the attacking helos had folded up like crumpled aluminum foil as
depleted uranium rounds smashed through its hull, then erupted in a
blazing explosion as avgas ignited.
Then the aft deck of the carrier had fireballed. Damn!
And the second helo had jinked low and circled to the south, apparently
lining up for another shot.
There was no time to coordinate with the Jefferson. They might have a
lock on the enemy aircraft … or the damage inflicted by those first
rockets might have knocked out the carrier’s defense system. Marinaro
knew that he didn’t even have time to get a missile lock on the enemy
himself. In seconds he would be past the target … and another volley
of missiles would have been launched.
But there was something else he could do.
2041 hours, 19 January
RTAF Helicopter 163, Sattahip
He was less than eight hundred meters from the American carrier, which
rose in front of his Huey like a gray steel cliff. He could see the aft
elevator door, wedged partway open. A full volley into that vital spot
might yet cause the fireworks Hsiao had hoped to raise. His finger
closed on the trigger …
And then a shock wrenched him violently against his seat harness, and
the Huey was spinning wildly as a roar like thunder deafened him. He
had a split-second’s glimpse of afterburners shining like twin suns, of
a cascade of water blasted into the sky by the shock-wave of a
supersonic jet.
Thran died as the Huey slammed into the water, still trying to bring his
stricken ship under control.
CHAPTER 20
0630 hours, 20 January
UH-18 Helicopter Hardwire 847, over Sattahip Bay
Tombstone leaned against the back of the pilot’s seat, stooping so that
he could look ahead through the helo’s canopy. He wore a life jacket
and cranial, which made his movements clumsy in the tight confines of
the Huey.
He’d been shaken awake by Gunnery Sergeant Johnson at zero-dark-thirty
that morning. A small mob armed with rocks and miscellaneous weapons
had stormed the front gates of the embassy sometime in the wee hours and
had been driven off when the Marines on the perimeter fired warning
shots over their heads. One of the rioters had fired back and caught a
Marine in the chest with a burst from an AK. Another had caught a
bullet fragment in the shoulder. Both were strapped to stretchers in
the back of the helo now, two Navy corpsmen in attendance.
And Tombstone, eager to get back to the Jefferson, was on the flight as
well. He still hurt where his clothing rubbed the burns on his body,
but he felt somewhat better for the more than six hours of sleep he’d
had on the embassy floor. A battle had been fought outside the front
door, and he’d not even heard it.
“This is Hardwire Eight-four-seven requesting clearance for final
approach,” the pilot said into his helmet microphone. “Jefferson,
Hardwire Eight-four-seven. We have casualties on board. Please
respond.”
The Marine helo pilot glanced back at Tombstone after a moment. “We
just got clearance, sir,” the pilot said. “We’ll put you down by the
island.”
Early morning sunlight gleamed from the surface of the ocean. Tombstone
could see the carrier two miles ahead. The vessel was heading south,
away from the helicopter, and its wake spread out from its stern like a
pale blue arrowhead on the sea. The fires he’d heard about appeared to
be extinguished, but there was a very great deal of smoke, a black,
greasy stain against the sky above the carrier.
“They’re making twelve knots,” the copilot said. “Look at that smoke!
What the hell happened down there anyhow?”
“Embassy told me a rocket attack,” Tombstone said. “I gather they
upped-anchor in a hell of a hurry.”
And I thought we had it bad at the embassy,” the pilot said. “Okay,
sir, hang onto your cookies.”
Moments later, the Huey settled to the carrier’s mid-deck, and Tombstone
stepped aboard. A sharp wind across Jefferson’s bow kept the smoke
clear of the flight deck. The 5-MC was blaring, “Now hear this, now
hear this.
Commence FOD walkdown.” FOD stood for Foreign Object Damage, and the