A Triple Thriller Fest (74 page)

1400 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center, Maryland

“Echo Fox-trot, advise you activate transponder.  ETA twenty minutes.”  The radio operator at CSAC picked up the black handset that connected to the duty officer at Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center.  “Pautuxent, our convoy is under hostile attack.  Location: about fifteen miles west on Huntersville Road from intersection with State Highway 235, copy.”

“Pautuxent copies.”  The officer of the day calmly pressed a red button on his console.

The bell clanged loudly in the ready room.  The officer in charge picked up the telephone and listened quietly.  Putting the telephone back on its hook the Marine Lieutenant shouted, “Alright guys, this is it.  Let’s go!”  Twenty men from Squads 1 and 2 of his platoon scrambled for their AR-15 assault rifles and piled into the HumVee and the transport truck parked outside the ready room.  The platoon was a unit of the Marines’ Special Operations Regiment.

At the same time, three Marine pilots ran for their F/A-18 Hornets parked on the tarmac.  The pilots climbed into the cockpits, the canopies shut with a solid thud, and thumbs up were given to their crew chiefs.  Smoke billowed out of the exhausts as the screaming of the jets’ turbines reached a thundering crescendo.  The crew chiefs saluted and the Hornets taxied to the active runway, screaming like banshees.

Pre-cleared for immediate takeoff, the thundering Hornets were airborne within seconds of having received the scramble gong.  Upon reaching altitude, the Marine flight leader radioed ATC, air traffic control, for vector information.

An air traffic emergency had been declared and the ATC had placed all military and civilian aircraft in holding patterns over West Virginia.

“Control, this is Red Leader.”

“Red Leader, a military convoy consisting of three Suburbans has been attacked on Huntersville Road about fifteen miles west of State Highway 235.  One aerial attacker downed, possible other aerial attacks.  Echo Fox-trot has radioed for help, ground troops have been dispatched E.T.A. twenty minutes, need reconnaissance and air cover, if necessary.”

“Roger,” said the flight leader.  “Gentleman, arm your systems.”

With that command, the three Marine pilots raised the small rectangular yellow and black striped metallic cover on their Hornets’ control sticks and flipped the toggle switch inside to on.  With that action, the Hornets’ awesome complement of ordnance was locked and loaded.  In addition to other weaponry, each plane in the flight was armed with four heat-seeking air-to-air AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles and a nose-mounted M61 20 millimeter six barrel gun.

After arming his weapon systems, the flight leader banked left and headed to the action.  Both of his wing men immediately banked left as well.

The first thing that the pilots saw was a column of thick black smoke rising from the woods.  At the column’s base, the Hornet pilots saw the blackened remains of what appeared to be a helicopter ringed by flames.  Three bodies were strewn about the wreckage.

The pilots saw an overturned Suburban lying on its side, another Suburban stopped alongside the first one, and a third Suburban stopped a short distance from the others.  The body of a Marine lay in a pool of blood near the second Suburban.  The third Suburban appeared to be operational, and the Marine pilots could see automatic rifle fire emitting sporadically from the vehicle.

A short distance away a white truck sat empty.  Even farther away there was a yellow Cutlass that had slid on to the shoulder of the road.  Up the road on a small dirt access path partially hidden in the trees was a black panel truck.  At the intersection of that path with the main road, the Marine flight leader saw what appeared to be the body of a white male civilian sprawled out in the brush.

The pilots saw that the battle was still being waged.  They noted puffs of smoke indicating grenade activity and rifle fire smoke throughout the woods.  The Marine pilots saw men in civilian attire and in blue uniforms running through breaks in the trees.  Given the close hand to hand combat going on in the woods, there was little that the Hornet pilots could do, but circle and observe.

“Control, this is Red Leader, the battle below is close quarters.  Not much we can do.  Will remain on station until otherwise instructed.”

“Red Leader, we’re in communications with one of the Marines on the ground.  Will attempt a patch.”

“Glad to see you guys,” said Wicker.  “We’re having a hell of a fight down here; we could sure use some air cover.”

“Roger.”

