Dancing with the Dragon (2002) (28 page)

Chapter
19.

Black Shadow Six

Dave Finchly flew the Seahawk while Jackie continuously updated their position in relation to the cargo ship. By her calculations, Scott should be aboard the Chen Ziyang and about ready to leap overboard. Finchly was slowing Black Shadow Six to maintain a position fifteen nautical miles from the Chinese ship. When Scott came up on the radio, they would quickly move in to hoist him aboard the Seahawk.

The intermediate transmission-oil-temperature light illuminated.

"Uh-oh, trouble," Finchly said. "Ah, we have a major problem." "Oh, yeah. We need to find a deck ASAP."

"You're right, we gotta get out of here."

"Wouldn't it figure," Jackie quietly said to herself, and stared at the light. We have to get someone out here to rescue Scott.

"Watch for any abnormal vibrations," Finchly said. "We're going to have to make a run for the frigate and we're forty miles out."

"Okay, but can we get them to launch a helo to rescue Scott?"

Finchly shrugged his shoulders. "I'll see what I can do."

Jackie reached into the lower leg pocket of her flight suit and grabbed her satellite phone. We need action from the top. "Dave, I can take care of this with one phone call."

"Go for it." Finchly prepared Black Shadow Six for an auto-rotation and ditching. "I'll check NATOPS and call the frigate." "Okay."

Hartwell Prost was on the phone in a matter of seconds. Jackie quickly explained the situation and told him that Scott might be in the water. Prost had her remain on the phone. When he returned, he told her the situation was under control. For security reasons, he couldn't explain what was being done, but he told her not to worry about Scott.

"Thank God," Jackie said to herself, returning the satellite phone to her pocket. "Help is on the way."

"Good deal."

They saw the warning light flick on.

"Oil pressure," Dave said. "What next?"

Jackie watched in silence as the number-two engine's oil pressure fluctuated up and down on the vertical instrument display system, known as VIDS.

Finchly called the frigate and declared an emergency, then had the two aircrewmen prepare for an immediate ditching. They strapped into their seats and quietly prayed.

"Hang in there," Finchly said to Jackie and to the petty officers. "The ship is coming our way."

Scott flashed his most disarming smile and stuck his arm out to shake hands with the surprised Chinese sailor.

His eyes wide open in fear and confusion, the man became indecisive and stepped back a pace.

"Do you speak English?" Dalton asked while they awkwardly shook hands. "English?"

"I speak little English," the man said, unsure if he should flee from the strangely dressed man.

"Do you know how much trouble your captain is in?" The sailor looked totally confused. "Trouble?"

"Yes. We have a security breach. This equipment is supposed to be guarded twenty-four hours a day, and your government in Beijing pays me to inspect security on various ships. I've been on board since Long Beach."

Frightened, the man looked at Dalton as if he were seeing an aberration. He became very cautious and evasive. "I know nothing. I not in charge--know nothing."

"Well, if you cooperate, you won't get into any trouble. But that's up to you--your decision."

"I copawait--I know nothing."

"Good." Scott motioned toward the laser. "You stand right over here by the console while I take your picture."

Bug eyed, the sailor shook his head. "No pitcher, no pitcher!" "No picture, and your name will have to go in my report. Your days on the ocean will be over."

In silence the man backed against the console.

"Raise your head up and smile." Scott moved back to take in the entire laser weapon. He clicked a dozen photos from different angles, each with the Chinese sailor in the picture.

"Keep smiling." Scott finished the roll of film in his second camera.

The seaman kept the strained smile on his ashen face.

"Okay, good job," Dalton said, and stowed his cameras. "You stay down here and guard this equipment until I send you a relief in about two hours, okay?"

He nodded his head. "I stay here?"

"That's right." Scott waved his finger at the man. "Don't leave your post for any reason--none."

"I stay here, I copawait."

"That's right."

Scott quietly made his way to the main deck and cautiously walked in the direction of the fantail.

"Halt--stop!"

A shot rang out and ricocheted near Dalton's right foot. "Stop!"

Scott started sprinting toward the stern. More rounds ricocheted off the steel deck. He knew he wasn't going to make it to the fantail. With a mighty leap, Dalton dived over the side of the ship and swam underwater as far as possible before surfacing. He was tumbled around by the churning wake while he watched the Chen Ziyang continue on course. He quickly activated one of his radios.

"Black Shadow Six, Garden Party is up and the GPS is working." Nothing.

Scott relaxed on his back and tried again. Still nothing.

After exchanging radios he tried again. Silence.

Well, this is great.

Black Shadow Six

Lieutenant Finchly went over the NATOPS checklist for "engine oil pressure low" and monitored the pressure and temperature of the number-two engine for secondary indications. While the minutes ticked off, the fluctuations became more pronounced.

"Twenty-five miles," Jackie said, checking the distance to the USS Ford. "We have an engine-oil-pressure caution light."

Finchly closely scanned the instruments. "If we see any other indications, we'll shut it down."

"Okay," she said, calculating time, fuel, and distance. "Do you think we should dump some gas?"

"Yeah, good idea." Finchly began dumping fuel.

Jackie glanced at the engine instruments and listened to the complaining turboshaft. "It's getting worse--really sounds bad." "I know."

After three minutes it was obvious that the engine was about to pack it in. Finchly secured the fuel dump.

"What do you think?" Jackie asked.

"I'm going to shut it down."

He slowly increased power on the good engine, pulled the throttle for the number-two engine to idle, and then turned off the fuel. They completed the single-engine-failure checklist, the singleengine-landing checks, and then informed the frigate of their status.

