“Blackbird 33, Blackbird 33, this is Sentry 20 reporting a
pirate ship at your ten o’clock, twenty-eight miles.”
Pirate ship? The improbable radio call from Sentry rattled around in
flight engineer Shane “Vegas” O’Riley’s headset as he manned his
station of the CV-22 aircraft. He couldn’t have heard what he thought.
Sure they were out over the wild and wooly Caribbean, but someone must be
screwing with them. Air Force crewdogs were well known for their
practical jokes.
Except today, he couldn’t be any less in the mood for gags. This
flight to deliver supplies served a dual purpose for him. He would make
a stop at a tiny godforsaken island where his wife worked teaching in the
latest needy village to cross her aid group’s radar.
There, he would also hand over divorce papers for her to sign.
But back to these freaking pirates. Since the weather was dog crap, he
was in charge of the radio while the two pilots had their hands full of
bouncing airplane.
Shane thumbed the radio “transmit” key, sweat burning his eyes, his flight
suit sticking to his shoulder blades in the unrelenting summer heat. No
a/c could keep up. “Sentry did you say a pirate ship? Is Johnny
Depp onboard with his swashbuckling costume? Do you want us to land this
puppy on the poop deck and get his autograph for you?” Since the CV-22
took off and landed like a helicopter, then rotated the blades forward to fly
like a plane, they actually could manage just such a feat if there were a
pirate ship. “I’ll tell him it’s for your daughter if you’re
embarrassed.”
The jerking craft jarred his teeth, hard, faster than the roller coaster ride
he’d taken with his two daughters at Six Flags last summer.
In front of him sat the two pilots. Aircraft commander Postal gripped
the wobbling stick while newbie to the CV-22 co-pilot Rodeo took wildly
fluctuating system reads off the control panel. Shane glanced over his
shoulder back into the belly of the craft to check on the three gunners –
and yeah, thank God – they’d strapped their butts down tight.
Their radio crackled in the inclement weather, words sputtering through
unevenly, “Pirates… guns at… cruise ship.”
Some theme cruise perhaps? A pocket of turbulence whacked Shane’s
helmet against the overhead panel and rattled his brain worse than a baseball
bat upside the temple. “I’m so not in the mood for this ‘Argh’
and ‘Shiver me Timbers’ garbage. We’ve got a weather emergency
here.”
“Sorry,” the radio voice claiming to be Sentry 20 responded, “not
yanking your chain, Blackbird 33. We have a message relay from Southern
Command Headquarters. Ready to copy?”
Shane straightened in his seat. “Really? No joke?” he said,
still only half believing. “We’ll play along for the heck of it,
ready to copy.”
The radio crackled to life. “Blackbird 33, proceed to one-eight dash
zero-five north, zero-six-three dash five-nine west to intercept a pirate
vessel, suspected to be terrorists threatening a passenger cruise ship.
You are ordered to disable the pirate boat,” the connection went staticy for
another two jostles, “or destroy the pirate’s vessel, a cigarette boat, if
you or the cruise ship are fired on. Copy?”
An order to shoot a cigarette boat that just happened to be tooling around in
the water? This could be the worst kind of set-up for an ambush in such
a lawless corner of the ocean. Unease prickled up Shane’s spine as he
could already see all his crewmembers’ faces plastered across the six
o’clock news.
That would be a helluva way to end his career and his marriage in one fell
swoop. “Who is this?"
“Listen up, Blackbird,” the voice barked back, “I authenticated the
communication when I got it and I think you should do the same.”
Well they got that right. “Rodeo, dig out the code book.”
“Way ahead of you, Vegas. Here ya’ go.” The co-pilot’s
normally easy-going demeanor was nowhere to be found as he passed back the
book before quickly returning to the controls. Rodeo had his hands full
running both his co-pilot’s position and checking Shane’s flight engineer
regular duties monitoring engine and aircraft health since he had to deal with
this buccaneer BS.
