Chapter I- The Rendezvous
The big, khaki-painted Pave Low, callsign Warhorse 5-1, swooped low over the rocky, reddish-tan terrain and the blue, rushing river. In the cockpit, Andrew Speer turned to his copilot, William Barnas, both of them peering out of their windows at the action below. Now and then they could see friendlies- other men of Shadow Company- rushing to firing positions, or racing along the river in small motorboats- Zodiacs. Occasionally something blew up. But from the radio chatter jamming up the line, Speer could tell two things- one Zodiac contained the big cheese, Golden Eagle- and the other carried his worst enemies.
Site Hotel Bravo had fallen just minutes ago; Speer's Pave Low had gone airborne just seconds after General Shepherd gave the order to evacuate, then triggered pre-set explosives to destroy the headquarters of the base just minutes later. Now they were racing to get ahead of the speeding motorboats in the river, and Speer's heart was racing; Shepherd's life was on the line. His buddies in Shadow Company were giving it their all, but those rogue sons of bitches left over from Task Force 141 were good. They were too damn good, and Shepherd was counting on his personal pilot- Speer- to snatch him out of the fire.
Normally, the thought of being the one to save the great Lieutenant General Herschel von Shepherd III's ass would have been amusing to Speer- but not today. Speer and his copilot brought the Pave Low just as low over the Afghan terrain as they dared, craning to get a fix on the lead Zodiac so they could land somewhere downriver.
As the Pave Low flew over a bridge that had a burned-out T-72 sitting on it, Golden Eagle's voice barked in Speer's radio, "Warhorse 5-1, this is Golden Eagle- give me a sitrep, over!"
Speer understood the urgency of the situation fully in that moment, if he hadn't before- Shepherd's voice was demanding, impatient- the sound of a man who knew death was hot on his heels. Not scared- Shepherd didn't seem to know how to be scared- but aware, at least, of what was just 40 meters behind him upriver. Shepherd wasn't stupid; he knew he was in trouble here.
As Speer leveled out over the river, spotting a point where the rapids widened out just before they went around a corner and over a cliff, he keyed his mike and answered in a controlled voice, "I'll set her down downriver, sir- be ready for pickup when you are."
"Copy that, Warhorse," Shepherd shouted. "Make it fast, we're comin' in hot!"
Speer and Barnas exchanged looks; whoever it was that was coming after Shepherd, whoever those two men were- they were damn good. Damn good. No one else could have possibly stayed alive so long; not against Shepherd and Shadow Company.
But Speer didn't have time to think about that. There was no time to waste on who was after Shepherd- what mattered was getting him away from them. Speer flew for Shadow Company because he knew Shepherd was the right man, in the right place, at the right time. He was the man America needed- and with the start of World War III just days ago, Shepherd was needed now more than ever.
Most pilots would have balked at so rapid an extraction mission- a five minute flight from Firebase Phoenix and less than a minute to drop down, land in a river, and take off again- but Speer wasn't like most pilots. He could fly the big, heavy Pave Low like it was a tiny, nimble MD-500, the "Little Bird", and landing in a river no wider than a two-lane road was easy for him.
Answering Shepherd as centered the Pave Low over the river and brought it in for the landing, Speer said, "Roger, Golden Eagle- we're on the deck in 10- dropping the hatch."
Turning around in his seat as the Pave Low hovered so low its retracted nose gear was sprayed with the rushing water, Speer said to Barnas in a voice strained with urgency, "Drop the hatch!"
Barnas flipped a switch, and the ramp at the back of the helicopter came down, the river's water rushing up and onto it.
Its engine roaring, the dark form of the Zodiac shot down the river towards them. It couldn't have been any more than five seconds before the boat sped up the ramp, its propeller blades whacking against the steel deck inside.
Instantly, the four Shadow Company soldiers and Shepherd himself were out of it, strapping themselves into troop seats on either side of the bay.
Keying his mike, Speer pulled back on the controls and gunned the throttle; the Pave Low hauled itself up from the river with surprising speed, leaving the chasing Zodiac with the ex-141 men in it far behind. Banking forward and putting on speed, Speer said on a channel he knew his Shadow Company brothers could hear, "Golden Eagle is on board; I say again, Golden Eagle is on-board. We're outta here!"
Then Barnas swore violently, just as the Pave Low swooped over the waterfall ahead. Looking ahead, Speer swore too.
Into his radio again, Speer said as much to friendly units as to his passengers, "We got a sandstorm blowin' in at 12 o'clock; we're gonna have to take the long way around. Hang on!"
"Speer!" Barnas yelled, his voice suddenly gripped with alarm.
"What? What the fuck-" Speer was banking the Pave Low into a turn, and for just a few seconds the broad side of Warhorse 5-1 would be exposed to her starboard side. And down there, on the waterfall perhaps three hundred feet away and a hundred feet below- a single Zodiac, holding in place. One man was steering, the other- aiming a rifle!
"Shit!" Speer swore and shoved the controls forward, gunning the engines hard and putting Warhorse 5-1 into the sharpest climb she could take. The Pave Low groaned, its engines straining to respond, struggling to get away-
KA-WHAM!
"Speer!" Barnas yelled, looking up with a look of horror on his face. "We're hit, we're hit!"
But Speer already knew that. Suddenly his Warhorse was a wild stallion in his hands, bucking and trying to throw him off her back. Sweat poured off his face as Speer fought back, straining to pull her out of the spinning dive she was plunging into, fire pouring from her engines. Barely able to spare enough oxygen to speak, Speer hit an open channel on his radio and shouted, "Mayday, Mayday! Warhorse 5-1 is going down!"
The ground rushed up at them in a hurry- Speer could hear Shepherd, who understood what was happening, yell at the men in the bay to brace for impact.
Warhorse slammed into the ground, much too hard. She keeled over on her starboard side, flames exploding from her fuel tanks as they breached. Barnas, thrown forward as a boulder smashed in his side of the cockpit, never had a chance. He died- hopefully- without ever knowing his legs were crushed in the process.
Still engaged in a desperate battle to regain control of his dying chopper, Speer never stopped, never even hesitated, until his chopper plowed into a sandy hillside and stopped suddenly. He was thrown forward by the impact, his helmet slamming into the controls; Speer blacked out instantly.
William Speer opened his eyes, coughing violently as he took in a breath and his lungs rejected the sand-filled air blowing in through the shattered glass of the cockpit. As he came to, he realised he was in more than a little pain; his chest, his knees- damn near his whole body- glowed with agony. Sitting up, the pilot glanced at his copilot- slumped in his seat, and very dead. The troop bay had two dead men inside, probably-hopefully- men from an outfit in Shadow Company that Speer didn't know. But then, Shadow was only about 200 guys, and they all stayed on close terms with their air-wing support. With a sickening feeling of dread, Speer realised he almost certainly knew those men. He knew at least the names of everybody in his unit.
How many men had died today? How many wounded? The radio chatter alone- the sharp increase in units and individuals no longer reporting in, and the desperate, frantic nature that the firefight had taken on, said a lot. So many of Shadow's men were down and out; so many were lying back there in the hills and among the rocks, dying and desperately in need of help that would probably never come in time… if it came at all.
As he unbuckled he straps that still worked and cut himself free of the ones that didn't with his field knife, Speer realised he was trembling. He was scared, he was in pain- and a lot of his friends were dead. The sandstorm roared around him, cutting visibility to no more than twenty feet at times.
Speer felt like he'd crash-landed on a Martian landscape. He'd never felt so alone.