"Fifteen miles," Jackie reported.

At twelve miles from the ship, the vibrations began in the intermediate transmission. They were light at first, but there was definitely a pattern of increased intensity. Time was quickly running out.

"You've got it," Finchly said, relinquishing the flight controls to Jackie.

"I've got it."

She listened to Finchly discuss the situation with the helicopter control officer on the frigate. They had already set flight quarters to give the stricken helicopter a green deck.

"Seven miles," Jackie nervously reported.

Finchly took the controls and checked on his two aircrewmen. The USS Ford was slowing and turning to allow the Seahawk to make a straight-in approach to the fantail.

"Five miles."

The vibrations were rapidly multiplying, and then they slowly developed into a crunching, grinding sound that was increasing by the second.

"Four miles."

No one said a word.

"Three miles."

"There it is!" Finchly said, requesting the relative winds from the frigate's landing signal officer.

With his heart racing, Dave kept the speed up and began a shallow descent. They were rapidly closing on the ship.

"Come on, don't fail me now," he coaxed under his breath. "Stay together, just a little longer."

He worked hard to fly a perfect single-engine profile while Jackie called torque and other engine parameters. The crunching sound was rapidly turning into heavy grinding. The helicopter was beginning to shake itself apart and would soon be uncontrollable.

Bleeding off airspeed, Finchly decelerated through translational lift while the grinding became a high-pitched screech and the helicopter started bucking and yawing.

The landing was hard but safe. He shut down the remaining engine after the frigate's crew secured Black Shadow Six to the deck.

Exhausted by tension and raw fear, Jackie and Dave went limp in their seats. They looked at each other while the two aircrewmen exchanged high fives.

"Another mile and we wouldn't have made it," Jackie said, her voice low and weak.

Dave unbuckled his helmet. "I'd say about a quarter of a mile."

Floating on his back, Scott continued trying to contact someone on the radios. He left both on so the GPS signal would indicate his exact position. Dalton couldn't believe that Jackie would leave him in the middle of the ocean. As the minutes passed, he finally accepted the fact that something had gone wrong. He hoped that Jackie, Dave, and their aircrewmen were okay. His concern for his situation shifted to concern for Jackie.

All thoughts of her evaporated when Scott saw a ship bearing down on him from the same direction the Chen Ziyang had gone. A few seconds later, a number of high-powered spotlights on the ship illuminated and began searching the water.

Scott started to reach for his 9mm Sig Sauer and then dismissed his idea. Yeah, that's going to do a lot of good against an eighteen-thousandton cargo ship full of guys with automatic weapons.

Frantic now that the ship was about a mile away and slowing, Scott racked his brain for a solution, something that made sense. He drew a blank as the vessel closed to within a half mile. This was going to be like a county-fair shooting gallery, and he was the only target.

The first stages of panic were beginning to set in when the Chen Ziyang exploded in a huge fireball that shot straight up for hundreds of feet. Astonished, Scott was rattled by the powerful shock wave that slammed into him. Holy shit!

Wide eyed, Dalton realized that he was out of immediate danger. He doubted if anyone could have survived an explosion of that magnitude. His greatest fear now was the debris that was raining down on him. Thousands of small pieces slapped the water while bigger sections of the ship hit the ocean with tremendous force.

From what he could tell, the Chen Ziyang had blown in half and was rapidly sinking. Amazed at his good fortune, but wondering what had happened, Scott watched in awe as the cargo ship burned for fifteen minutes. With an explosive rush of trapped air, the ship finally slipped under the surface of the sea.

His concern turned to survivors, desperate ones who might have weapons. He strained to hear a voice or see some movement. The silence was unnerving after the events of the past twenty minutes, but it was very comforting for someone who had come so close to certain death.

Scott slowly backstroked his way out of most of the debris field, and then rested while he floated on his back. He was still trying to come to grips with what he had experienced when the movement of the water around him felt like the first rise of a rogue wave.

"What the hell?" Scott mumbled in a moment of panic. He flipped over and was thrashing his legs when he felt movement directly underneath him. Something huge touched him, lifting him completely out of the water.

Reaching for his assault knife, he was suddenly sliding back toward the ocean. His heart was pounding so hard that he was gasping for air. Then he saw it.

"Thank you, God," he yelled in joy when he recognized the American attack submarine surfacing next to him.

The USS Pasadena

Twenty-five minutes after his rescue, Scott was in the officers' wardroom. He was dry and wearing an unadorned khaki uniform loaned to him by the executive officer of the Los Angeles--class attack submarine. Pasadena had submerged and was under way. Where to, Dalton didn't know. His two cameras were locked in the commanding officer's safe and a navy helicopter would pick them up at first light. He was enjoying a cup of coffee when the CO and XO entered the empty wardroom.

The cordial skipper extended his hand. "Well, what's a jarhead doing out in the middle of the ocean at this time of night?"

Scott firmly shook hands. "Trust me, commander, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"We probably would," the executive officer said.

He and the skipper poured coffee into their mugs.

"Mr. Dalton," the CO said, motioning for the former Marine aviator to have a seat at the table.

"Sir, Scott would make me feel more comfortable."

"Scott it is. I'm Ron Leinwander and this is my XO, Bill Zakaria, whom you've met."

Dalton nodded.

Commander Leinwander stirred his coffee. "I'll give you a situation report, and then we'll answer any questions you may have, and I'm sure you'll have some."

"Yeah, that's true." Scott softly chuckled. "I can't remember the last time I had a submarine surface under me in the middle of the ocean."