring.

  But Chou knew more drilling would be needed to shave another ten seconds off that time.

  Still, he was pleased with their performance and told them so. Like their endless mock assaults on the Motel Six building, they never stopped trying to get better. But the most difficult part of this early morning was still ahead. It was heralded by the arrival of Smitz at Hangar 3 around 0645 hours. His ever-present IBM NoteBook out and turned on, he told Chou simply: “It’s time to get going.”

  Moments later, a Humvee arrived and four men piled out. They were wearing the distinctive green flight uniforms of U.S. Army Aviation.

  These men were introduced to Chou’s company as being part of the Army’s OPFOR unit based at Fort Polk in the Louisiana swamplands. It was from there, Smitz revealed to Chou, that the Russian-built choppers had come originally. In this upcoming mission, the Army guys would be flying the huge Halo copters.

  Chou shook hands with them, then turned back to his men.

  “OK, troops,” he said. “Pile back in. We’re all going for a ride.”

  * * *

  By this time, both the Hind gunship and the fuel-laden Hook had been airborne for about thirty minutes.

  Norton was putting the Hind through its paces over a section of the Florida Straits known as Military Reservation Box 31.

  He was falling in love with the massive copter—strange as that seemed. Once in the air, it flew as easily and smoothly as a small airplane. The controls were ultra-responsive, and somehow its size and bulk were offset by its powerful engines and the two stubby wings helping out with the lift. The presence of the stubby wings also allowed for the gunship’s huge rotor to dedicate most of its work to pushing the copter forward.

  And this made the beast fast.

  Damned fast!

  He was carving through the warm morning air at speeds he thought impossible for such a huge rotor aircraft. And the odd thing was, it seemed as if he’d been flying the Hind for weeks—and he couldn’t get rid of this feeling. He was actually beginning to think that all the simulator work had been worthwhile.

  As for Delaney, he was having the time of his life.

  The front seat of the Hind offered its passenger a view and an experience different from any other aircraft. Because of its ultra-forward position and its bubble-like enclosure, it gave the rider the sensation that he was flying without the aircraft.

  To this end, Delaney had his nose pressed up against the glass, looking out over the sea, his arms spread as far as the cockpit allowed, as if he was a bird.

  Several times Delaney’s enthusiasm rose to such a level, Norton was forced to remind him not to use curse words over the radio. But typically Delaney was letting a slew of them slip.

  “Jeesuz Christ!” he kept yelling. “God damn! What a fucking view!”

  The fact that Delaney was a fighter jock—and one who had seen combat—meant that his excitement level was, like Norton’s, ice-cold most times. But this was different. The Hind was a monster on the ground, but an eagle in the air.

  “Maybe this has been all worth it,” Norton caught himself thinking.

  * * *

  Twenty miles to the northeast, Ricco and Gillis were plowing through the early morning air in a slightly less robust fashion.

  The big Hook fuel ship was very fast, but there were several factors working against it at top speed. First of all, there were many tons of gas in the cargo hold. Secondly, Gillis and Ricco were not jet jocks—they flew the big planes. As such, they were not ones to go gallivanting around the sky. To them, smooth and level was the norm.

  But this did not mean they weren’t enjoying themselves.

  “This is remarkable,” Ricco said several time times over. “How can something so awkward-looking sail like this thing?”

  “The Russians can build a great chopper, we have to give them that,” Rooney told them.

  He too was enjoying the smooth ride. If it weren’t for the constant sloshing of the jet fuel and the smell from it, it would have been a totally pleasant experience.

  “I suppose we can’t ask ex
actly why we’re flying this bird, can we?” Gillis asked Rooney.

  “You can ask,” the CIA man replied, “but I can’t answer.”

  “I have the feeling we are supposed to fly it long-range. Am I wrong?” Ricco asked.

  “You may be underestimating your upcoming mission,” Rooney replied in a rare bit of candor.

  Ricco was about to reply when their radio started crackling.

  “This is SGK Base… come in?”

  “That’s for us,” Rooney said. “We are call sign Beta Two-Six.”

  Gillis grabbed his radio chin mike and turned it on.

