The garden

Author’s note: This one was just for fun. Sometimes when the kids were small and my wife was busy with homeschooling, she just needed me to go somewhere else so I wouldn’t be such a distraction. This was one of those times.

         Captain Martin “Polecat” Paulson torqued his OH-58D Kiowa Warrior around into a vicious skid. The force of the turn pressed the Warrant Officer in the left seat of the aircraft off of the sensor head in the cockpit, momentarily disorienting him from his passing target. With a deft wrist movement, Paulson righted the nimble aircraft and dropped it behind a stand of palms, the transition from three-G turn to stable hover being nearly instantaneous.

         “I lost them,” the Warrant Officer complained. He directed his attention back to the FLIR imager that fed through the mast mounted sight system. “Gimme a second.”

         Paulson held the aircraft steady as a stone while the other young pilot scanned the foliage with his imager in search of a telltale flare of body heat. The glimpse they had gotten as they zipped along the convoy route had been brief but suspicious.

         The insurgents were getting steadily better at what they did. Paulson and his cavalry troop would sweep proposed convoy routes prior to the actual deployment of ground convoys searching for Improvised Explosive Devices and the terrorists who planted them. The sensors on the little American aeroscout helicopters could ferret out a human heat signature day or night based on thermal gradients, but the terrorists had improved their tactics of late. Spider holes and improvised insulative material designed to mask a person’s heat signature made the chore of catching the insurgents daily more challenging.

         “There were three of them at about two o’clock,” the Warrant Officer spoke into his intercom without taking his face from the scanner head. “I’d guess about two hundred meters or so, just shy of the hardball. Can’t see how they’d be up to much good out here at three o’clock in the morning.”

         “I agree,” Paulson said as he pressed the transmit switch on his cyclic. “Zulu zero six this is Hard Core zero six actual, I have tentative contact with three tangoes vicinity…” he glanced underneath his night vision goggles at the digital readout on his GPS “November Charlie four seven two niner six six. Weapons and activity unknown at this time. Will develop the situation and report.”

         “Yeah…” the Warrant Officer said softly with a smile. “I think I’ve got them. Looks like they heard us coming and ducked into a hole. I’ve got a slight temperature gradient at zero three zero degrees and one hundred seventy meters. They look to be about thirty meters short of the hardball road. I suspect they are peeing their pants right about now.”

         “Roger that, Mikey,” Paulson said. “I’m going to pull around over the river and see if we can’t slip up on them from the west. Weapons coming hot.” With that he flipped his armament switches to live and armed the single fifty-caliber machinegun on his left wing pylon as well as the seven Hydra 70 rockets perched on his right.

         In seconds, the Kiowa Warrior was skimming less than two feet from the surface of the Euphrates river and below the level of the surrounding trees and foliage. The little helicopter zipped through the blackness until Paulson estimated he had come sufficiently far to be adjacent his target from a different and unexpected direction and then cautiously rose so that the mast mounted sight head cleared the treetops.

         “What do you see, Mikey?” Paulson asked quietly. “They coming out yet?”

         “I’ve got them, boss,” the Warrant Officer said. “Looks like three tangoes with small arms and some sort of gear, likely satchel charges of some sort. Apparently the trees have masked our sound. I don’t think they even know we’re…Wait! I’ve got movement in the trees off our nose.” The young Warrant Officer slewed the sight down so that it covered the treeline to their front. “Multiple contacts! We’re right on top of them. They’re firing!”

         Muzzle flashes from multiple weapons sparked in the trees just ahead of the little helicopter. Tracers streamed up from the darkness and clawed into the machine. Plexiglass exploded as the rounds connected with the windscreen and ripped through the cockpit. Paulson felt something warm and wet splash liberally across him from his left as his right arm suddenly felt limp and heavy. There was a shower of sparks, and his electronic cockpit went dark. Through the screaming wind now ripping unhindered at his face, he could feel the aircraft begin to slide right and down.

         Paulson struggled to manage the flight controls with his shattered right arm. He shouted for his copilot, but the reassuring background crackle of his intercom system was deathly silent. He gave the collective a healthy yank and then wedged the cyclic with his knees as he struggled to get the helicopter out of the kill zone and away from the waiting insurgents.

