"Hydra Flight, on final."
"Eyes on downed personnel. He's in one hell of a place."
"Ropes, ropes, ropes, ropes!"
"Go! Out, out, out!"
Reaching out and grabbing the thick nylon rope suspended from the side of a helicopter, Lieutenant Andrew Cole gripped on tight and used his feet to control his rate of descent as he and three other men fast roped down onto the side of a heavily forested hill. Hitting the ground at speed, Cole took a few steps away from the rope and knelt down to provide security. The moment the last man was on the deck, the ropes fell away from the helicopter and dropped into neat little piles. The HH-60 Pavehawk broke away from the formation and headed back out to sea.
"Hartmann, point, go." Cole ordered. Hartmann, a man of decidedly average stature, stood up and started marching up the hill. Cole followed him, with the other two members of his team quick on his heels. "Delta 1, on the deck."
The four men proceeded up the hill at speed, rain spraying down on them hard and turning the face of the hill into a thick mud slurry that covered their boots and pant legs. Regardless, the four moved up a hundred metres until they found what they were looking for. There was a man suspended from the harness of a bright orange and white parachute that had been caught up in the tree canopy.
"Pararescue!" Cole called out to the pilot stuck in the trees. The latter looked down.
"Oh shit, you got here early." The pilot remarked, hanging. "I'm all good. Mind giving me a hand?"
Cole and two other members of his team positioned themselves underneath the pilot to catch him. "Pop your harness, we'll break your fall."
The pilot did what was asked of him, undoing the straps that held him to the parachute. He fell with a yelp, right into the waiting arms of the Pararescue airmen below him. The trio lowered him onto his feet.
"Cheers, boys." The pilot thanked the airmen. "Where are we heading?"
"Top of the mountain." Cole replied, pointing towards the upwards slope of the mountain. At the very top was a flat and clear enough section of land to receive a helicopter. "I hope you've kept up with your PT."
"Oh, fuck me." The pilot muttered. "Alright, on you."
Now with their objective firmly in hand, the pararescuemen along with pilot in tow started marching up the hill towards the LZ. Even by Pararescue standards, Cole was exceptionally fit, but even for him three hundred metres of walking up a steep gradient covered in mud was taxing on his thighs. Nevertheless, not wanting to get caught downhill in enemy territory, he, his men and the pilot they had just rescued pushed through the pain.
After a brisk few minutes of walking, the five arrived at the top of the mountain. Cole produced a smoke grenade from the side of his platecarrier. He pulled the pin, released the spoon and chucked the grenade out onto the opening.
"Hydra 4-1, Delta 1, arrived at LZ Bravo, marked with purple smoke." Cole made a call via radio to the helicopter that had put them down in the first place.
"Eyes on. Will be on deck in thirty seconds." The pilot of Hydra 4-1 replied.
"Copy, out here." Cole looked back to the rest of his team. "Thirty seconds! As soon as that bird is on the ground, haul ass!"
Right on cue, Hydra 4-1, the HH-60G Pavehawk that had inserted them in the first place, rocked up at high speed and low altitude, flaring up violently before coming to a contradictively soft landing on the flat in front of them. One of the M134 gunners behind the cockpit of the Pavehawk waved to the pararescuemen and their cargo, urging them to board.
"Go!" Cole shouted to get above the obnoxiously loud propellor noise. He, his men and the pilot all ran forward into the relative safety of the helicopter's passenger cabin. Cole was the last to board.
"Last man!" He both shouted and indicated with a hand signal. The crew chief indicated this to the pilot. Cole took a seat as the Pavehawk lurched forward and swiftly departed the peninsula. Cole connected the spare downlead of his headset to the helicopter's intercom system.
"-4-1 on approach from stern. One soul aboard."
As Hydra 4-1 flew out to sea, the helicopter turned to trail a large white ship with red marks adorning her sides. From a distance it almost looked like a cruise liner, a pleasure ship. While the hull of the ship was based on the hull of a civilian ship, in reality they served a much different purpose.
"Mercy, Hydra 4-1, on final."
Cole peered out through the open cabin door of the Pavehawk and looked forward. Ahead of them, the OFNS Mercy was fast approaching. While the Osean Maritime Defense Force was primarily known for its heavy deployment of aircraft carriers, a lesser known fact about the OMDF was that it had the world's largest fleet of non-combat ships. Included in that fleet of non-combatants were six hospital ships of the Mercy-class. Almost three hundred metres long, the Mercy and her sisters were floating hospitals, fitted with enough beds, medical equipment and supplies to deal with up to five hundred casualties of varying severity.
The instant the Pavehawk's wheels kissed the Mercy's flight deck, the pilot that the pararescuemen picked up was ushered off the helicopter and into the waiting arms of medical triage staff on deck. As soon as the pilot was off, Hydra 4-1 spooled up and departed the Mercy.
