Forget Me Not (Love in the Fleet) (28 page)

“Okay, Sky, I’m ready to drop from two thousand to two hundred,” Mikey added.

“Affirmative, Studs.” And then into his lip mic, “Control, Cat Scratch Four-Seven-Five leaving angels two for cherubs two.”

“Roger, Cat Scratch Four-Seven-Five. We have you at one point five miles out and two hundred feet on the approach. Decelerate from eighty knots to fifty.”

“Roger that. Speed fifty knots...thirty...ten. Slowing down. Coming down.” The rotorwash whipped up the sea behind the ship, causing it to rock. “Watch your altitude, Mikey. Don’t get too close to the water too early. If the deck doesn’t continue to look bigger and bigger, then you’re descending too soon and you’ll land in the water instead of on the deck.”

Sky could feel the sweat trickle down his back at this most critical point of the landing. The helicopter began to shuffle and shake as it moved over the swaying stern of the
Van Den Elsen.
“Nose is over the fantail, Studs.”

Little Girl crept forward a foot at a time, still hovering half over the ship with her ass end hanging out over the ocean. Although three sides of this rectangular flight deck were cable lifelines and nets that fell parallel to the sea during flight ops, the twenty-foot rigid hangar doors loomed dangerously ahead. All it took would be for one rotor to nick that steel wall and all hell would break loose for the helo, her crew, and anyone inside the hangar.

“Nose is approaching the circle. Easy forward, Mikey. Creep it five feet.”

They now hovered ten feet above the deck and Petty Officer Quinn took over the verbal control. He peered down through the open cargo hellhole to the flight deck, his job to visually line up the dangling probe with the center of the trap. “Easy forward five, sir…easy left one...easy forward four. Stop left. Easy forward three, two, one. Steady. Stop forward. You drifted back forward. Easy back one. Your butt line should be perfectly lined up, sir.”

Sky and Mike both glanced out their respective door windows to the painted strip on the deck edge which indicated they were, indeed, lined up perfectly fore and aft.

“Easy down, sir.” As soon as Mike began lowering Little Girl into the trap, Quinn shouted, “Stop forward! Up and back! Up and back!”

Mike jerked the helo none too smoothly back into a hover ten feet above the trap. In his calmest tone, Sky said, “Be smooth and slow, Studs. You drifted forward toward the hangar because that’s where you were looking. You have to keep your head on a swivel and look over your shoulder to the deck edge. That way you catch any drift. And if you mess up and have to reset, you don’t have to come all the way up to ten feet, unless you have no idea what’s going on. And don’t get there in one fast jerk. Just breathe and relax on the controls. You’re squeezing the black off them.”

“Sorry, Sky. Okay, I let up on controls. Is that better?”

“Yeah, much better.” Sky tried to keep his voice calm, even though he was shitting bricks inside. “Remember, I’m on the controls with you, Studs. I’m not going to let you crash my Little Girl, so relax and do what you know how to do. And don’t worry. If I think you’re putting us in danger, you’ll feel me come on the controls. But you gotta relax that death grip so I don’t have to fight you for them. Okay, you good to go?” Mike nodded his head. “All right, lights, camera, action. You’re back on, Quinn.”

“Roger, sir, I have verbal control. Easy down,” Quinn reported from the back.

Mike eased the collective lever down a tad and dropped Little Girl into a low crouch. A strong cross wind caused her to sashay from side to side as he fought to keep her steady with the probe lined up with the center of the trap. He lowered the helo slow and steady until the tail wheel was only two feet from the deck.

“In position,” Quinn announced.

“Ready to land.” Mike simultaneously informed the crew and the LSO, the Landing Safety Officer, who observed the landing from a protected glass and steel bubble in the flight deck.

The LSO took over and announced,
“Land now. Down. Down. Down.”
The probe penetrated the trap and the beams slammed shut.

“Trapped!” Quinn cried.

“In the trap, trapped!”
answered the LSO over the radio.

Mike blew out a long breath. “Thanks, Sky. That was a little scary there for a minute.”

“Naw. You had it nailed, Studley. Just needed a little tweaking. We’re in the trap aren’t we?” But his heart pounded all the same. And it wasn’t just the usual rush from landing. Sky was experienced enough to anticipate a gust of wind or a swell on the ocean at the last second and instinctively knew how to react, but it came with years of practice. And although Mikey would eventually be able to do it in his sleep, he wasn’t quite there yet. Sky went through the checklist, shut down the engines, and engaged the rotor break, which caused the rotors to finally come to a standstill. “
Now
you can breathe a sigh of relief,” Sky said to his co-pilot with a wink. 

They disembarked as the squadron crew exited the hangar doors and prepared Little Girl for stowage. Once they unlatched the hinged tail and pulled it back next to the fuselage, the seventy-foot helicopter fit on a seventy-three foot flight deck. And once the rotor blades were disengaged, gathered, and secured to the top of the helicopter, they slid her in a track headed for the hangar. Now Sky felt safe enough to blow out
his
sigh of relief. He high-fived both Mikey and Quinn, then wiped the sweat from his brow.