1420 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

Inside the yellow Cutlass, the young mother hugged her two children tightly, a look of terror on her face.  What started out as a shopping trip and afternoon drive had turned into stark horror.  She shook uncontrollably.  The children were strangely silent, at once excited and dazed by things that heretofore they had only been seen on television.  Every once in awhile, one of the kids would sneak a peek out the window.  The firefight was fascinating.

Meanwhile, the battle raged on the ground.  Mike was able to pick off one of the assailants from his position.  He felt no particular rush connected with ending the life of another human.  Years of training and his general disenchantment had purged those emotions from Mike.  Killing was simply a business matter.

He trained his laser sight on another young, dark-haired man in a white tee shirt and dungarees.  Mike felt no remorse in pulling the trigger.  A burst of fire from Mike’s rifle caught the attacker in the chest.  This one looked like a pizza delivery man.  The burst of fire threw him into the dense brush, drenching the thick green underbrush in crimson.

Mike heard a rustling behind him.  Rolling over, he trained his rifle on the source of the noise and pulled the trigger sending a volley of bullets into the body of his young attacker.  This one, blond and tanned, was dressed in a yellow knit polo shirt, lime green shorts, aviator sunglasses with red holders, and Puma running shoes.  The attacker had a Striker 12 shotgun aimed right at Mike.

The volley from Mike’s AR-15 caught the attacker by surprise.  The look of utter astonishment on his face was replaced by a scream of horror as the rounds from Mike’s rifle practically severed his body in two.

Bernstein and Lee lay prone in their location hidden by underbrush.  Bernstein attempted to raise Wicker on his handheld communicator.  Lee, whose head wound was now wrapped in gauze from his emergency kit, kept watch with his AR-15 carbine at the ready.

Suddenly, there was a rustle behind the two and before they could turn around, an attacker had pounced on Bernstein and had plunged a Bowie knife between his shoulder blades.  Bernstein made no sound as the blade found his heart, and blood pulsed out of the wound, showering both Lee and the attacker.

Lee quickly turned around to confront the attacker, his rifle aimed at the person.  He pulled his trigger, nothing happened.  His magazine had been exhausted in the prior firefight.  Tossing his rifle aside, Lee was instantly on his feet.  The attacker, a slim but athletic man with his black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wearing a white shirt opened at the collar, attempted to pull his knife out of the lifeless back of Bernstein.  The force of the assault had embedded the knife in bone and the attacker was unable to extract it.  He dropped his effort and rose to face Lee.

The two opponents circled one another, each assuming the particular attack pose learned through years of training in the martial arts.  As they circled, each combatant tested his adversary with feinting moves, a jab here, a sidekick there.  The attacker attacked first, landing a foot kick to Lee’s side.  Despite the sharp pain in his side, Lee grabbed the foot, pulled and twisted it, causing his dark-haired assailant to fall forward.

Exploiting that advantage, Lee landed an elbow into the small of his attacker’s back as his body flew forward.  A small crunching sound could be heard as the vertebrae in the attacker’s spine were broken by Lee’s well-placed hit.  As the dark-haired man’s body hit the ground, Lee stomped on the back of his neck, breaking it instantly.  The lifeless body twitched for a few seconds and then collapsed into stillness.

There was no time to revel in this small victory.  Lee leaned forward to pick up his carbine and replace the magazine with a fresh one from his belt.  Kneeling next to Bernstein’s prostrate body to feel for a pulse, he concluded there was little that could be done for his old friend.  Lee cursed, grabbed the communicator, and called Wicker.  “Unit Leader 3, Bernstein is down, what’s the situation?”

“Dave, we’ve got air cover, for what it’s worth,” said Wicker.  “But we can’t assess damage right now, looks like everyone is on his own.”

“Aiee-Yah,” muttered Mike as his AR-15 rifle jammed.  Tossing it aside, he reached behind his back and drew his Walther.  He hoped this thing doesn’t last too much longer.  The Walther held only seven shots.

1430 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Over Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

The Marine flight leader’s radio suddenly came to life.  “Digger, I’ve got a bogey at one o’clock on my screen, its range is, ah .., approximately fifteen miles and she’s headed right for us.  Request permission to break off and intercept.”

“I see him, be careful.”

“Roger.”

