Christen
Tuesday, Forward Operating Base, Mosul Iraq
They were strapped in, waiting for the colonel to say the mission was a go. Christen hadn’t revved her motors yet, she was clinging to every drop of her precious fuel. Their four Delta customers patted themselves over, a final gear check. Nerves were sparking. Everyone champed at the bit anticipating their green light.
“I can’t help but think this is gonna get him killed,” Nick said.
“Not our call.” Christen was of like mind. She couldn’t figure out what the hell command was thinking. An American, John Grey, had been captured. Yes, he should be rescued. Yes, she was willing to die trying. But this? Surely, the colonel had weighed the importance of this man against the lives of everyone on her bird and possibly everyone on the Black Hawk, too, not to mention the civilians who would be in their general vicinity. This had disaster written all over it. But Christen turned a blind eye to the writing on the wall. Honestly, it didn’t matter. Her creed dictated that she took the missions no one else would try. And she lived her creed. Happily.
Listening to the Deltas talking in their low tones, Christen got the impression John Grey was a CIA operations officer in deep shit with some very big secrets that Uncle Sam would prefer not be wrestled out of him through torture sessions. Everyone had their breaking point. Everyone. Still, this move didn’t make a heck of a lot of sense.
With a thumbs up and a salute, they were in play.
“Here we go.” Christen snapped her helmet into place, revved the motors, and maneuvered the helicopter into the air, heading for the hills and toward their target.
Soon, they soared over the flat roofs of the city. The trip was just long enough that it could encourage complacence. Christen knew better, even a moments inattention could turn them into a fireball. Every cell in her body was on high alert.
The prison lay just ahead. Nick leaned out the open door as Christen lowered her bird toward the street. He gestured information to her. When she reached eight feet of elevation, she flew them down the road like she would drive to church. She scared the bejezus out of the lone donkey galloping and bucking below her. All the humans had fled inside.
The helicopter wash kicked up a debris storm that filled the air between the buildings, dancing particles off the hard surfaces, boxing in the air. With nowhere to expand, and the downward thrust of the rotating blades roiling and churning up a dust cloud, visibility dropped to almost nothing. Everyone knew they were there. There was no stealth involved, which meant they’d soon have company.
The Black Hawk was above them and to the rear. She knew the Delta operatives back there would be dangling from the runners their rifles aimed and ready, sucking up a lungful of crap.
Christen didn’t need a clear line of sight as she negotiated the tight space; she flew night missions after all. But her sensors weren’t happy that the blades were so close to the walls on her left and right. She wasn’t thrilled about it either. Micromovements. Firm hands. Laser focus. Christen brought the heli flush to the northwest wall.
Nick counted the windows as she edged their bird forward. “Seven, eight, steady steady, eleven!”
Christen breathed in a stabilizing breath as she held her stick firmly and, with a practiced hand, maneuvered to lift them straight up.
“Second floor. Third floor. Fourth. Five. Here. Here. Here,” he called into the comms.
They hovered until they saw a head behind the bars, peeking out. An American face pressed forward, his hands splayed wide against the window glass. Nick looked down at the photo then back at the man. “We’ve got him!”
Christen didn’t turn her head to look, though she desperately wanted to. Her focus was steady on her instruments. Christen felt rather than saw Nick give Grey a wave before she edged forward a few feet, waiting for a tap on her shoulder, telling her she was lined up. She let air blow in a stream through her pursed lips. Flaring her nostrils and sucking in more oxygen, she worked to calm her adrenal glands. She’d trained for this level of stress. There was no room for error. Inches, not feet, were in play. Her hazard alarms were doing their job warning her. She was well aware that she had only the smallest amount of wiggle room before her blade caught on the side of the buildings. She just needed to keep a cool head. And keep her hands steady.
Nick reached over and pressed the button on their stop watch. Now their precise mission window was in play.
They were all in danger, but none so much as the Delta operator who pushed a ladder between the window sill and the open door, forming a bridge between the building and the helicopter. He was tethered in so if she took off he’d take off, too, dangling below her runners. Christen could hear the screech of metal against metal as their helicopter shifted about, rubbing against the ladder. Nothing she could do about it. There was no such thing as holding this beast perfectly still. Front and back, possible up and down micro-sways might be okay. But the prison window sill they’d latched their ladder to couldn’t be more than three or four inches wide. She hoped the Deltas were sitting on the back end of their rigged-up bridge because the side to side shift would surely be wider than the width of a hand. Not her problem, Christen reminded herself. They handled their end of the mission, and she handled hers. Straight. Even. Steady. That was the mantra she chanted.