Before heading to the wardroom for a mission briefing, Sky realized the sleepless night had caught up with him. He hoped he’d be able to grab forty winks before evening chow. He sent Mikey and Quinn ahead, then turned back to take in the flight deck, the sea—which had calmed once the rotors stopped—the sun sparkling on the waves, and the pristine clouds on the horizon. He felt himself inexplicably choking up once again. There was always that feeling of gratitude after a safe landing. But today there was something else. He walked to the edge of the fantail and rendered a private salute.

“Thanks for teaching me well, Daniel.”

The epiphany hit Sky out of the blue. The air was now hazy, but what came to him was as clear as a bell. His knees threatened to buckle and he grabbed onto a lifeline for support. Christ, it was as plain as the nose on his face.

He’d never been able to save Daniel. Sky’s head had always known that, but his heart had not wanted to let go. It might have meant that Daniel didn’t matter any more. Of course he mattered. And he always would. To his friends and family and to Sky.

But he was gone and Sky had to let him go.

He needed to dump all his emotional crap over the side right now.

Sky leaned over the lifeline, taking in the sea below, churned up by the frigate’s engines. He needed to let the past wash away from him in the ship’s wake, and get on with his life. Maybe catch some bad guys, then get his ass home and sweep Daisy Schneider off her feet. Beg her to forgive him for deceiving her. Jump through every freaking hoop she asked him to jump through and talk to every freaking shrink she sent him to. Learn to say, “Yes, dear,” and do whatever she freaking wanted him to do.

Holy shit. Now he understood why Jill had morphed into Daisy in the dreams. Daisy was his ticket out of that downed helicopter. She kept trying to lead him out of the depths and into the sunshine. But he’d been too fucking stupid to follow her. Kiss her. Love her. Marry her. Pop out a couple of responsible citizens with her. Grow old with her. He was too busy clinging to someone he couldn’t save. Afraid if he moved on, Daniel would be forgotten.

He’d never forget Daniel. Daniel had taught him everything he knew about flying a helicopter. Sky had just passed half of it on to Mikey. Sky would remember Daniel every time he climbed into a cockpit. And with every takeoff and every landing. He would honor him with every successful mission and with every young, greenhorn pilot whose life he touched.

Daniel would live on through Sky.

Clouds hovered over the horizon. Fluffy white, but darkening. There was a storm brewing. Glad they’d already landed, Sky inhaled the salty sea air, then exhaled through his mouth, long and slow. Releasing more than stale air. Tears clouded his eyes, but a smile blossomed on his tired face. He could almost feel Daniel’s size twelve boot kicking him in the ass, and Sky knew exactly what Daniel would have said: “Took you long enough, dumb ass. Now go make the world a better place, Kid. And that’s an order.”

Chapter 26

All three speed boats slipped from their piers shortly before dusk. Each ran on just one engine at first. It was a noise courtesy to those on shore, not for fear of being caught, because all harbormasters were on the take. They would not need to worry about interference until they reached international waters. Once they were out of sight of land, they would fire up the remaining
six engines and make as much distance as possible under the cover of night. All three boats were stocked and ready for the three-day trip—or rather—the three-night
trip. They could do it in less time if the U.S. Navy and Coast Guard would leave them the hell alone and not force them to run under cover of darkness.

Altogether they carried beans and rice, plenty of blue tarpaulins, drinking water, gasoline, three radios and GPS systems, and one iridium powered satellite phone—along with six tons of pure, uncut, Pearl cocaine.

Gutiérrez Exports kept up a steady stream of these flotillas. At least one flotilla per night. Some were decoys, designed to be spotted and chased so they could gobble up the time and assets of the Americans and their allies. Coupled with what was smuggled out in secret compartments of banana boats and the powder that was flown to Europe in airplanes, the flotillas made a mighty fine profit for Gio Gutiérrez’s “fruit export business.”

Antonio’s fingers nervously fondled the RPG launcher that had been handed to him for this special mission. He wondered what the other boat captains would do if they knew his craft was so heavily armed and that
Señor
Gutiérrez intended for him to take down any U.S. military helicopter that threatened them. Delivery of
La Perla
was that important to the boss. Antonio knew it was madness, but he had no choice. Saying no to the Don was not a career or life-enhancing option. And maybe Gutiérrez was right. If a helo went down from an RPG hit, there would be no evidence of how it happened or who was responsible.

Antonio said a silent prayer and crossed himself. Thank God he’d practiced with the weapon, but he still prayed he would not have to use it. The trick was to not get into a position where any shots needed to be fired in the first place. Stay out of sight.
Or tarp up and
stay hidden in plain sight.

