Dick Couch - Out of the Ashes

Jawad Makhdoom couldn’t believe what they had just seen. He had called the prince as his number two man had suggested, and Ali, without hesitation, had told him to grab the rocket-propelled grenade launcher they kept at the blockhouse to deal with this threat. “Shoot the American spy helicopter out of the sky!” the prince had ordered. They had trained with the RPG and taken a few practice shots months ago, but Makhdoom was surprised by his good fortune to have actually hit the bird with one shot.

However, there was no plan for what to do next. He didn’t know if the people in the helicopter were dead or alive, but he did know Ali al-Wandi was on the way to their site. He knew he had better get answers before the prince arrived.

Hasan Khosa was standing watch in the Geek Tank cell. He picked up the transmission, then played back his tape to hear it again. Then he called out, “Aaron, I need you.”

“Whatcha got, Hasan?” Bleich asked as he walked up behind Khosa. If Bleich had one member of his Geek Tank who he counted on the most, it was Khosa. Just twenty-eight years old and a former wunderkind at eBay, Hasan Khosa was rail thin and barely 140 pounds dripping wet, with shaggy black hair and a wardrobe that might charitably be called early Goodwill. He was second-generation Pakistani and deeply devoted to his immigrant parents, who had sacrificed to send him to Columbia University. He was easygoing and prided himself in doing whatever Bleich asked him to do faster and better than his boss asked for.

“Got this from the DIA net,” Khosa began, referring to the Defense Intelligence Agency. “There’s been a Mayday call from a U.S. military aircraft in the Gulf. I’m putting the latitude and longitude of the report on my screen now. Here, have a look.”

As Bleich looked at the screen in front of him and did some quick mental math, he realized instantly the lat and long on Khosa’s screen matched the location of the suspected missile site in Saudi Arabia.

“Great work, Hasan, I’ll get Roger in here ASAP. He needs to see this!”

The MH-60R sat there, tilted almost thirty degrees to the right, its huge rotor blades dug into the sand and serving as a prop to keep the aircraft from tumbling completely over on its side. Only a few indicators powered by the aircraft’s battery were still alive. An eerie silence settled over the helicopter and its two occupants.

I’m alive — by God, I’m alive! Laurie thought as she looked over in the right seat and saw Sandee moving her head from side to side and heard her moaning.

As the commander of a military aircraft, beginning with the sound of the RPG hitting her bird, Sandee Barron had experienced the classic range of emotions that accompanied such events. First disbelief, then actions based on training and on instincts, then bargaining with God, more actions, concern she had somehow screwed up, more actions, and finally, fear. We’re on the ground and I’m alive, but is Laurie?

“Laurie? Are you OK?” Sandee asked. Somehow her neck wouldn’t turn to the left, so all she could do was to ask it out loud.

“Yes, I think so.”

“We’ve got to get out of this bird, now. We may have ruptured the fuel tanks and this thing could go up like a torch any minute.”

Jawad Makhdoom didn’t fancy himself a hero. He proceeded cautiously. He had gathered all of his crew from the blockhouse and armed them with the rifles and pistols they kept there for security. Now he had them walking with him as he cautiously approached the crashed helicopter.

He struggled with his decision. He knew the prince would want to know precisely what was going on, but he didn’t want to become a casualty doing it. He knew all too well American helicopters had a penchant for carrying SEALs or other special operators and even a crashed helicopter might disgorge a half dozen armed and angry men at any moment. For now, his team remained huddled behind a sand dune about fifty yards from the downed bird.

As Sandee continued to assess the situation, her most intense focus was on getting Laurie out of the aircraft and then getting out herself.

“Laurie, I know it’s uphill, but can you open your door? Just push it hard, unstrap and then drop onto the ground. My door is stuck and I’ll need you to come around to my side of the bird and pull it open from the outside. I can’t get any leverage on it sitting in my seat and my right arm is pretty bunged up, I can hardly move it. Hurry, I see a bunch of men, and they look like they’re armed, behind that sand dune at my three o’clock.”

Laurie did as she instructed and soon was on the ground. Meanwhile, Sandee unholstered the pistol she was armed with and put it in her left hand.

Laurie came around to right side of the bird, twisted the door handle, put two hands on it, and pulled with all her might. It opened!

“Great, Laurie, you did it,” Sandee said. “Here, before I get unstrapped and drop out, take this,” she continued, handing Laurie her pistol while warily eyeing the men behind the dune. “You probably have some experience with these from your Marine Corps days.”

“Just a bit,” Laurie replied. “Here, let me help you get unstrapped and get out.”

Laurie leaned in and began helping Sandee. Suddenly, Sandee cried out.

“Ouch! Oh shit. I think my right arm is broken.”

“Are you sure?”

“Here, grab my left arm and let me lean against you and I can drop out,” Sandee said, grimacing with pain.

As gingerly as she could, Laurie helped Sandee out of the aircraft. She could see she was in tremendous pain and her right arm hung limp at her side. “Here,” Laurie said. “Let’s move toward that small dune over there. It’s far enough from the helo and it will provide us some cover if those guys start shooting.”

Once behind the dune and at least momentarily safe, Sandee had a moment to collect her thoughts. They were not good thoughts. I’ve lied to my detachment OIC, I’ve lied to my fellow pilots, I’ve lied to the ship, and I’ve almost gotten us killed. I’ve destroyed a $30 million helicopter and we’re in the Saudi desert and we’re screwed, Sandee told herself. Now I just have to get us the hell out of here.

She keyed her PRC-90 survival radio and made the call she knew she had to make.

As Roger McCord and Aaron Bleich walked up to Chase Williams in the command center, the Op-Center director could tell that something was wrong.

“What’s up?” Williams asked.

“Boss, looks like the mission’s changed.”

“How so?” Williams had been focused on the JSOC team’s preps and hadn’t been dialed into anything the Geek Tank had been doing for the last few minutes.

“Well, boss, Aaron’s team picked up a DIA feed that a U.S. military aircraft in the Gulf made a mayday call. Then they picked up an indication a U.S. Navy ship in the Gulf, USS Normandy, had declared their helo overdue. Not only that, but there’s a U.S. military aircraft emergency crash beacon going off at that location. And, well, the coordinates track to where we think this missile site is located in Saudi Arabia.”

“Wow. So we think some Navy helo stumbled on the site that our JSOC team is about to investigate?”

“I’m not sure ‘stumbled’ is the right word, boss,” McCord replied. “There’s nothing out there but sand and it makes no sense that a U.S. Navy helo would just drive thirty-five miles into the Saudi desert.”

“We know if the crew is still alive?”

“Unknown, boss. You want to call General Albin and see what he knows?”