Completely underwater now, the shock having robbed her entirely of breath, she panicked and kicked frantically for the surface.
Only then did the extreme cold hit her.
In truth the water was probably not colder than what she'd experienced during water immersion tests during her training, but combined with the stress of the moment, the stress of the past night, it was liquid death.
Her head hit something hard. More ice. She pushed up, tried to find an opening.
Where was the surface?
She made a fist, punched the ice, looked around, punched again.
Rule had already yanked the quick straps on his boots, toed them off, and had zipped off his combat suit, leaving him in his black LWCWUS (lightweight cold weather undergarment set) and socks.
No way would they let that pilot drown.
Rule would die first.
Friskis had already found a nylon rescue rope, and Rule made a loop in it as the chopper began to rise from the river.
With the looped rope in one hand, he jumped out, dropping six feet toward the broken ice. Before he even felt the water, he screamed at it like an animal raging against nature.
Just as he broke through, about to be swallowed, the rattling of the helo's machine gun sounded against the rotors.
That's right, boys, let 'em have it!
Rule sank deep, popped up, and cried out again as the chill seized him in its grasp. He told himself, not so cold, not so cold not so cold, not so cold, as he swam forward, didn't see her, dove under, widened his eyes- And there she was, just off to his left, a few feet back and struggling to push through the ice, unable to see the opening nearby.
He paddled to her, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her back with him, kicking as hard as he could.
They burst up, both tanking down air, gasping, the rotor wash whipping over them. "Grab on to my back!"
She wrapped one arm over his right shoulder, tucked the other arm beneath his left, and locked her hands. Smart girl. "I'm ready," she said through her intense shivering.
There wasn't time to ascend the rope and climb back into the helo-not with that incoming fire.
So Rule flashed a thumbs-up, seized the loop with both hands, and braced himself.
From the open door, McAllen gave the Russian pilot the go-ahead, and the rope snapped taut. Rule and the woman were wrenched from the water and swung hard under the chopper.
"Go, go, go," McAllen cried over the intercom.
The helo's nose pitched down, and they veered off, still drawing fire from the infantrymen behind them.
One of the BMP-3s even fired a round from its big gun but missed by a wide margin. The Russians were at once desperate, embarrassed, and mighty pissed off.
"This is it," said Khaki. "We're on fumes now."
"Just get us to the other side of this forest and put us down there. We have to get them inside."
McAllen wished they could turn back for just a moment and launch rockets, but not with Rule and the pilot dangling below.
"Hang on, buddy, just hang on!" shouted Palladino, even though the sergeant below couldn't hear him.
They all began shouting, and maybe it made them feel better, McAllen wasn't sure, but he joined in and remembered the conversation he'd had with his young assistant: "Just want you to know that I'm giving you a hundred and ten percent. Always," Rule had said. Rule had said.
"We'll see how long it takes for you to create your own shadow. And I hope it's a pretty long one."
Yes, indeed, Sergeant Scott Rule had just cast a very long shadow. And McAllen would make sure to commend him for that.
Rule's arms were frozen, his hands locked onto the rope. The pilot was tugging hard on his shoulders, and tears were beginning to form in his eyes from all the exertion.
"Don't . . . let go . . ." she said in his ear.
She was half dead, but even then she sounded kind of sexy. Leave it to him to be thinking of sex at a time like this . . .
He closed his eyes.
I am a Marine. This is my job. I will not fail.
But the feeling had escaped from his arms, and the rope began sliding through his fingers.
"He's losing it!" shouted McAllen. "Khaki, how much longer?"
"We're almost there!"
McAllen began stripping out of his combat suit so he could give it to the pilot, once they had her inside. The suit's life critical layer had a narrow network of tubing that would provide one hundred watts of heating A-SAP. Rule's suit waited for him.
Talk about being hung out to dry. McAllen couldn't imagine how cold those two must be.
The helo broke past another long stretch of trees, then the engine stuttered like a misfiring lawnmower.
"No choice now," said Khaki.
"Try to put them down easy," McAllen said.
"Easy is not possible," grunted the pilot. "Maybe you pray now. Because we go down hard!"
He wasn't kidding. The chopper began dropping like a rock as she lost power.
McAllen clung to the back of the pilot's seat, watched as Rule, who was one-handing the rope now, slammed into a snow bank.
"They're down!" he shouted. "But he's still holding the rope. He's not letting go! Cut it! Cut it!"
Gutierrez immediately unsheathed his Blackhawk Tatang, a thirteen-inch-long serrated blade that he lifted high in the air, then- Thump! He cut nylon like butter, leaving a deep scar on the helo's deck. He cut nylon like butter, leaving a deep scar on the helo's deck.
"They're clear!" cried McAllen.
"Everybody, brace for impact!" warned Khaki. "Three, two, one!"
THIRTY-TWO.
"He's been shot in the leg. Caught him just above the armor. Looks like it missed the artery, though. Get Beethoven over here A-SAP," Vatz told Black Bear.
The warrant office acknowledged, then Vatz finished cutting open the medic's pant leg with the Mark I the medic had given him. The Masters of Defense knife had a secondary blade at the butt that was specifically designed for cutting cord or clothes off an injured combatant.
As Vatz worked, his attention was divided between treating the medic and checking the perimeter for remaining troops.
A couple of gunshots sounded from somewhere south.
"That's our guys," said Band-Aid.
"You have a good ear."
The medic nodded, then flinched in pain.
Vatz had the morphine injection ready. "Okay."
Band-Aid tensed, took the shot, then relaxed a little and said, "Thanks, Sergeant."
"Don't thank me yet, Jac. I'm no medic. I could still kill you."
"Please don't. I'll tell you what, though-you're some damned operator."
"Nope. Just doing my job like everyone else."
"Your plan worked."
"Sometimes you get lucky."
"Like me." The knot of agony that had gripped the medic's face began to loosen. "Could be worse, right?"
"Right. Morphine kicking in?"
"Yeah. Feels good. Next time make it a double."
Vatz cracked a slight grin.
"Bali, this is Beethoven, over?" called the team's assistant medic, Staff Sergeant Paul Dresden. "Coming right up on you, over."
"Come on, out."
The assistant medic arrived. He had a scruffy blond beard and wore an expression of deep concern. He'd been given the call sign Beethoven by the captain since he was, in fact, an accomplished pianist.
Vatz gave Beethoven an update of what he'd done so far.