Of all the things he feared in this wretchedly miserable country, capture terrified him the worst. He was willing to risk a crash or even fire in an effort at getting his machine and his copilot away from those who had shot him up. He felt the aircraft accelerate briefly as it dove down the riverbank but then perceived a sickening drop. Despite his pulling the collective up to its stops, the machine began to buffet and settle. Before he could consciously react, the skids touched the treetops. The machine pitched forward, and the rotor system exploded.

         When Paulson regained consciousness, he was suspended inverted by his safety harness. The world was dark and smelled of electricity, lubricants, jet fuel, and something else salty he didn’t quite recognize. His night vision goggles had flown off in the crash. He found that he couldn’t make out anything in the inky blackness of what had previously been his cockpit. Methodically but quickly he took stock.

         His left arm moved when he told it to, and he could feel his toes. A wave of relief flooded over him as he realized his spine was intact. That was no small thing.

His right arm felt as though it no longer existed. He felt with his good hand for the penlight that resided on the left front of his survival vest and clicked it on, its soft green light dimly illuminating the interior of the wrecked aircraft. Swiveling the little light to pan toward his copilot, he felt his gut sink.

         Mikey’s body was similarly suspended crosswise in his harness. However, blood and brains oozed from a horrible wound above his left eye. Apparently a rifle-caliber round had caught him just below the rim of his helmet and killed him instantly. Mikey’s eyes gazed sightless and empty at the glare of the little light. Paulson suddenly felt panic urging up in his being as the reality of his circumstances and injuries settled in. He was alone and hurt, and help was a long way away.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to think, pushing the panic back to another distant portion of his mind. There would be time for that later. For now, he had to focus and, if need be, fight. No matter what the evening held for him, he was resolved that he was not going to be paraded across the evening news. If it came to that, he would die first and, if possible, take a few of those animals him.   

         He gripped the penlight carefully between his teeth and gently explored his right shoulder and arm with his good hand. He slid his hand down his upper arm and stifled a gasp as his glove soaked wet with blood before sliding across jagged bone. A wave of nausea nearly gagged him.

         He had spent untold hours in cockpits of this sort and felt completely at home there. However, he had never faced the prospect of maneuvering inverted with a shattered arm and exposed surfaces made slick with gore. He gently pulled his shattered right arm into some semblance of a natural position across his body and twisted his hips to get a foot rest against the dead instrument panel. When he felt that he had purchase, he carefully pulled the seatbelt release.

         When his weight transferred off the harness and onto his legs one foot slid on the slippery metal. He fell heavily against his right shoulder. Spasms of pain wracked through his body, as he fought to remain conscious. He focused through the agony, and set his feet through what had been his side door, finding them firmly on sandy dirt.

It seemed the aircraft had settled on its right side after falling through the date palms. A few strategic kicks cleared enough plexiglass to make a man-sized opening. Panning his light once more he realized that the M-4 assault rifle he had stowed between his seat armor and the airframe had torn away in the crash. Using as much finesse as he could muster, Paulson reached around his dead copilot with his left hand and retrieved the other weapon from the opposite side of the cockpit. He slung the rifle over his head and grabbed the associated bandoleer of ammunition magazines before slipping through the shattered windscreen and stumbling out into the darkness.

         Finally clear of the horror that had been his aircraft, Paulson dropped to his knees in the soft sand and tore off his flight helmet. The cool night air washed over him like a torrent, cleansing away some of the foul odors of the crash. Without warning, his stomach spasmed. For a long couple of minutes, he wretched involuntarily in response to the accumulated shock and trauma. Wiping his mouth with his left sleeve, he felt a chill for the first time in the evening. Gradually he began to sense the sounds of the world around him.

         The soft rush of water formed a backdrop, as countless insects chirped melodically in the foreground. The soft clicks of cooling metal from the helicopter’s engine reminded him that there were still several hundred pounds of jet fuel in the wrecked machine. He considered briefly torching the aircraft with Mikey’s body inside to keep the insurgents from desecrating it but dismissed the thought. The last thing he wanted this far out, injured, and alone was a brilliant beacon leading his attackers to him.

         Paulson retrieved the tourniquet from its pouch on his vest. He wrapped it securely around his chest and wrecked right arm so that the injured limb didn’t move any more than was necessary. He felt his knees weaken at the thought of the blood he must have lost. However, he knew that he had to avoid capture if he had any hope of surviving the night. Pinning the rifle between his knees he retracted the charging handle with difficulty and chambered a round, checking by feel to insure that the selector was on safe. He arranged the sling across his neck and right shoulder so the weapon was accessible to his left hand and pressed into the dark palms.