"Hydra 4-1, airborne, moving to holding pattern."
Flying away from the hospital ship, Cole and his team waited patiently for another tasking as their helicopter merged with the other three choppers in the CSAR group. A second HH-60G carrying another Pararescue team accompanied them. Two AH-1Z Vipers armed with rockets, guns and Sidewinders escorted them, both for the Pavehawks and for the CSAR teams being carried by them.
"Delta Troop, TOC, new tasking. One AH-1Z, callsign Pitbull 5-3, has gone down at grid 203-055, I say again, grid 203-055."
Cole was scribbling this information down on a wrist mounted notepad.
"The pilot is dead, the weapons officer reports moderate injuries and broken bones. This will be a hot tasking, survivor reports troops in contact."
"TOC, Delta 1. One AH-1Z, callsign Pitbull 5-3, shot down at grid 203-055, 203-055. One survivor with broken bones and other moderate injuries. Troops in contact." Cole read back the information that he had written down on his little wristpad.
"All correct. Proceed at your discretion. Out."
Cole produced a map from his pant pockets and looked around. Grid ref 203-055. Fortunately, that area was located on the top of one of the larger mountains and was flat with minimal obstructions. Given that their helicopter had already expended its fastropes, that made getting on and off the ground a lot easier.
"All Hydra, Bullpup and Delta callsigns, this is Delta 1. Proceed to grid 203-055, we're looking for a downed AH-1. Get both Delta elements on the ground as close as possible to the crash site. We're expecting one casualty. Be advised, the crash site is hot." Cole issued orders to every part of the Combat Search And Rescue force.
"Copy. Inbound to 203-055, heading 220."
The four ship flight of helicopters slipped out from the holding pattern due east of the peninsula to fly inland towards the crash site.
"Bullpup 6-1, tally infantry converging on the crash site. Estimate three hundred metres and closing in." The pilot of Bullpup 6-1, the lead AH-1Z, spotted the crashed Viper as well as the Yuktobanian infantry encroaching on the site.
"Bullpup callsigns, Delta 1, engage infantry with guns only." Cole ordered. "Hydra callsigns, get us as close to Pitbull as you can!"
The Vipers opened fire on the approaching infantry with the twenty millimetre chainguns mounted underneath their chins. High explosive tracer rounds ripped through the rain and the fog, tearing through the enemy forces with all the finesse of a hot knife through butter. While the helicopter gunships circled around like vultures, the two transport helicopters came to fast but smooth landings on either side of the downed Viper. M4 in hand, Cole and his team hopped out. The two Pavehawks lifted off as the Vipers tore the enemy to shreds.
"Delta 1, on the deck." Cole said over the radio.
"Delta 2, on the deck." Cole's contemporary team leader and unit second in command, Technical Sergeant Jacob Truman, reported not long after.
Bullets cracking over their heads sporadically, the pararescuemen crossed the short distance from the LZ to the wreck of Pitbull 5-3. Leading the stack, Cole heard gunfire coming from the cockpit. He slung his M4 around his back.
"Pitbull!" Cole called out to who he assumed was the weapons officer. The gunfire stopped.
"Who is that, who is that?!" The pained voice of a man called back.
"CSAR!" Cole retorted. "56th Pararescue! We're here to get you out!"
Cole rounded the corner to the cockpit. The front of the AH-1Z was buried firmly in the mud. The rotor assembly had been torn up, presumably when it hit the ground, and there were a million shrapnel holes peppering the pilot's seat. The pilot was most definitely dead. Somehow, the weapons officer was still alive. He was injured and bleeding, but judging by the MP5 in his hand, he was most certainly not out of the fight yet.
"TOC mentioned something about broken bones, where are you hit?" Cole asked, leaning into the cockpit to figure out triaging and treatment.
"Think I snapped my tibia." The weapons officer grit his teeth. "And something's running down my back."
"Alright." Cole produced a set of trauma shears from his platecarrier. "We're cutting you out of this seat and getting you out of here."
"I'd love that very much." The weapons officer grunted as Cole took to the man's straps with the trauma shears, cutting across trying to get him out of the seat. The WSO reached down and undid the groin straps that held him down while Cole got his shoulders.
"Hartmann!" Cole called out to one of his team members.
Airman First Class Joel Hartmann, a member of Cole's team, peeled away from the security formation to assist his team lead. "What's up, boss?"
"Help me pull this guy out, please." Cole ordered.
"Yes, sir." Hartmann slung his M4 around his back and positioned himself to help get the WSO out of the cockpit.
"Liam, Brett, stretcher." Cole ordered.
"Sir."
"Rogie."
"Alright, Viper man." Cole slipped one of his arms under the WSO's armpit. "Take a breath, this is gonna hurt."
