Arkady looked over to find Pink Pinkerton holding in his usual wingman’s slot aft and above his starboard side. The burned-out barrels of Pink’s Gatling glowed in the dark. In his total focus on his attack, Arkady had lost situational awareness of his wingman. Now he realized that the Marine must have followed him through the strafing run.
“Strike Lead to Strike Wing. I told you you’d be doing crazy stuff flying for the Lady, Pink.”
“Negative, Strike Lead. This one was entirely your insanity.”
“Strike Lead, this Crisis Lead,” a new voice intruded on the Talk Between Pilots. “We are on approach to Foxtrot Crash site. Can you call status on the landing
zone?”
The shimmering rotor halos of the rescue Hawks could be seen sweeping in from the check line and Arkady and Pink circled back to assume the escort slot.
“Crisis Lead, this is Strike Lead. The primary ground threat has been eliminated,
but you may assume we’ve still got at least a warm LZ. Call any targets and we’ll cover you in.”
“Breaker, Crisis Lead,” Stone Quillain’s ground-based voice interjected. “This is Sea Demon Six. We got the approaches to the crash site covered and we
have survivor activity at the crash site. We got no enemy movement and we’re not seein’ any ground fire. You busted their wagon and pissed in their sandbox and I don’t think these ol’ boys want to play any more.”
“Roger D, Sea Demon Six. Let’s bring our guys home.”
*
A bemused Christine Rendino found herself capable of giving orders and rational thought. She had witnessed the devastating air strike on the Indonesian convoy and, with that rebirth of hope, she had started organizing the crash site.
Those aircrewmen and Marines conscious and able to move were used to set up a perimeter around the wreck, while first aid was administered to those who couldn’t.
So far, the flimsy security screen had gone unchallenged. No hostiles had approached the downed helo and they hadn’t received appreciable ground fire. It was as if the devastation of their reinforcement column had knocked the last of the fight out of the rebels surrounding the square. Like the crash survivors, the Indonesians lay panting and exhausted in the humid night.
Then, with miniguns extended, the crisis ships came roaring out of the dark. Settling on either side of their downed sister, Air Force Pararescue teams poured out of the open hatches, some carrying basket stretchers and medical kits, others with carbines ready at port arms.
Overhead, a pair of SPEED Cobra gunships growled threateningly, promising instant retribution for any interference.
The Senior Pararescue man knelt down beside Christine as she sat slumped against
the wreck’s fuselage. “Are you okay, ma’am?”
Christine found her warped sense of humor coming back. “Not quite yet, but things seem to be improving.”
“Good deal, ma’am. We’ll be getting you loaded in just a second.”
“I just hope you guys are a direct flight. I don’t mind flying tourist, but having to change planes sucks.”
Sky Island Alpha, Jakarta
2358 Hours; Zone Time, October 31, 2008
From atop the Hotel Sriwijaya, Stone Quillain watched the rescue flight helos lift off and head north for the sea, their escort gunships trailing. Elsewhere in the sky above the city, the other strike helos and RPVs were withdrawing as well.
“This is Sea Dragon Six to Star Child. Be advised rescue flight is airborne.
Looking good. Clean extraction.”
Below, at the base of the spire, there was a sudden blue-white flare. Timer-fused thermite demolition charges blazed alight inside the fuselage of the wrecked SPEED Hawk, the exploding fuel cells joining in the immolation a few moments later. Phantom Force was leaving behind no secrets for an enemy to exploit.
The stillness was deepening over the maimed and exhausted city. Nothing moved, save for the boiling smoke plumes ruddily underlit by burning buildings and the distant flashing lights of a brave ambulance.
They were finished here. It was time to leave.
“Acknowledged, Sea Demon.” Captain Garrett sounded tired too. “This is the Lady to all Sky Island teams. Extract!”
“Sea Demon Six to the Lady,” Quillain replied to the distant voice. “Acknowledged. We’re outa here.” He lifted his own voice over the twirl of their waiting Little Bird. “Saddle up! Let’s go!” As the sniper team retreated to the AH-6, Stone fell back to the door house and
its guardians. “Get going, boys. I’ll plug up the rat hole.”
Stone pulled a pop-can-sized canister from a harness pouch. Slinging his carbine, he pulled the pin on the canister and rolled the incendiary grenade down the bullet-scarred stairwell, ducking back to avoid the searing sparklets of white phosphorous and the billowing cloud of metallic-tasting smoke. Below, someone hadn’t ducked and a scream and a burst of unintelligible profanity echoed up the shaft. No one would be dashing up that set of stairs for the foreseeable future.
The Little Bird was already powering up for flight as Stone took his seat on the edge of the deck, latching the monkey strap carabineers onto his harness. Then the AH-6 broke contact with the roof with a jerk, leaving Sky Island Alpha behind. As they spiraled clear, Stone picked up the rotor halos of the other Army Little Birds lifting off from the other Sky Island sites and he heard their pilots calling their lift-offs. Off to the west, a single stream of small caliber tracers arced into the sky, falling well short of the departing helicopters.
The final shots of the Jakarta siege had been fired.
The USS Shenandoah
0002 Hours; Zone Time, November 1, 2008
Amanda took a deep breath. She was tired, very tired, but that was irrelevant.
She keyed her command headset into the 1-MC. “Attention on all decks. This is the Captain. All aircraft are feet wet and all
landing force elements are off the beach. We are commencing recovery operation.
Casualties have been minimal and all Phantom personnel are accounted for. All
mission objectives have been met. Secure all Trick or Treat timelines. Well
done, all hands. Exceptionally well done.”
Amanda slipped off the headset and closed her eyes for a moment. Soon, someone in the Op Center started to clap. Whistles, cheers and exuberance radiated outward through the commando carrier as her crew vented their tensions of the past few hours.
She felt a warm grip on her shoulder, strong but almost hesitant. “I asked you to pull another loose handful of fingers into a fist, and by God,
you’ve done it!”
She opened her eyes and looked up into MacIntyre’s shadowed face. “I’ve just been lucky, Elliot. Very, very lucky.”
She thought once more about Christine’s revelation on that last day aboard the Carlson and decided that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing at all.
Self-consciously, MacIntyre turned the grip on her shoulder into a light slap. “How about a cup of coffee in the wardroom?”
“I want to see Chris and the other wounded in sickbay first – and I need to have a few words with the plane crew of the Cobra we lost – but then I’m your girl. Only, let’s make it the salon in the stern section. I think I could use a drink.”
Lake Toba, Sumatra