         From the orientation of the river and the trees he knew to go east. East would take him away from the original ambush and, hopefully, far enough from the insurgents to allow for communication and retrieval. Three minutes into the darkness, he slumped against a tree trunk to rest.

         Like all soldiers, he was a runner and in superb shape. It frightened him to realize how little stamina he had. He struggled not to think about how much of his blood he had left in the wrecked helicopter. As he gasped for breath he caught the first gutteral liltings of voices speaking Arabic.

He snapped back to the present and closed his eyes, focusing his attention back toward the crash site. With a horrible certainty he realized that they were already there. He had not missed them by more than a minute. He now desperately wished he had burned the aircraft. Not only would that keep the ragheads away from Mikey’s body, it might also have masked the fact that he had survived. Now they would be hunting him. He did not have time to rest.

         Paulson reached down within himself and pressed on as quickly and quietly as he was able through the palms. He staggered around the trunks and through the deep grass like a drunk, pushing himself through the fog that threatened to take his consciousness at any moment. The farther he pushed, the more groggy he became. Eventually, he found that he no longer cared so much whether or not they caught him.

The man’s feet continued to move of their own accord for a time until finally he teetered at the top of a sandy bluff. He then dropped weakly to his knees. His vision went gray, and he felt his consciousness recede until it was a tiny warm spot in the center of his body. The rest of his senses had been prioritized away in favor of marshalling blood in his brainstem and vital organs.

Paulson felt himself topple forward and down the sandy bluff until he struck a thick tree trunk. His body rolled off of the trunk and fell into a depression beneath, sinking right shoulder first into a cool pool of water. As his vision slipped from gray to black Paulson, felt the soothing water soak through his flightsuit and over his torso. His last conscious thought was of the filth and infection that must develop in his shattered arm as the water soaked into the ghastly wound.

         Paulson awoke gradually like an insect emerging from a deep hole. He found that he had to force his mind to release its grasp on unconsciousness. He was on his back, and the brightness of the midday sun was attenuated by the thick coverage of palms and sundry foliage. He could feel the coolness of the water across his body but was surprised to find that it was comfortable and pleasing, the temperature seemed perfect to keep him from feeling hot or cold. He carefully raised himself onto his elbows and took in his surroundings as his consciousness quickly refined and focused. Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he rubbed the sand off of his face with his right hand before he remembered the severity of his injuries.

         Paulson jerked with a start and rubbed his left hand anxiously across his right arm and shoulder. He felt the jagged tear in the Nomex of his flight suit from the previous night, but his arm was as thick and healthy as it had been before the crash. He carefully explored the area around his biceps and could not find anything amiss. Gingerly he raised the limb and moved it in a slow circle. The water had swept away most of the blood from the torn material, but he could still see the jagged tear where the bone had punched through his sleeve. He sat back into the sand and tried to make sense of things.

         He found that he could think both clearly and well. He actually felt refreshed and strong, stronger now that he appreciated it than he had felt in a great while. He rolled over onto his belly and took a long look around. He rested on a small circle of sandy brown carpeted with vibrant luscious foliage. The trees that stood so thick around him were unlike any he had seen during his stay in Iraq.

He recognized the palms and a few small shrubs, but there were also fruit trees and short bushes that sprouted bundles of brightly-colored berries. Reaching up to the nearest of these he pulled a fistful of purple berries and delicately slipped one of them into his mouth. The flavor and texture excited his palate unlike anything he had ever eaten. He realized only then that he had not eaten since early the previous day. Even considering his hunger, the fruit was unnaturally good.

         Surveying his surroundings for the first time in detail, Paulson noticed the enormous gnarled tree under which he had apparently weathered the previous evening. The tree was foreign and strange with thick ancient bark and heavy green leaves. It was also heavy with a peculiar purple fruit.

The water into which he only vaguely recalled having fallen flowed as a little spring from beneath its roots, forming a shallow pool before running off towards the Euphrates. Studying the pool intently, Paulson was taken by its crystalline clarity. Sliding back down to the edge, he dropped low and sipped directly, savoring the cool liquid as it slid deliciously down his throat. He did not think he had ever tasted anything that good.

