by Dave Edlund
“Making another pass,” Blue Leader announced to his wingman. “I’ll get a radar lock, see if he’ll bug out.”
The Eagles came in again, low and affording ample time to get a lock on the nearly stationary aircraft. If they’d been armed with missiles, either heat seekers or radar guided, it would have been an easy kill shot.
Inside the cockpit of the Battlehawk, the pilot’s senses were inundated with a shrill warning of missile lock. His training took over, and he advanced the throttles to the stops, ejecting flares and chaff as he maneuvered his aircraft away. The closest route of escape was over the edge of the Tam McArthur Rim.
Peter watched with relief as the black helicopter fell out of sight.
s
“Vashal! Get on the radio. Tell your captain we need backup. Have him get everyone here!”
He nodded, and spoke frantically, relaying what was happening. At the command base, they could hear the sounds of the battle but had no ability to see the confrontation. Captain Sheffield had already recalled the hounds and other search teams upon receiving the first message from Deputy Vashal about the attack helicopter. His men were already assembled.
They had rifles and plenty of ammunition. His briefing was direct. Everyone would be armed with a rifle as primary weapon. They would be facing a paramilitary force. No, not Peter Savage—apprehending him was no longer the priority. At this moment their job was to save Deputy Vashal and the two soldiers he was with.
Dispatch relayed the message to the field teams. They would catch up as soon as they could.
A parade of vehicles departed their base camp and headed south, single file on the gravel road. They traveled fast and covered the few miles quickly. Sheffield was in the lead, and he abruptly pulled off into a meadow. This is where they would continue on foot.
Now the sounds of battle were much louder: explosions. Gunfire. And then the roar of jet engines as two aircraft flew over at low altitude.
Sheffield swore he could even see the pilots.
Chapter 39
Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 22
Like a Phoenix rising from the ashes of death, the black machine climbed above the edge of the cliff. It kept rising vertically, the dual weapon platforms aimed at Peter.
The F15s circled back when they saw the helicopter had been spooked but didn’t flee. “He’s probably figured out we’re not armed,” Blue Leader said to his wingman.
The Battlehawk was lining up on Peter, working to gain enough elevation to ensure a clear flight for the missiles.
Blue Flight started their pass. “Let’s see if this guy wants to play chicken,” Blue Leader said.
“I’m on your six,” replied his wingman.
The first Eagle came screaming in from behind the Battlehawk. Blue Leader had to get his approach right. Too close and a mid-air collision was the likely outcome—too far away and the turbulent jet wash would have negligible effect on the helicopter. Blue Leader got his line and held the stick expertly, pulling up and applying throttle as he passed over the Battlehawk. His wingman was right behind, also pulling up.
The helicopter shook violently and was shoved up and down, side to side. At the moment the first Eagle streaked passed, the pilot pressed the fire switch. But the guidance lock had been broken during the severe turbulence. The missiles detonated short.
If the helicopter pilot had not been extremely skilled, he may not have regained control of his aircraft. As it was, he struggled with the cyclic and collective until the air stilled again. He maneuvered back into position, knowing it would take time for the fighters to circle back. And when they did, they would likely approach head on.
“Blue Lead to Blue Two. What’s your fuel status?”
“Maybe another five minutes.”
“Okay Blue Two, let’s buzz this guy again. I’ll try to shave it even closer.”
The two Eagles lined up and came in again, one behind the other as before.
The pilot of the Battlehawk doubled-checked his weapon systems. Still plenty of 20mm rounds, and the targeting reticle was functioning. He held his ground in a stationary hover, allowing the jets a clear shot at the flyby.
He was ready.
He wanted it.
The lead Eagle came in—straight, level flight. The Battlehawk pilot lined up the sight, suppressing the urge to fire. He was calculating the distance, the speed of approach… waiting for the pilot to be fully committed… Now! He depressed the button and a stream of 20mm shells lanced out like a tongue of fire. The rounds punched holes through the middle and rear of the lead F15, destroying fuel and hydraulic lines, shattering turbines blades. The two massive engines ground to a halt, black smoke streaming behind the aircraft.