  “Go ahead base.”

  They next heard the unmistakable nasal voice of Gene Smitz. He was in the base control tower.

  “Proceed to coordinate five-nine-five at east-northeast…”

  Gillis wrote down the instructions, and Ricco began to turn the big chopper northward. His maneuver was met with a great splashing sound from the fuel bladders in back.

  “If this is just a training mission.” Ricco asked, “why can’t those things be filled with water—instead of fuel?”

  “I really don’t know,” Rooney replied truthfully. “But my guess is, someone figures this training mission could go real at any hour.”

  Ricco and Gillis eyed each other. Rooney’s tone was a tad unsettling.

  “And you didn’t hear that from me,” the CIA man quickly added.

  But at that moment Ricco wasn’t listening. He was looking out his side window. In the low clouds he thought he saw two aircraft heading in their general direction.

  “Damn, are we supposed to have any other traffic up here with us?” he asked Rooney.

  Rooney leaned forward in his seat and saw what Ricco had spotted. There were two large helicopters flying about a mile below and two miles off their left side. They seemed almost as large as the Hook. Larger even.

  “Don’t worry,” the CIA man said nonchalantly. “They’re ours. That’s who we’re being vectored to meet.”

  Gillis looked down at the choppers and back at Rooney.

  “Really?”

  Rooney settled back into his seat. “Yep. Those, my friends, should be the Marines.”

  * * *

  It was the Marines.

  Their two huge Halo copters had taken off from Seven Ghosts Key ten minutes before, and had been vectored to the same spot that the huge Hook was now heading for.

  Inside both choppers, the Marines were packed in tight. Full loads, weapons ready.

  The Army pilots were driving the big Russian cargo copters with ease. Of all the pilots at the Seven Ghosts base, they were the most experienced in flying Russian aircraft—and it showed. Now, looking out the windows of the transports, the Marines could see the huge Hook being flown by Gillis and Ricco.

  The Army pilots slowed a bit and allowed Gillis and Ricco to take up a position just ahead and slightly above the two troopships.

  Now there was only one piece missing….

  * * *

  Norton took the call from Smitz just seconds after Ricco and Gillis did.

  He increased throttles and poured on the coals, and was soon approaching the three other choppers as they entered Box 31.

  Once in sight, he radioed back to Smitz, reporting that he had spotted the trio of aircraft. Smitz quickly briefed him and Delaney on the fuel-filled Hook and two Marine-carrying Halos. Then he told Norton to take a position about a quarter mile in front of the big Hook.

  Norton did so, and this was how they flew for the next thirty minutes.

  So for the first time since the operation began and all the principals had reported to Seven Ghosts Key, the still-unnamed unit was one. They were aligned in a ragged, uneven formation. Heading into the unknown.

  But they were flying together at last.

  * * *

  For the next seven days, Norton and Delaney did little more than eat, sleep, and drive the Hinds.

  Most of this flying was done at night; most of it in Hind #1. The second Hind, while being nearly identical to the first, was actually a few years older and had more air miles on it. To preserve its operational status, it was decided that the majority of the initial orientation flights would be done in the younger model.

  The two former fighter pilots had quickly settled into a routine. As soon as the sun set around 8:30 P.M., Hind #1 would be dragged out of the hangar after being prepped. By 8:45, Norton and Delaney would be suited up and ready for their preflight inspection. Going over the Russian-built chopper with flashlights, checking for leaks, making sure every bolt was still tight and every flying surface was still clean would take about fifteen minutes. Only then would they be ready for launch.

  As each flight mandated that both pilots have equal time behind the controls, they would usually fly for three hours, land back at the base, switch positions, and go out again. To see who would serve as pilot first, though, they would flip a coin. In the first few days, Norton won every one of these coin tosses, much to Delaney’s consternation. Flying the first half of the night flight was much more exciting than the second half, and Delaney always seemed stuck with the second shift. At one point, he even accused Norton of having a double-sided coin. From then on, he insisted on flipping his own coin and doing it the full view of witnesses.