As the right wing man broke formation and banked right, he saw the fast approaching Maryland Air National Guard A-10 Warthog.

“Air Guard A-10, this is Marine Hornet.  Request response.  A-10?” radioed the right wing man as his Hornet approached the mysterious jet aircraft.  “Digger, I’ve got an Air Guard Warthog who will not respond to my hailing frequency, please advise.”

“ATC says there are no other authorized aircraft assigned to this sector, Repeat, no other authorized aircraft.”   The flight leader and his remaining wing man immediately banked right to join their colleague.

Just as the right wing man received that message, the pilot of the Warthog opened fire with his 30 millimeter Avenger cannon.

“Hostile fire,” said the Marine pilot as he pulled back on his control stick as hard as he could and went into a steep climb.  Sweat poured profusely down his face, fogging his face mask.  The Warthog made a steep bank, turned around, and climbed after the Marine’s Hornet.  The tracers in the Avenger ammunition belt streamed toward the Hornet.  The faster Hornet lengthened the distance between it and the Warthog, but not before some rounds reached their target.  Mindful of his position, the Marine pilot banked toward the Chesapeake Bay so that the aerial battle would not be fought over populated areas.

The flight leader and his left wing man followed in pursuit of the two jets.  Within seconds, the two Marine airmen caught up with the two jets and noted that some of the rounds from the aggressor jet had struck the Hornet.  A thin contrail of white smoke issued from the right wing of the Hornet, although it remained airborne and under control.

The flight leader maneuvered his Hornet behind the Warthog as the formation of four jets streaked over the sky above the Chesapeake Bay.  The pilot of the Warthog dropped to near water level in an attempt to escape the Marine jets.  The flight leader dropped to wave height as well and fired a warning shot from his M61 20 millimeter gun.  The ground effect of such low level flying buffeted the two jets.  Staying in the air required intense concentration.

The Warthog initiated evasive action, slewing sideways, climbing rapidly, and hugging the treetops on the shore.  For a moment, the pilot of the Warthog captured the admiration of the two Marine pilots in hot pursuit, but that admiration was short lived as the flight leader’s avionics and fire control electronics homed in on the fleeing Warthog.

As he heard the tone and saw the green box flash in his heads up display, the Marine flight leader pressed his fire button and a slim AIM-9 Sidewinder missile dropped from its rack and made a bee-line to the Warthog, leaving a thin white contrail.  The pilot of the Warthog banked sharply to the left and climbed frantically in an effort to escape the fast approaching Sidewinder, to no avail.  The heat-seeking Sidewinder easily sought and acquired the exhaust port of one of the Warthog’s jet turbines.  Few recognizable parts of the Warthog splashed into the gray-blue waters of the Chesapeake.

The right wing man requested and received permission to break formation and return to Pautuxent.  The flight leader and his remaining wing man banked right and headed back to the ground action on Huntersville Road.

“Pautuxent Control.  What was that about?” radioed the flight leader.  “One Maryland Air National Guard A-10 downed and one of my wing men hit.  Over.”

“Red Leader, Maryland Air National Guard reported one of their Warthogs was missing this morning.  We just received the report on DODNet.  Guess you found it.”

“Hope there aren’t any more surprises.”

“Me too.  Pautuxent Control out.”

1445 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Over Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

On the ground, the attack was over.  The superior firepower and training of the Marines were evident in the body count.  Twelve attackers lay dead on the road and in the woods.  Several were taken down as their ammunition ran out and they sought to flee.  The fleeing assailants were easy targets for the laser-equipped marksmen.

Besides Bernstein and the Marine lance corporal, two more Marines lay dead.  This left a complement of about eleven men, including the three wounded men and Mike.

Hearing only reports from his Marines’ weapons, Lee concluded that the battle had run its course and his men were now shooting at each other.  Without any effective way to stop the gun battle, Lee decided to do the only thing he could to get his men to stop firing.  He rushed onto the road screaming, “Hold your fire!  Hold your fire!”

As the deafening roar of small arms fire ceased, the young mother looked out of her front windshield, still shaking violently from the fear she had for her kids’ safety and her own welfare.  A religious person, she quietly thanked the Lord for delivering them from this danger.