“Start crawling toward the heavy jungle. Stay as hidden as you can — they are using infrared scanners to find us.” The third helicopter had started toward shore, bearing down on them — it was less than a half-mile away…
A burst of rifle fire opened up to their right. “No!” Samar screamed in Tagalog. “Don’t shoot!” But it was too late. Samar’s soldiers had started to fire their rifles at the third helicopter, which was exactly what its pilots were waiting for. The chopper banked hard left, and a pod-mounted machine gun chattered to life, spitting a long tongue of flame at each one-second burst.
“Our only hope is to get back into the heavy forest,” Samar said in English. “Run away from the sunrise. When you hear the rotors, find a mud pit or wet thicket and hide in it. When the sound goes away, run again. The chopper’s fuel must be getting low, so we may have enough time.” He was suddenly on his feet, dragging Bowman with him. “Now! Run!”
Bowman had taken one step when he heard rotors. He found a patch of mud and dived onto it, but it was not deep enough to cover him. Samar was nowhere to be seen. He rolled to his back just in time to see one helicopter fly overhead and one hover nearby, less than a hundred yards away — the first two choppers had returned. It was close enough for Bowman to see the chopper’s infrared scanner ball under the nose and an outrigger on each side holding a torpedo-shaped weapon pod.
It had him…
There was nowhere to run anymore…
There was a scream from somewhere off to Bowman’s left, some sort of battle cry, and a long staccato ripple of automatic rifle fire. Several sparks flew off the nose of the chopper, and it suddenly nose-dived almost straight down into the jungle not fifty yards away. Bowman needed no more encouragement — he turned around and raced as hard as he could away from the stricken chopper.
But he could not escape. Bowman heard a short
He opened his eyes. The chopper was just a few dozen yards away, nose aimed right at him. Its rotors were whipping the foliage around as if they were in a hurricane, but Bowman could not hear or feel anything. The chopper was translating, lining up the blunt muzzle of the weapon pods directly on him. When he tried to move his arms or legs, nothing worked. His vision was blurring, growing dimmer, everything was going dark…
With the target flitting over the jungle, it would have made a difficult shot — not impossible, but very difficult — but the chopper suddenly stopped, obviously lining up for the kill, and now it made an easy target. Marine Corps Captain Fred Collins swung the nose of his MV-22A Sea Hammer tilt- rotor aircraft a bit farther left to line up the aiming “donut” of his Stinger missile system on the infrared image of the Chinese patrol helicopter, then waited until he heard the familiar “growl” in his headset, indicating that one of his heat-seeking missiles had locked on. He lifted the protective cover off the safety release, pressed the release with his right thumb, got a “Ready Shoot” indication on his integrated helmet display system, then pulled the trigger with his right index finger. “Fox two, Able Zero-Seven.”
From less than a half-mile away, the kill was quick and spectacular. The Stinger missile flew directly into the unbaffled, unprotected engine exhaust of the Chinese Zhishengji-9 combat patrol helicopter, turning both engines and its fuel tanks into balloons of fire. The orange and yellow balloons seemed to hold the helicopter in midair for several seconds, but soon it dropped straight down and crashed into the jungle.
“Splash one chopper,” Collins radioed. “Where’s the other two?”
“Lost contact with bandit two,” replied the controller aboard an Air Force E-3A Sentry radar plane from Andersen Air Force Base. “Bandit three is at your nine o’clock position, same altitude, range six miles, airspeed niner-zero and accelerating, turning south. He appears to be extending.
“I’m coming up on bingo fuel, Basket,” Collins said. “I either chase him or continue with the pickup. I can’t do both. Where’s he now?”
“Bandit three now heading southwest, your ten o’clock position, eight miles, airspeed one-zero-zero knots, altitude three thousand. Appears to be buggin’ out.”
Collins knew that the guys could turn and re-attack quickly, but he had no choice — he was too far away to pursue. “All right, Basket, I’m staying. Give me a heads-up if he comes back. Switching to Guard channel.” To his copilot in the Sea Hammer’s left seat, Collins said, “You got the aircraft.” The copilot shook the control stick to acknowledge the order, and Collins released the controls. “Start an orbit over the area. I’ll see if I can find him on the FLIR.”