  It was no surprise that the two fighter jocks were anxious to get behind the wheel and drive the Hind first. The massive chopper was butt-ugly, but it was a real gas to fly. It could do things an F-15 couldn’t. It could fly lower, turn sharper, slow down, speed up, all at a touch of the controls, which both of them knew by heart now.

  Its powerful engines and its substantial wing area really did make it part jet fighter.

  (One strange thing about the helicopter, though, was that it could not hover—or at least not for long. Putting the Hind into a hover for more than a minute would likely burn out its engines. Like the aircraft itself, the power plants were designed to be moving forward all the time. This was not an aircraft that wanted to stay still for very long.)

  Most nights they were airborne by 2130 hours. From that point they usually had a six-hour satellite window during which they could fly just about anywhere within Box 31. Much of this time they spent flying below five hundred feet. Occasionally they were forced to change course to avoid getting too near to an off-course private plane or fishing boat. To be spotted might put the whole operation in jeopardy. But their proximity to Cuba actually helped in this regard. The Cubans were known to have Hinds. If one were spotted over these waters, there could be a fairly plausible explanation: The Cubans were simply doing night maneuvers. Over the ocean. In unmarked copters.

  Riding up front in the Hind was not such a bad thing. You could shoot the guns from the front seat and the Hind was loaded for bear. Its wings supported two gun pods and two missile launchers, not of Russian design, but made to look that way. Hind #1 also had an outrageously long cannon attached to its nose. This monster was able to fire gigantic 76-mm shells at a very fast rate. Get caught in the sight of this big gun, and it would be the last thing you did.

  After some flying and shooting, at fish mostly, they would usually land and switch places. That was when the boring part of the night began, for the next few hours would usually be concentrated on formation flying. The Halos and the Hook would launch around midnight. Together they would proceed to a predesignated spot where the Hind would be waiting. Then they would form up and fly around in circles until 2 A.M. or so. Flying in formation was not nearly as much fun as driving the Hind solo. Doing endless orbits over the fluorescent Caribbean waters tended to drag a bit. But the mission spec said flying together and learning how to stay close in the air at night was very important, so the formation flying was done, usually with Delaney grumbling behind the wheel of the Hind throughout.

  During all this, Gillis and Ricco were getting the hang of their huge copter as well. The crazy sleeping hours being what they were, Norton and Delaney rarely saw the tanker pilots on the ground—which was good for b
oth sides. But in the air, the refuelers never missed a rendezvous point, were always on time, at the right altitude, in the right spot. Always. The CIA had asked for the best in the aerial refueling business—and they had gotten their wish.

  All of the copters were rigged with in-flight refueling probes, and usually at least one hour of a night flight was devoted to hooking and unhooking with Gillis and Ricco’s fuel ship. Taking on gas in the air between two choppers was not that much different from a fighter hooking up to a KC-10 tanker, except the speeds were slower and it was all done through hoses and not static booms. Still, it didn’t take much time at all for Norton and Delaney as well as the Army Aviation pilots flying the Marine-laden Halos to learn the art of connecting with the Hook and drinking in a bunch of gas.

  But in addition to all this, Gillis and Ricco had another exercise to drill for—this the most dangerous one of all. For not only were they charged with keeping all of the unit’s choppers fueled up, they also had to learn how to take on fuel themselves. From a higher source.

  According to Smitz, this aspect of the mission was extremely important. So every night that first week, a C-130 Marine Corps tanker was called down from Eglin Air Force Base. With Norton and Delaney riding shotgun and spotting for the fuelers, Gillis and Ricco would maneuver their giant copter up and under a fuel hose being let out from the C-130’s right wing. On connection, the fuel would flow from the C-130 to the depleted bladders in the cargo hold of the Hook. It took the refuelers some doing to get it right the first few times, but experience and intuitive flying skills eventually won out. By the third night, the two tanker jockeys had the difficult hookup down pat.

  Each time Norton saw this, he felt a little bit better about recommending the National Guard pilots for this program.

  But there was still one last sticking point: The operational details of the mission were still unknown to them. They knew pretty much where they were going. And why. But they didn’t know exactly what they were supposed to do once they got there. And more important, when they were going.