Blue Two saw all this, knew what had happened, and cursed. He pulled up and to the right, evasively escaping the same fate.
“Blue Leader is hit! I see a chute. Aircraft is lost. Aborting mission. Confirm, over.”
The reply came back over the radio. “Aborting mission. Confirmed. Clear the area, return to base. Will dispatch a recue bird. Tracking beacon is reading strong.”
As Blue Two gained altitude and turned north, he tipped his wing to improve the view below and to the west. A billowing cloud of smoke and yellow-orange fire marked the location where his flight leader’s aircraft had slammed into the ground near the base of South Sister. He just glimpsed a parachute fluttering into the forest canopy before he lost sight of the crash scene.
Blue Two returned his attention to the pale blue sky, wondering what in hell was going on, just as a pair of Eagles rocketed passed his aircraft. And these F15s had Sidewinder missiles hanging under their wings.
s
Peter’s hope had drained with the loss of the Eagle and the sudden departure of the second jet. He pushed his body up, felt the burning pain from the lacerations clawed into his limbs, the ache in his abdomen and chest.
“Come on, Diesel!” His companion looked up, but the eyes lacked the will to move. “Diesel, let’s go! Come on boy!” He whistled as best he could through dry lips. “We have to go!” Slowly the dog rose and stepped forward on unsteady and trembling legs. Peter forced his feet to move. They felt like limp weights, and every step seemed to require an inordinate amount of energy.
He moved forward, down slope, Diesel by his side.
They made it only ten feet when Nadya and Marcus opened up. Bullets flew high, but he heard the rifles and knew the shooters where in front of him. He couldn’t flee in that direction, he’d be walking right into them. He dove to the side, in front of the rock barrier, his rifle and scope slamming hard into the ground. He squirmed his way to a slight depression. Diesel followed him and collapsed at his side.
At the same instant an explosion blasted away the earth where he and Diesel had just been. The Battlehawk was back.
Peter closed his eyes. How many more missiles do they have?
s
With the F15s gone and the Battlehawk blasting out Peter’s hide, Richard Nyden ordered his squad to engage Boss Man and Homer. The Guardians spread out in an attempt to flank their enemy.
Boss Man and Homer fired at every target of opportunity, but the enemy was skilled and moved in short dashes from one cover to the next.
“Running low on ammo,” Homer exclaimed.
Boss Man squeezed off a couple shots to his left. “Fall back!” he ordered.
With Deputy Vashal between them, the two SGIT warriors retreated, firing to slow their pursuers. They worked back 50 meters and found themselves at a group of boulders large enough to offer limited, but welcome, protection.
“Vashal, time to check in. Where’s our backup?” Boss Man said.
The deputy keyed the radio. To his surprise, he connected directly with Captain Sheffield rather than the dispatcher.
“Vashal! What’s your location? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Sorry, Cap. I didn’t hear the radio squawk with everything going on here. We’re retre
ating toward you. Hold on…”
The deputy conferred with Jim who checked his GPS and gave the coordinates to Vashal.
“Copy that,” Sheffield replied. He was holding a GPS unit and entered the coordinates. “We’re close, maybe a mile away.”
“Roger that. Hold on Cap, someone here wants to talk to you.” Vashal handed the radio to Boss Man.
“Captain Sheffield, my name is Commander James Nicolaou.” Jim finished the introduction and exchanged a few more words with Sheffield. He concluded with “Thank you, sir,” and gave the radio back to the deputy.
“Vashal, your Captain has a lot of men not far away. That’s good for you. We,” Jim cocked his head toward Homer, “have a friend we need to rescue. He’s up on that ridge, where the helicopter was attacking.”
Vashal put it all together. “You came for Peter Savage, didn’t you.”
Jim nodded.
“He’s a cop killer. He murdered another deputy, a friend of mine.”