Vegas thumbed through the pages until he found what he needed.
“Sentry, authenticate foxtrot-mike.”
“Sentry authenticates with zulu-tango.”
“So, Sarge?” Rodeo’s voice shot over the radio to tech Sergeant Shane
O’Riley. “Is that correct?”
Holy crap. Shane verified it once, reread again. No movie star
autographs in their future today. This was the real deal. “That
is the correct response, sir.”
The aircraft commander, Postal, cursed into the interphone. “Well
spank my ass and get me an eye patch.” Clicking over to radio to
broadcast beyond the plane, “Good authentication, Sentry, we are headed that
way… Rodeo, give me a--”
“Already on it,” the copilot interrupted. He might be new to the
craft but the man was a freaking genius, a quick thinker on his feet to boot.
That worked well with a gut instinct player like Postal. “Come left to
heading one-seven-seven. Showing time to intercept at eight minutes.
Target is now twenty miles ahead.”
“Copy all.” Postal’s normally wired façade faded at the very real
threat ahead – a flipping terrorist pirate ship, no less. “Crew,
lock and load, cleared to fire a burst. Let’s make sure those babies
are working in case we need them.”
Brrrrrp. Brrrrrp. The sound of quick bursts from
electrically powered mini-guns hammered through his helmet just before the
smell of gunpowder drifted up to linger in the cockpit. The right
gunner, left gunner, back gunner – Stones, Padre and Sandman – all checked
in ready to go.
Both pilots looked out to the horizon searching for a sign of the boat.
Shane kept his eyes forward, his thumb on the radio and tried not think about
the divorce papers in his flight bag. There wasn’t much to divvy up,
not with Sherry living her life in one NGO tent after another. Most of
her gear consisted of easy-to-pack toys for the kids while she left a few
things back home.
His little girls. They were Sherry’s, adopted during her first
marriage – Cara from Vietnam and Malaika from the Sudan. And once the
divorce went through he would lose all right to them. Ah hell. His
throat clogged.
He wanted to settle down, have a real family life. Sherry insisted she
was living a real life around the world and he was welcome to join them
anytime.
Where the hell was the compromise in that?
His aircraft commander cranked the craft in a flawless bank. Postal’s
wild eyes stuck to the horizon, his hand on the stick. “Work that
radar hard, Rodeo. Let me know when you’ve got a good bead on him.”
“Roger that, start a right turn, shallow bank. Roll out.
Straight ahead five miles.”
The air grew heavier. Some might say with humidity, but Shane had been around,
fought in enough conflicts to know that the minutes leading up to battle
sucked emotions out of a person and pumped them into the air where they
couldn’t distract a man. Inside, he could stay emotionless. Six
years he’d served, since he’d given up the early beginnings of his pro
baseball career to enlist after 9-11.
He’d never regretted the decision. But both careers spoke to the core
of who he was, a good old fashioned picket fence, baseball and apple pie
family man. He thought he’d found that with Sherry and the girls.
He wanted to be the big strong dude who built a home for his family and
protected them.
And by protecting, he’d meant from burglars. Not freaking pirate ships
and tribal warlords that attacked tent villages. What the hell was she
thinking hauling the kids around to unruly corners of the world like this?
Postal leaned forward, the air getting a good pound or two heavier until he
said… “Okay, I got ‘em visual. Start a turn to go around them.
It’s a cigarette boat. Get the infrared cam on them and see what they
look like.”
Rodeo nodded, sweat glistening on his dark bronze skin. “Got a lock.
Zooming cameras for confirmation… and ah hell, big guns on that boat.
I would say the pirates.”
Pirate Captain Jack Sparrow didn’t have a speed boat like that.
The infrared screen display bloomed upward. Gunfire from the boat.
Aimed at the CV-22. No more questioning how to respond.
Heaven help them. This was it. Open combat to the death.
!*!*!*!*!*!*!