Red Tide, стр. 37

Greer felt his spirits soar. He didn’t know either one of the pilots, but that didn’t matter. He was close, so damned close, if only … A stream of tracer shot past, the plane shook as the starboard wing took a hit, and Greer saw nav lights blur past.

***

At the projected ditching site 30 miles south of Mindanao Island

“We have surface targets inbound from the north,” Combat Systems Officer Marsha Lee announced from the tiny CIC. “The larger blip could be the Kagitingan class patrol boat which was docked in the port of General Santos late yesterday. The smaller blips are likely to be patrol boats.”

Ryson was on the bridge with coffee mug in hand. “What kind of armament are we up against?”

“Assuming it is a Kagitingan class, we’re looking at an Emertec 30mm, or a Bofors 40mm, depending on which vessel it is. They also carry 4 fifties, and a couple of 7.62mm machine guns.”

Ryson turned to Barkley. “Try and raise them. Tell them who we are. And warn them. They will change course or be fired on.”

“Here comes the plane!” a lookout shouted. “It’s on fire!”

***

Three hundred feet above the Celebes Sea, south of Mindanao Island

The starboard wing was on fire. That was the bad news. The good news was that there was very little fuel remaining in the plane’s tanks. And the flames would make the 172 that much more visible to the SAR people.

Meanwhile Greer was trying to pull up the rules about ditching from his mental files. A process which, thank God, he’d never been required to use before. “Touch down on the top of a swell.” He remembered that much. But it was impossible to see that kind of detail.

“And ditch at low speed.” No problem there … His airspeed was falling.

“But what about ditching into the wind?” Greer had no idea which way the wind was blowing. He thumbed the mike. “Gun Daddy to Seadog. Wind direction please. Over.”

“South to north,” came the reply. “We can see you. Veer to Starboard by five degrees. Then you’ll be straight in. Over.”

Greer did as he was told. He was skimming the surface of the sea by then. And thanks to his nose light he could see the foam topped swells. “Brace yourselves!” Greer warned. “We’re about to …”

Greer never got to finish the warning. The Cessna hit the crest of a wave, skipped like a stone, and bellyflopped into the trough between two swells. “Out, out, out!” Greer shouted.

The water wasn’t up to the doors yet which meant they could still be opened. “Roberto … Help Mary.”

“Mary took a hit!” Roberto shouted. “I’ll pull her out.”

Greer turned to look and saw that Mary was slumped sideways in her belt. A dark stain marked the center of her PFD. Her hands were clasped in front of her. As if sitting in church.

“Get out!” Dalisay shouted, as the nose dipped.

Greer released his belt, pushed the door open, and threw himself out. A wave of cold seawater washed him back past the tail and the beacon perched on top of it. The red glare lit the ocean swells as the light flashed on and off.

Geysers of water leapt into the air as cannon shells struck all around Greer and a jet roared overhead. Some of the shells struck the Cessna. It shuddered and sank. The beacon vanished with the plane. A bright flash lit the surface of the sea. The sound of an explosion followed. Longjohn? Or Smoker? One of them had scored. And payback was a bitch.

The rumble of engines announced the boat’s arrival. As seen from below, it looked huge. A searchlight snapped on, swept back and forth, and nailed Greer in its glare. The pilot felt a stab of fear. What if the boat was Filipino? But the voice on the loudhailer put that concern to rest. “This is the PHM Fractus. Grab the PFD!”

Someone knew what they were doing. The life preserver slapped the water not two feet away. It was attached to a line. Two strokes were enough for Greer to grab on. Strong arms pulled him in.