Over the comms, she could hear the customers talking. With a Delta brother on either side holding his ankles, they handed out the tools. This operative, it seemed, was suited up in welder’s gear.
“I need the plasma torch,” the guy on the ladder called.
No one had run that idea by Christen. Her eyes stretched wide, as she thought about sparks and bright-hot metal shards flying so close to her fuel tanks. Well, today might very well be a good day to die.
As that thought bubbled to the surface of her consciousness, a spark landed on her thigh, which was only somewhat protected by her flame retardant jumpsuit. She had to work at not jerking her leg, not taking her hand off her control stick. Nick flicked the metal off before it seared her skin too badly. Christen made a mental note to thank him later. Eyes forward. Breath paced. Focus sharp. Hands sweaty, sure. But steady none-the-less. This is why Night Stalkers trained for every possible scenario under every possible condition. Ready for anything. This one was new, though. Christen never trained for a jail break in the middle of a city street in the full glare of the midday sun. Fun times.
Time did the adrenaline dance, making everything seem to take much longer than it actually did. According to the stopwatch mounted on her console, it had been twenty seconds. Was that possible?
Suddenly, pings sounded below them. Even with the engine noise bouncing and echoing off the buildings, Christen could make out that specific sound of metal on metal in a staccato beat of bullets flying from a finger exercising the trigger of a semi-automatic weapon. After every so many rounds, there was a short break. The shooter probably changing magazines.
“He’s out our left side aiming for the fuel tanks,” Nick’s voice was as calm as a summer day fishing. More guns were added to the fight on the street, trying to take her bird down. Or maybe just trying to get the Delta off his ladder bridge. Surely, the guards in the prison were racing toward Grey’s cell. Would the Delta’s chase through the window after him if Grey was suddenly yanked from the room?
Thirty seconds.
One of the Deltas lay on his stomach out the left door, shooting his rifles downward with his own strafe of fire power to force the shooters behind cover. One of the militants’ bullets must have found her fuel tank. She watched her fuel gauge needle slide toward E. Much longer, and she’d get fuel-critical for making their return flight.
Thirty-five seconds.
Of course, that would mean nothing if the idiot below them detonated her fuel tank with a grenade or other incendiary device. That was actually a problem she didn’t need to deal with. Either it wouldn’t detonate, or she’d be in a million pieces so fast that she would be alive one second and mist the next. Focus.
There was a clang then a second clang to her right. Christen assumed that noise was the jail bars being tossed into the cell and hitting the cement floor.
A third clang.
Forty-two seconds in.
She wondered if the shooter might get up under them and shoot Grey as he was being pulled to freedom. The wash, though, was strong, the debris thick. That might be enough to keep the guy safe.
The Deltas were shouting. “Pull him through! Grab him! Get him on!”
Christen battled curiosity. She forced herself to keep her head straight, even, and forward facing.
Fifty-four seconds.
There was a massive clang and a tap on her helmet. Fingers in her right periphery signaled her forward. She’d be happy to comply. She waited a nanosecond for Nick to turn, count heads and confirm. The Night Stalker creed said that she would not/could not leave a comrade to the enemy.
Up, up, up she climbed, banking hard right.
Sixty-seconds, the time allotted to get her customers out of the street. Damned, those Deltas were good!
Eleven-twenty-two hours.
The militants had manned their heavy guns, and Christen thought it was insane that opposition forces were shooting at her in the middle of the city. She moved to get between the enemy and the sun, so she would be lost in the glare. There was no cheering. No congratulations. Even if Grey couldn’t hear her over the comms, telling the Black Hawk she was in dire straits, the Deltas could. Things were about to get hairier.
She zipped her bird into the hills, then brought the heli down to ten feet and slowed her motors, trying to conserve energy. She glided over the terrain, undulating the bird up and down following the curves of Mother Earth. Her objective was to get as far as she could from the militants.
Just then, her fellow Night Stalker, Shawn Promin, better known as Prominator, called out. “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. We’re hit. They got our tail rotor. We’re going down.”
She hadn’t seen the RPG in the air. Hadn’t heard the explosion. She could hear the whistle of the Black Hawk as it spun in place. Christen wrenched her bird in a tight circle, bringing herself around. The Deltas’ guns blasted from the Little Bird’s open doors. The operatives pulled out their own launcher and the air brightened with a flash of light as they hit some explosive target in the distance.
Christen found a patch of what looked like even ground for her to set down.
A hand slapped her shoulder. “No, ma’am, we have to get the precious cargo back to base.” The Delta called into the comms gesturing forward. “We have to deliver Grey.”
“You don’t understand,” Christen replied. “We’re out of fuel.” She tapped the gauge. “We were never going to make it back. That Black Hawk was our ticket home.”