was instantly unbalanced, the wobbling motion tearing it apart transmitted to everything within. Like a child’s toy being tossed by an unruly toddler, the Sea Stallion was whipped onto its side by the torqueing test between whipping blades and hulking fuselage, bodies within tumbling, shattered rotors chewing into the earth, spinning slower. And slower. And slower.
Until the mechanical violence ended, just the fading whine of the turbines spinning down left.
“We’ve gotta cover that tree line!” Lorenzen shouted, unstrapping himself from the canvas bucket seat affixed to what was now the floor of the space.
I hung above him, still buckled in, still dazed by the horrific end to our short flight.
“Eric!”
It was Elaine. She stood below me, a trickle of blood on the side of her face. Other than that minor injury she seemed unhurt.
“I’m okay,” I said, convinced of that a few seconds later as I caught my breath and shook off the impact. “I’m good.”
I undid my belt and lowered myself down. Neil had recovered and was already gearing up. Everyone was, it seemed, no serious injuries or, thank God, fatalities, other than the cockpit crew. To call it a miracle might not be far from accurate, I thought.
“Westin, Enderson, on me,” Lorenzen shouted, his M4 ready as he led his men through the gaping rip in the fuselage. “Hart, give a check on everyone then bring up the rear.”
“You okay?” Hart asked, looking to me and Elaine and Neil.
We all gave him an assuring nod and he headed for the opening, Schiavo and Acosta approaching next.
“You smell that?” Schiavo asked.
We all did. A stark and pungent wave was scenting the air within what was left of the Sea Stallion.
“We have to get some supplies out,” I said, and Schiavo nodded.
“Fast,” Acosta suggested. “Before we all become crispy critters.”
That the helicopter hadn’t been engulfed in flames by the spilled fuel igniting was maybe another miracle. Or a testament to its toughness. In either case, the luck we were having might very well not last. We needed to get as much of what we’d brought onto the Sea Stallion back off, lest starvation be the next obstacle we’d be facing instead of Russians.
“Acosta and I will cover,” Schiavo said. “You three mule everything you can grab away from the chopper. Clear?”
It was. Schiavo and Acosta stepped through the opening and took up positions a few yards away from the capsized helicopter. I carried the first cases out with my pack on and AR slung at my side. Neil and Elaine matched my load. The three of us had almost all of the MREs and water bottles off when we heard a few quick bursts of gunfire from the woods to the west.
“Cover!” Schiavo ordered.
Acosta moved to the Sea Stallion’s shattered cockpit and crouched low there, focusing his attention to the west and south. Schiavo sprinted to the half demolished outbuilding near the lighthouse and covered the west and north. The actions were practiced and precise. We had no such connection with how Schiavo had drilled her troops, but we knew enough that to be useful we should be adding eyes and weaponry to where they were not.
“Lighthouse,” I said.
Neil nodded and took the lead, running to the side of the building with Elaine and me behind. When we reached the battle scarred south wall we positioned ourselves to cover the eastern side of the clearing. Then we waited.
It was likely a minute or two that passed, but the silence was palpable. The not knowing made the time drag.
“Quick boat trip and bring them home,” Neil said quietly, injecting what relief he could into the tense moment.
“What’s this, an added bonus?” Elaine wondered, joining in.
“Go to Alaska and fight Russians,” I said. “New state tourism slogan.”
The brief interlude of humor ended then, not with further violence, but with calm voices and familiar faces emerging from the woods behind us.
“One down,” Lorenzen reported.
Westin,
Until the mechanical violence ended, just the fading whine of the turbines spinning down left.
“We’ve gotta cover that tree line!” Lorenzen shouted, unstrapping himself from the canvas bucket seat affixed to what was now the floor of the space.
I hung above him, still buckled in, still dazed by the horrific end to our short flight.
“Eric!”
It was Elaine. She stood below me, a trickle of blood on the side of her face. Other than that minor injury she seemed unhurt.
“I’m okay,” I said, convinced of that a few seconds later as I caught my breath and shook off the impact. “I’m good.”
I undid my belt and lowered myself down. Neil had recovered and was already gearing up. Everyone was, it seemed, no serious injuries or, thank God, fatalities, other than the cockpit crew. To call it a miracle might not be far from accurate, I thought.
“Westin, Enderson, on me,” Lorenzen shouted, his M4 ready as he led his men through the gaping rip in the fuselage. “Hart, give a check on everyone then bring up the rear.”
“You okay?” Hart asked, looking to me and Elaine and Neil.
We all gave him an assuring nod and he headed for the opening, Schiavo and Acosta approaching next.
“You smell that?” Schiavo asked.
We all did. A stark and pungent wave was scenting the air within what was left of the Sea Stallion.
“We have to get some supplies out,” I said, and Schiavo nodded.
“Fast,” Acosta suggested. “Before we all become crispy critters.”
That the helicopter hadn’t been engulfed in flames by the spilled fuel igniting was maybe another miracle. Or a testament to its toughness. In either case, the luck we were having might very well not last. We needed to get as much of what we’d brought onto the Sea Stallion back off, lest starvation be the next obstacle we’d be facing instead of Russians.
“Acosta and I will cover,” Schiavo said. “You three mule everything you can grab away from the chopper. Clear?”
It was. Schiavo and Acosta stepped through the opening and took up positions a few yards away from the capsized helicopter. I carried the first cases out with my pack on and AR slung at my side. Neil and Elaine matched my load. The three of us had almost all of the MREs and water bottles off when we heard a few quick bursts of gunfire from the woods to the west.
“Cover!” Schiavo ordered.
Acosta moved to the Sea Stallion’s shattered cockpit and crouched low there, focusing his attention to the west and south. Schiavo sprinted to the half demolished outbuilding near the lighthouse and covered the west and north. The actions were practiced and precise. We had no such connection with how Schiavo had drilled her troops, but we knew enough that to be useful we should be adding eyes and weaponry to where they were not.
“Lighthouse,” I said.
Neil nodded and took the lead, running to the side of the building with Elaine and me behind. When we reached the battle scarred south wall we positioned ourselves to cover the eastern side of the clearing. Then we waited.
It was likely a minute or two that passed, but the silence was palpable. The not knowing made the time drag.
“Quick boat trip and bring them home,” Neil said quietly, injecting what relief he could into the tense moment.
“What’s this, an added bonus?” Elaine wondered, joining in.
“Go to Alaska and fight Russians,” I said. “New state tourism slogan.”
The brief interlude of humor ended then, not with further violence, but with calm voices and familiar faces emerging from the woods behind us.
“One down,” Lorenzen reported.
Westin,
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