“I don’t think he did; he wouldn’t do that. I suspect these people who are trying to kill you and me—and also Peter—are the ones who murdered your fellow officer. But right now that’s not the point. We can sort all that out later.”
Vashal stared back at Jim, his face firm.
Jim continued, “Homer and I are going to provide covering fire. You run like hell back that direction. You’ll find Captain Sheffield at the next meadow down the slope—it’s not far. Have him split his men into two squads, one on either side of the meadow. If any of the enemy follows you—well, your Captain will know what to do.”
“Where are you going?” Vashal asked, although he thought he knew the answer.
“To bring home a friend.”
s
“Green Leader, I have visual confirmation. The bogie is engaging ground targets. Request permission to engage.”
A moment later confirmation was received.
“Roger, this is Green Leader. Going in.”
The two F15s circled around the battle site, preparing to line up for the kill. As they passed the Battlehawk, the pilot turned his head, following the lead aircraft and fired the 20mm gun.
“Bogie is firing at us Green Leader,” came the warning from his wingman. From his position, the arc of the tracers falling underneath the first F15 was clearly visible.
“Roger Green Two. Pull up and break right. Let’s get a lock on this guy.”
Green Leader advanced the throttles, turned, and climbed. The gun slung underneath the helicopter could not shoot upwards at a steep angle.
The maneuver away from the bogie had taken the fighters out of missile range and firing position, and the Battlehawk pilot knew that. He circled his aircraft around the target, maintaining a greater distance. He suspected the missile had fallen short. Peter had been on the run when he fired.
The Weatherby roared, the bullet chipping the front windscreen in front of the pilot. But the impact was off, and even if the bullet had penetrated it would have missed the pilot. Peter had no time to correct his aim before Nadya and Marcus returned fire. Bullets raked across the dirt at the edge of his depression.
“Green Two. Come up on my nine so your seeker won’t lock on my tail.”
They were closing fast.
The Battlehawk was steady and had locked the missile laser-guidance system.
Green Leader fired a Sidewinder heat-seeking missile, and a heartbeat later Green Two also fired.
The twin missiles streaked at supersonic speed, making minute course changes to fly unerringly at the blazing hot helicopter exhaust.
The Battlehawk pilot had his finger on the switch, ready to depress—
Twin explosions thrust the cockpit into a forward roll. The pilot struggled with the controls as he felt his aircraft tumbling through space. And then it crashed in a ball of fire and secondary explosions, incendiary debris raining over the Tam McArthur Rim.
Chapter 40
Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 22
As the pair of F15 Eagles circled overhead, smoking cinders of metal, fabric, and polymer dotted the land around Peter. A piece of burning rubber the size of a marble landed on his arm, melting the synthetic fabric on a path to flesh. He slapped it with his hand to extinguish the fire.
The sound of the twin explosions was replaced by the grinding and rending of metal as the helicopter shattered on impact, the rapidly spinning rotors disintegrating on contact with earth, scattering more debris across the crash site. As the seconds ticked by, that, too, subsided.
The reports from multiple guns reached Peter’s ears. It was coming from hundreds of yards down slope. He didn’t know who was fighting—maybe law enforcement was engaging whoever was out to kill him?
Peter raised his head to search for the assailants he knew to be to his front. A handful of bullets scraped across the gravel only feet away. Still there.
“We move forward, one at a time,” Nadya ordered Marcus. She went first. Jumping to her feet and sprinting forward in a crouch while Marcus continued to fire selectively, just enough to force Peter to stay down.
And then Marcus ran forward while Nadya provided covering fire. Peter slid back into the depression, focusing down the slope, seeking a way out. There wasn’t one.
He squirmed back to the lip of the depression and aimed his rifle. The crosshairs settled across Nadya’s chest as she ran toward Peter. He squeezed the trigger, felt the recoil, and then immediately settled the scope again where she should be laying. Only she was still running. He pulled the bolt back and then forward, ramming home the last cartridge, and fired again.
This time Nadya went down, but not because she suffered a bullet wound. His rifle was no longer shooting true.