The WSO grit his teeth. "Do it."
"Three, two, one, up!" Cole counted down. He and Hartmann lifted the WSO out of the seat, the latter grunting and shouting in pain as his affected leg brushed against the lip of the cockpit. Nevertheless, the two pararescuemen got him out and set him down chest first on the stretcher that the other two members of the brick provided.
"Hyrda 4-1, Hydra 4-2, this is Delta 2, wounded personnel in tow, requesting touchdown at established LZ marked with purple smoke." Sergeant Truman was organising their recovery on the radio while Cole did his thing. A smoke grenade was thrown and purple smoke started wafting up into the air.
"Sort out triage on the bird." Cole said. "Get ready to bounce."
The arrival of the two Pavehawks from their holding patterns was just as fast as their initial insertion. Hydra 4-1 came to a stop just aft of the downed Viper's tail.
"Up!" Cole yelled, picking up the stretcher that their casualty was loaded on. The other three members of the team lifted the stretcher up in unison. As a four man element, the members of Delta 1 made a mad dash for the helicopter. Cole and Hartmann got the stretcher lined up with the floor of the Pavehawk: Liam, Brett and the Pavehawk's crew chief pulled the stretcher in. Once his guys were loaded, Cole hopped up into the cabin.
"Last man!" Cole yelled to the crew chief. The crew chief relayed this information to the pilot. Before long they were airborne and outbound for the OFNS Mercy. While Hydra 4-1 headed out to the hospital ship, the members of Delta 1 were administering first aid.
"Get a packing bandage in that cavity!"
"Fuck it, gauze will do for now."
Cole was confident the weapons officer was going to be fine. A broken tibia was painful but not lethal, and he had taken fairly minimal shrapnel wounds. Cole connected his headset to the helicopter's intercom so he could listen in to the radio."
"Mercy, Hydra 4-1, on final. One soul aboard, low priority for triage." The pilot reported to the flight controller and medical receiving team aboard the Mercy.
"Delta 2, Delta 1, you're up for next individual tasking." Cole informed Sergeant Truman.
"2 receives." Truman replied summarily.
The Pavehawk slowly pitched up to reduce its speed as they came in for their final approach. They slowly inched forward to keep up with the forward movement of the Mercy, her wheels kissing down on the deck before the pilot drew the collective to idle. The medical response team came to get the casualty off the Pavehawk. As soon as they had offloaded the stretcher, they departed the ship.
"Hydra 4-1, returning to holding pattern."
While Osean casualties were slowly mounting and the workload on the CSAR teams was increasing, the battle was very much currently in Osea's favour. In the skies above, the Air Force and Marine Corps were putting in work.
"We good?" Blaze asked Samurai. "We locked?"
"All green." Samurai replied.
"Alright." Blaze cleared her throat, flying in formation alongside Chopper, Nagase and Grimm. "Wardog, weapons release on my mark. Three, two, one… mark!"
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
"Wardog 1, winchester air to ground."
"Chopper, winchester air to ground."
"Edge, winchester, air to ground!"
Blaze watched as the last of Wardog's cumulative payload of SDBs departed their aircraft and glided forwards towards their target. The intended end stage of the first stage of the invasion. An airfield on the halfway point of the peninsula, complete with relatively intact runway and a disorganised defending force to boot.
"Copy winchester, Wardog." Thunderhead piped up. "Proceed 080 to holding pattern and wait out for additional taskings."
"Wardog Squadron, wilco." Blaze started banking out to the designated bearing. "You heard the man Wardog, follow my lead."
From what she had observed personally thus far, Blaze thought the invasion was going well. Casualties, while present, had been kept to a minimum relative to Yuktobanian air and land losses. The Marine forces conducting the landings, with some help from Army Airborne elements, had pushed more than forty kilometres up the peninsula from the beachhead.
There was an almost palpital tension in the air of the cockpit as Blaze listened out for chatter on the radio and looking at the positions of friendly forces via the datalink display. Things were still going okay… for now. With the throttle at near idle, Blaze and company waited for the next twenty minutes for a tasking. Ultimately, there weren't any.
"Wardog, this is Thunderhead." The AWACS piped up once more. "Exceptional work today. If Sand Island had a bar, drinks would be on me. You're being relieved by another squadron. Turn heading 020 and RTB. I say again, RTB."
Blaze had to stop herself from grinning. "Copy, Thunderhead, Wardog is proceeding 020 to RTB."
As the four aircraft turned away from Yuktobania and towards Osea, Blaze leant back and exhaled. For the first day, they had done well without taking any casualties. But in the back of her mind, she knew that this was only the beginning. Things were only going to get riskier.
Pushing the thought in the back of her head to the very back of her head, Blaze deflated in the cockpit and blocked out all unnecessary information as Wardog Squadron made the trans-continental flight home.