Flight in dreams

The sound of the rotors overhead was a dull thrum that he’d learned to ignore through his ear protectors and helmet, but the sound was there. A constant, reassuring thunder that was the heartbeat of his aircraft. It was running by autopilot at the moment, though he kept his fingertips on the stick, as most pilots tended to do, never quite trusting the computer in its flight projections and chosen path. They were skimming low over an empty, dark landscape, trusting to low altitude and the late hour to keep sound from heralding the approach of the team that even now was hunched low in the back, waiting for the point where they would leap into the cold night air and land on the camp they had targeted as worthy of precision warfare. If there was such a thing as precision in war -- and no one who had ever been there and done that ever truly believed in that phrase, no matter how the officers and political talking heads liked it.

The radar screen was all green-- meaning that there were no enemy radars out there, and for that matter, no friendly radars that were catching returns from the high tech skin of the aircraft. That might change -- might -- when the back flaps opened for the extraction. Max was keeping his eyes on the instruments, though, watching their elevation, the horizon, the slow ticking of the illuminated clock.

They were in a two-engine Sikorski Hawk attack helicopter. Not the newest the army had, and not as sleek as some of the new machines used in the Air Force. The two pilots sat side by side in the cockpit, with a cargo area in the back. Given the distance they were flying, they were only loaded with minimal ordinance, to save on weight.

“Getting close,” he said over the intercom, speaking both to his copilot and to the Master Sergeant who held gun duty in the back. Well, more than gun duty. It was the Sergeant’s job to keep the men in the back under control, to do head counts, to maintain cargo loading.

“Yeah, Cap. Fuel is still good. This cold air, makes for good flying.” The young Lieutenant sitting next to him was green, but solid. His voice held nerves; that was to be expected. This was combat flying in enemy territory. Cold air wouldn’t make much difference on fuel, they both knew, though the lack of humidity might.

“We’ll need every pound, before it’s done,” Max responded. “Switching off autopilot. Pilot’s control.”

He didn’t see the nod, but he heard the acknowledgment, “Pilot’s helicopter” even as he thumbed a switch and took the controls. From here on out, they were working against physics. Sound travelled in the desert night, and it was imperative they approached the camp under stealth.

Politically this mission was gray at best. The camp was located just barely over what was currently considered the border between two countries-- and the country they were technically invading at the moment was not entirely friendly to the intent of the United States -- which was to restore peace and order while crushing Taliban resistance. Intelligence estimates put three other camps nearby, making this strike mission both a statement and a gamble. If something went wrong, there was the potential for it to go very, very wrong indeed. But successfully destroying this camp under the very noses of three other camps, and to do so in stealth, without anyone realizing … There wasn’t a man on board who didn’t understand the power of that. It was the Army’s way of telling their enemy, ‘you aren’t safe, not anywhere. There is no where you can go that we can’t reach you and won’t find you.’ It was a powerful message to insurgents and locals alike. At least, it was supposed to be. This was the third such camp they’d targeted. Zealots never seemed to get the message.

Delivering it took very specific mission parameters. Speed. Stealth. Get in fast, undetected. Kill fast, and without alerting the other camps. Let them find the bodies later, maybe in a few days. Let them wonder how and when the Army would come for them next. And then, when the killing was done, when they’d done everything to gather the few traces of useable intel they might find, get out. It meant the Rangers had to be delivered right on top of the camp, the chopper would circle and wait, and then extract the men to ferry right back out. No time left lingering over the border, no risk of leaving Americans behind.

Max glanced again at the instruments, keyed the intercom. “Sargeant, get the boys up. Two minutes out from target.”

“Roger, Cap’n. Two minutes.” Sergeant Ryan called, and Max could hear him relaying orders to the Army Rangers they were transporting, getting them standing up, preparing them.

Tension was building. They were nearly there. He took the craft lower now, skimming over low hills. There weren’t many trees in these parts, but he wouldn’t have been far above them, if there were. Speed mattered, and in these low altitudes, with the thick air, it would affect fuel consumption. But if they were detected too soon, it would mean casualties. He adjusted course slightly, approaching along the projected path, from the West, just slightly south.

“One minute.” He heard the copilot announce. Nodded. All of his attention was on the flying now. It was a rhythm they had practiced. Lieutenant Deans knew how to handle his part of the flying.

And then the camp was in sight. Two small lights showing, the rest in darkness. Small shacks, a few tents. Just like on the recon images. He pulled up on the collective, sending the helicopter into a smooth rocking motion that coincided with the men in the back leaping out, rappelling rapidly down the slim black ropes that put them directly in the center of the camp, and then within seconds, the helicopter was moving on. They barely had kicked up any dust in the camp, and the noise of their machine was already fading, as they gained distance and height to circle the camp. Max could see the occasional flashes of gunfire. The radio channel announced the team were moving through their objectives. Targets located. Targets down.