She had taken cover behind a cluster of fir trees. With a wave of her arm, she motioned Marcus forward.
Rather than taking time to reload the rifle, Peter cast it aside and shouldered the shotgun. The two assailants were just outside the scattergun’s range, but not for long if they continued to advance.
Nadya noted the lack of rifle fire and thought maybe Peter Savage was out of ammunition. Marcus passed her position, aiming for a group of bushes, when the riot gun roared.
Peter fired once, twice—a volley of buckshot spread in a deadly circle as it flew at Marcus. The pattern opened up too much and by the time the shot careened off the ground it had lost nearly all its effect.
Nadya fired and rose to her feet, advancing quickly, sensing the end was near. She had angled up the slope about twenty meters and now she had a vantage looking down at Peter. She fired twice more, and ordered Marcus to advance.
Peter fired rapidly, pumped the next round into the chamber, and fired again. There was no time to aim—point, shoot, repeat.
He fired the last shot shell when Marcus was only 50 yards out. Still a considerable distance for buck shot, though a pellet managed to strike Marcus in the thigh. He stumbled, but stayed on his feet.
Marcus aimed and fired, the bullet striking the ground in front of Peter and ricocheting high. Peter edged back into the depression, grabbing for the pistol holstered on his hip.
“Enough!” Nadya shouted. Peter froze, and looked up at the woman, immediately recognizing her. She was close now, within a stone’s throw. She could easily shoot him if he made a threatening move.
Slowly, Peter removed his hand from the Colt .45 pistol, and raised them in surrender.
Marcus hobbled in closer and Nadya joined him.
“Are you alright?” she asked. Marcus looked at the wet stain on his pant leg. It was dark, venous blood. The shot hadn’t exited the back of his leg.
“A field dressing will take care of it. I can walk.”
Together they approached Peter. “Hands up! On your knees!” Marcus shouted.
Peter complied, wincing as he kneeled. Diesel was by his side, but unwilling to stand. Still, he issued a deep, guttural growl that caused Marcus to hesitate.
“Get your dog under control before I
shoot it!” he yelled.
“Diesel, quiet.”
Nadya looked at Marcus, his face a mask of fear as he lost sight of Peter, focused instead on the dog.
“Marcus! We still have a job to do.”
The pair drew nearer, rifles pointed at their mark. “What do you want?” Peter said.
“Yesterday, it was to kill you,” Nadya answered.
“And today?” If they had wanted to kill him, they would have done so by now he reasoned.
“Someone wants to talk to you. They have questions, I suppose.”
“What if I don’t want to talk?”
Nadya shrugged. She and Marcus were very close now. “That’s not my concern.”
“And my dog? He needs care, medical attention.”
Marcus shouldered his rifled and aimed at Diesel. “The dog can’t answer questions—”
“Stop!” Nadya shouted.
“We should kill them both. I don’t care about the bonus. Let’s get on with it before the police find us.”
Peter still held his hands high. “Why is the Israeli government so afraid of the Liberty file being made public? What is in that file that is so important today?”
Gunshots reverberated from below, reminding Nadya that they could not continue to talk indefinitely. “I’m not the person who can answer your questions.”
Peter saw something in her face, a hint of concern, maybe, or was she questioning her mission directives? “You know don’t you?” Peter said.
“Know what?”
“The USS Liberty was attacked in 1967. A lot of innocent seamen died in that attack. We were allies!”
“Yes, I know how history records that tragic event,” Nadya answered, her eyes conveying a measure of sorrow. As a Mossad operator, she had known loss, as many Israelis had.
“Is that all it is to you? A tragedy to be forgotten?” Peter’s voice raised in genuine anger.
“No, not to be forgotten,” she answered to Peter’s surprise. Then she turned again to Marcus. “Lower your weapon.”
Marcus was anxious, refusing to lower his rifle. His body appeared tensed, his jaw line tight and hard. “Nadya! We have to shoot them and get out of here!”
