Damn. The three incoming ISIS technicals were going to be a problem. With Bandit-One’s injuries, White’s team wasn’t going to be able to pull off a quick in-and-out rescue prior to their arrival. It was going to take some time to extricate the marine from the SuperCobra’s cockpit. The last thing White wanted was to get jammed into a firefight across open ground with an unknown number of ISIS combatants. The .50-caliber machine guns likely mounted in the backs of their vehicles could lay down an incredible amount of firepower and would shred him, his men, and the two marine pilots to pieces. With no QRF—quick reaction force—in the vicinity, it was on him to find a way to secure the crash site.
“You guys all set?” White asked the two PJs.
One of the PJs had a tablet on his lap that was linked directly to the Reaper drone’s feed. He had a worried look on his face, which was never a good sign. In White’s true-to-God opinion, United States Air Force pararescue jumpers were not only the best-trained technical rescue medical personnel in the world but also fearless warriors. Only the most resilient and focused airmen became PJs or combat rescue officers. The pipeline to enter this elite group was one of the most grueling in the military. It lasted two to three years and boasted an 80 percent attrition rate. Trained and efficient in everything from mountain climbing to free-fall parachute operations, PJs and combat rescue officers were also skilled deep-sea divers and capable of entering and clearing an enemy compound. So, if one of White’s men was worried, there was indeed a source of legitimate concern that needed to be addressed.
“Talk to me,” he said to the PJ holding the tablet.
“It’s not good, sir,” the PJ replied, handing over the tablet. “The technicals are only ten clicks away.”
White looked at the screen. His man was right. The ISIS vehicles were making good progress. The Pave Hawk would reach the crash site before the technicals, but White’s team would only have a couple of minutes to complete the rescue. It wouldn’t be enough time.
“Two minutes out,” the copilot said, craning his neck toward White. “What do you want us to do?”
White had to come up with some sort of a plan. And fast. The fate of the two marine aviators rested in his hands.
CHAPTER FOUR
Northern Iraq
Clayton White wasn’t a fan of hastily formed plans, but life, especially in his line of work, was full of surprises. Any plan was better than no plan at all. White’s strategy was simple but dangerous. His men had argued against it, and the Pave Hawk pilot and copilot hadn’t seemed convinced, either, but White had politely but firmly terminated the discussion. He had made up his mind.
“Thirty seconds to crash site,” the pilot said.
White glanced around the helicopter. The intent faces of the two PJs told him they were ready to go. The crew chief was moving around, preparing the Pave Hawk for the insertion of the two PJs. Five hundred feet from the SuperCobra, the Pave Hawk slowed, its nose flaring slightly as it dropped low enough to allow the two PJs to jump out. From where he was seated, White saw Bandit-Two on the ground near the tail section of the gray SuperCobra, a fire extinguisher next to him. The marine aviator was clutching his rib cage, and even from a distance, White could see the man was in pain. The SuperCobra lay on its side, its fuselage twisted and blackened, smoke still gushing from its turbines. The landing skids had been ripped apart.
Half a moment later, the Pave Hawk’s turboshaft engines revved, and the heavy rotor picked up speed, spitting skeins of small rocks and sand erratically across the landing zone as the helicopter gained altitude. White trusted the PJs to do their job. There wasn’t much these guys couldn’t accomplish. But with the ISIS technicals fast approaching, it was up to White to give his men the time they needed to extricate Bandit-One from the wreckage. White took another look at the tablet to confirm how far away the technicals were, then turned his attention to the copilot.
“See the bend in the road and these elevation lines on both sides?” White asked, his finger tapping a spot on the digital map. “Drop me there.”
“You got it,” the copilot replied.
White went down his mental checklist, visualizing how everything would go once he hit the ground. He then checked his M240B machine gun and accepted an AT4 rocket launcher from the crew chief.
“You sure about this?” the crew chief asked. “The door gunner thinks he can—”
“I’ve got this,” White interrupted him, slapping the crew chief on the shoulder.