After passing an uneventful night of running full out on the currently calm Pacific, Antonio radioed the other two boats to stop for the next twelve hours. He verified their locations on the GPS to ensure they were close by—within three miles, but no closer than one. That way if one boat was spotted, the others would have a greater chance to slip away undetected.

The crews of the three boats shook out their tarpaulins as the sun crested the horizon. It professed to be a long, hot day. After a morning meal of beans and rice, each crew settled under the tarps to sleep until dusk. One man on each boat would keep the watch for the next four hours and then would trade off. Even Antonio took his turn in this rotation. But not the boat drivers. They needed to remain well rested, as they were the only ones qualified and skilled at running the boats at high speed without the risk of floundering the cocaine-packed vessels. Not to mention the bone-jarring job of standing at the helm for hours on end, while the boats literally bounced across the ocean’s surface. Antonio winced at the memory of the last time he’d made this run as a boat driver. His kidneys still had not yet recovered from that pounding. Thankfully the seas were much smoother on this run. So far.

Although his eyes burned from exhaustion, Antonio was afraid to sleep. No way could he stay awake for three days, but the idea of turning over responsibility to someone else made his gut contract. He was not good at delegating, but he knew he must learn to trust his crew. He finally drifted off, only to be shaken by an excited, and clearly anxious, watchstander.

“Señor, helicóptero!”

Antonio startled awake, grabbed the binoculars, and lifted the edge of the tarp. Instinctively he knew it was not close enough to be a threat, because the noise would have awakened him. It droned in the distance and could barely be heard over the slap, slap, slap of the waves against the fiberglass hull. He was pleased to verify his prediction when he peered through the binoculars and saw the aircraft was easily three miles away from all the boats. Only the helicopter’s low altitude and the wind had managed to carry the noise this far.

He radioed the other two boats and warned them of the possible threat, reminding them to stay covered. He knew how the boats with their blue tarpaulins would look to the helicopter: like three of the thousands of waves glistening in the sun. He’d taken a ride in a helo once so he would know what could be seen and not seen from the cockpit. Even with binoculars or the fancy radar the American military used, he knew his boats enjoyed a low probability of discovery.

At least this time.

Antonio complimented the watchstander for his vigilance.
Once the aircraft was out of first auditory, and then visual range, Antonio curled up and attempted to sleep again. But it was difficult. Despite holes punched in the plastic covers, the air was stifling. He poured a bottle of water over his head and lifted the corner of the tarp to allow a small breeze to pass through. To remove the tarp altogether would exponentially increase their chances of discovery, especially by high-flying aircraft. Just because there didn’t seem to be any in the vicinity, didn’t mean there still wasn’t a threat. The
yanquis
had some pretty sophisticated tracking devices, along with satellites, so it was simply safer to remain covered as long as the sun shone. There were several other reports of planes during the day, but all flew too high to be of concern. Most likely commercial jets that had no interest in any small boats below.

At dusk, just after the evening meal was finished, Antonio gave the order to fire up all engines. Keeping to a safe escape distance, all three boats sped toward their destination under the cover of darkness. Although it increased their own risk of being spotted, the night’s three-quarter moon greatly alleviated the anxiety of driving at top speed in the dark—with two other speedboats in close proximity.

Antonio not only remained cognizant of the other boats, but the further north they sped they had to be aware of atolls that cropped up out of nowhere. The GPS delivered a warning whenever they neared one of these deadly outcroppings, many of which did not appear on nautical charts. He understood some had been discovered in blood by previous crews, which was why he found traveling around these tropical rock piles at high rates of speed to be a daunting venture even in the daytime. At night, the fear of such a collision even eclipsed his anxiety about being caught by the
yanquis.

Again, as the sun rose, they breakfasted and pulled the tarpaulins out to cover themselves for a second day. Antonio relaxed enough this day to fall into a deep sleep, only to be awakened by the crackle of the radio, “
Señor
, you must look to the south.”

He crawled to the south side of the boat and lifted the corner of the tarp. “
Mierda
,” he muttered when he saw a cruise liner on the horizon. He knew his boats would draw too much attention if they uncovered and took off in the opposite direction. Better to stay put and let the ocean liner continue on its path.

Antonio didn’t like the looks of the western sky, however. Dark clouds were gathering and he knew a squall was headed their way. Perhaps if they took off now, they could outrun the storm. No, it was too dangerous to run during the day. It wasn’t worth a chance of being spotted and reported. Regardless, he knew he needed to stay awake to monitor the ship until it was out of sight, while keeping an eye on that storm.

Antonio radioed the other boats to stay covered and not bring any attention to themselves. All three would have to sit tight and wait for the cruise ship to disappear. Then, perhaps they could think about taking off in time to outrun the approaching storm. He propped up the corner of the tarp, uncapped a water bottle, and leaned back to watch.

He brought the bottle to his lips, but stopped short of sipping. He heard it. The distinctive chop, chop, chop of an approaching
helicóptero
.