And then a flash of light, unexpected. Bright light. An explosion. Instinctively, he swung the aircraft around. Another explosion. Under his helmet, Max’s brow furrowed. This wasn’t as planned. The calls over the radio were getting louder now, as men fought to be heard, fought to survive.

Another flash of light, moving fast. His radar screen turned red suddenly, a screaming in his ears that warned of approaching SAM fire. He again turned the craft, felt sweat coating his body under his flight suit when it went past him, and off into the night. Radar and heat shielding had worked again, it seemed. But that had been a close one.

“Where the fuck did they get SAMs?!” Deans gasped the question.

It was a good question, even if no one had the answer. Unpleasant surprises were part of the job. Frustration built. They had guns but couldn’t risk using them, not with their own men down there, and no way to be for sure they wouldn’t be in the firing line.

And then the flashes of light died. Calls over the radio. Two wounded. But the camp was subdued, they said. Charlie Tango was the call sign. No enemy combatant left alive. Max lowered the helicopter down to the extraction point, hovering. Not quite touching down, watching his instruments as the Sergeant did the count and helped get wounded and sound men alike back into the cargo area.

“We’re solid, got everyone. Two wounded, Captain,” Sergeant Ryan’s voice was crisp, as he shut the doors again, went back to his gun post.

“Roger. Headed home.” Max answered, and again, started to climb. This time, they would go for altitude. The mission done. They could fly higher, use the thinner air for fuel efficiency. Smoother ride, too.

Except another flash of light. Where the fuck had it come from, it was Max’s turn to wonder, swearing inwardly. They were supposed to be all dead down there! He ignored the thought. Wherever it came from, it was headed toward them. Another scream of alarms. It was too fast, he didn’t have altitude or distance on his side to elude. He felt the explosion, as the SAM connected, felt the shocking pain through his back and legs, the growing numbness that told him this was bad. The explosion sent fire and shrapnel into the night, smoke billowing up. He heard more gunfire, this one from the side gun of his own air craft, vaguely understood that this time, they were certain no one in the camp was alive to shoot again. His Master Sargeant was still alive, then. Still shooting. Thank God.

“We’re hit!” he called. Unnecessarily, perhaps, but training again. Deans was yelling, men in the back were screaming. The skin of the helicopter was much thinner back there, were the cargo was held. Some of them must have been hit by flying shrapnel, just as Max suspected must have pierced the cockpit wall, hit him. His eyes scanned the instruments, burning with the fumes of flame and propellant and fire retardant.

They made it a few miles, low and smoking. Max could feel blood running down his side. But his legs still didn’t feel right. Like his helicopter he thought, muzzily. Wounded. “We’re in trouble,” he managed, between gritted teeth.

“Yeah, you okay?” Deans asked, and Max could see his helmet turn, see the double take. it must have looked bad. “Captain-- oh shit. Master Sergeant! Captain Rogers is hit!”

Chatter filled the intercom for a moment. Max ignored it, spoke in a terse voice. “Lieutenant! We got people back there, god dammit! Call for assistance again.”

“Mayday mayday mayday,” Deans called again over the radio, giving coordinates and flight information. “Weasel One is hit. Repeat, Weasel One is hit. Request immediate assistance.” God, the kid sounded terrified. Max couldn’t blame him. They were headed the right way, but miles from safety. They were still too close to the other camps, and no one wanted to be taken prisoner.

They could feel the way the helicopter handled, the shuddering lurches. Engine one was definitely down. Engine two over heating. Fire retardant had been automatically deployed by on board systems. No, they weren’t on fire. But smoking badly. Burning through oil. He could see the gauges shimmy. Pressures dropping. They limped another mile East, toward Base. Another half a mile. They were over the border now, he knew. They’d crossed that imaginary line. But Max knew they weren’t going to make it back to base. There was no saving his aircraft. Already they were losing altitude. Barely thirty feet up. They needed to get lower, though, before engine two --

And then Engine two died as well. The silence was almost as shocking as the sound of the explosion had been. The lights in their instrument panel flickered. Or maybe that was his vision. Max wasn’t sure. He didn’t have control, without power, couldn’t adjust the angle of their fall, or the speed of it. But his ears were full of silence now, and the muted screams of the people on board, his eyes on the approaching ground. And as he knew he would, he lost sight of that, too, just before they hit.

Max lurched up, suddenly awake. Another nightmare. His gaze swept toward the clock, told him it was just barely sundown. Normally he’d have slept longer. He was shaking, as he climbed out of bed, trying to make himself stop gasping. He didn’t need the air, after all. He felt a tightness in his chest, as if his heart were trying to beat, trying to fight against the dream; and, a dampness on his brow. Max lifted a hand to see he’d been sweating -- blood, of course. His fingers came away red.

He glanced over at the bed again, seeing Tyler’s still slumbering form. But even if he could, there was no sense in waking him. Max grabbed his phone from the charger as he moved over to the room’s small sitting area. There were things to search for, maybe a library to visit tonight. He was glad that the evenings were getting long again. There was a lot to get done, and he felt the pressure of knowing the sun would rise again… all too soon.