He spread his hands out in front of him, palms up. “I’m a ground
pounder, but I imagine I can keep up.” Unlike before, there was a
small note of uncertainty in his voice.
Sikes tried again. “Mister, play straight with me. I don’t have time
for games. Can you swim or not? If you can’t, we’ll just make other
arrangements.” He wondered exactly what those “other arrangements”
would consist of, but put the matter off for a moment while he waited
for the Marine’s response.
“I can swim. Not real well, and I’ll never win any speed records, but
I can churn my way through the water and stay afloat, at least well
enough to pass the water-survival flight test.”
Sikes groaned inwardly. While every pilot had to demonstrate the
ability to stay afloat for thirty minutes, and to use his or her gear
to provide flotation while waiting for rescue, the test was hardly a
grueling one. But if that was the extent of the Marine’s water skills,
so be it; it would have to be enough. He turned back to Pamela
Drake.
“You’ll come with me. It’s only about a mile swim, but it will feel
like longer if you’re not used to it. Especially after what you’ve
been through today. Don’t worry, I won’t let you drown.”
He assessed her candidly, noting the long, smooth muscles rippling
beneath her flawless skin. Yes, probably a swimmer. She had the build
and the musculature for it.
“Garcia and Huerta, you stay with the major,” Sikes ordered. As hefty
as the Marine was, it might take more than one man to keep him afloat
if he needed help. He saw the Marine start to protest, and cut him off
with a quick motion.
“My mission, my expertise. Major. You just do what you’re told. We
won’t tell anybody when we get back to the boat, okay?”
There was no point in wasting any further time. Sikes turned, started
down to the water with Pamela Drake in tow, and let the warm ocean slip
over him.
0602 Local (+5 GMT) South of Cuba The first cramp in his gut brought
him back to full consciousness. Bird Dog woke abruptly, coughing and
sputtering, trying to eject the seawater from his lungs and to take a
deep, shuddering breath. His brain was demanding oxygen, but the gray
unconsciousness still lurking there was more than drowned out by the
agonizing cramp in his gut.
He choked, came to his senses, and leaned back into the life
preserver.
It had done its job well, keeping his head out of the water, though not
by much. At any rate, he hadn’t drowned after losing consciousness,
and that was good enough.
Gator. Where was he? He must be somewhere near the two had punched
out fractions of a second apart, although the RIO’s offset angle of
trajectory away from the cockpit might have led to some separation when
they hit the water.
Had Gator even survived? He tried to remember whether or not he’d seen
his chute open. Yes, a chute. Had there been motion below it? If
there had been, it had been indiscernible from the motion generated by
swaying to and fro under the canopy. Whether or not his backseater was
still alive was an open question.
The life raft where was it? Seawater on the seat pan would have
activated it automatically. The theory was that the pilot would remain
conscious and thus be able to swim over and grab it before it drifted
out of range.
He hoisted himself up out of the water as he topped another wave and
scanned the ocean around him. There was not a sign of the bright
orange life raft, nor of his backseater.
They’re coming for us, though. He was certain of it. He fished out
his emergency radio and tried to raise the carrier.
A voice immediately answered his transmission.
With the prospect of SAR helicopters immediately inbound his
location.
Bird Dog curled up in a ball, let the life jacket support him, and
tried to massage the cramp out of his gut.
0615 Local (+5 GMT) West of Cuba Sikes heaved himself into the boat