In the distance Paulson could hear the throb of a helicopter. Standing quickly he tested his right arm one last time and swapped his assault rifle back to the right. Allowing the muzzle of the weapon to track with his gaze, he carefully made his way back up the sandy slope.

The foliage was incredibly thick but bereft of thorns and brambles. Paulson found that he actually had to force himself bodily through it for a time before it thinned out into typical Iraqi scrub. For the next hour he carefully moved through the brush, pausing regularly to listen and look. Satisfied that he was indeed alone, he slipped down into the shade of a rangy palm trunk and took out his PRC-120 survival radio.

Configuring the earpiece of his radio so that it made no external noise he turned the device on and set it to the emergency frequency. Holding the radio close to his lips so he would have to do little more than whisper, he said, “Any coalition aircraft this is Hard Core zero six down and evading on foot vicinity the Euphrates river. Any coalition aircraft, how copy, over?”

There was a pregnant moment before a metallic voice responded, “Unidentified station this is Dark Star. We are AWACS control of this airspace, say again callsign and situation, over.”

Paulson whispered a quick prayer of thanks before continuing, “Dark Star this is Hard Core zero six. I am sole survivor of downed OH-58 Delta cavalry screen and have been evading for the past eighteen hours vicinity the Euphrates headwaters. I am about ready to come home. Can you help me out, over?”

There was a brief silence as the AWACS controller digested the information and cross-referenced the call sign. “Roger that, Hard Core. I have a pair of A-10’s diverting from a scheduled CAS sortie to provide cover while we cook up a SAR package. Set radio on beacon and transmit.”

Paulson switched his radio to beacon and let it chirp for a full minute before switching back to the emergency frequency.

“We have your fix, Hard Core,” the voice returned. “You should have some company in…” there was a moment’s pause “six mikes. Stay low and prepare to pop smoke when the Hogs are inbound and visual.”

Exactly five and one half minutes later, Paulson heard the rumble of turbofan engines approaching from the south. A different voice came over his radio and said, “Hard Core zero six, this is Blaster one six a flight of two warthogs dispatched from Mom to keep you company while the SAR package is enroute. Pop smoke and I will ident, over.”

Paulson armed the green smoke signal from his survival vest and tossed it out of the wood line. The little cylinder began to hiss and a great gout of green smoke plumed up above the scrubby trees.

“I call green smoke, Hard Core. Good call, over?” the new voice said.

Paulson let himself slide back onto the ground at the base of the tree and responded, “Roger that, Blaster. Good call on green smoke. I sure am glad you’re here.”

The voice came back immediately, “You just relax for a while, Hard Core. We’ll mind the store. If we see anybody coming out to play before the SAR package arrives we’ll discourage them for you. We have the con.”

With that Paulson hung his head and relaxed.

The Search and Rescue bird was an Air Force HH-60 Pave Hawk. It arrived eighteen minutes later. Paulson moved out into a clearing he had selected for the purpose and held his weapon crosswise over his head as the Air Force helicopter made its descent. The gunners on the aircraft tracked Paulson with their miniguns until they were close enough to be certain he was friendly. As the big machine touched down, an Air Force parajumper leapt to the ground and ran to where Paulson was standing, his belt-fed machinegun tracking all around the edge of the clearing.

“You OK, buddy?” the man shouted over the noise of the helicopter as he made a quick check of the tired Army pilot.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Paulson answered. “Let’s get the heck out of here.”

With that the man led Paulson to the door of the Hawk, and they were on board in an instant. The Air Force pilots pulled pitch, and the Pave Hawk rocketed upward. The PJ offered Paulson a headset as he struggled to secure his seatbelt, finding that his fingers were inexplicably trembling.

Fumbling with the intercom switch, Paulson pressed the button and said, “I know you get this a lot but, man, am I ever glad to see you.”

There was a chuckle over the intercom as the pilot responded, “Our pleasure, brother-man. Enjoy the ride. We’ll have you home inside twenty minutes. Glad you made it out of there in one piece.”

Paulson sat in silence for a moment before asking, “Yeah, me, too. Where was there, exactly? I’ve been wandering for a while, and I haven’t had a map. Just where did you find me?”

The pilot came back immediately, “You were about six clicks from the Tigris and Euphrates bifurcation. We just snatched you right out of the Garden of Eden, pal.”