Victory Point - Ed Darack [74]
But the order to launch from Kristensen’s higher command, for reasons still unknown, never came. Kristensen, as great a hero as America has ever produced—intensely driven to save the team of four recon SEALs—ultimately gave the order to launch the QRF himself. He simply couldn’t wait any longer. At three-thirty local time, the two Task Force Brown MH-47Ds of the Red Wings QRF spun up and lifted into the crystalline skies above Bagram—an extremely rare daytime launch for the 160th—bound for the dark unknown swirling about Sawtalo Sar.
With the MH-47s roaring inbound, the Marines and SEALs in the three Skillful Blackhawks made their final preflight checks—all their gear was secured, their “spiderweb” multipoint restraints were locked in tight yet ready to release with a robust twist, and nothing would snag, not even a shoelace. With the thoughts of everyone of the Quick Reaction Force focused on the SEALs on the ground, the collective seismic howls of ten turbine engines thundered across Jalalabad Airfield as the five craft rose into the sky in a deafening, tornado-like symphony. The birds then carved steep turns above the billowing dust storm that rose in the wake of their launch to merge with the MH-47 Chinooks rocketing toward the Kunar Valley. Bambey, sitting in the rearmost right-side seat of his Blackhawk, made sure that his M16A4 was pointed out the door, then focused on the terrain below as he monitored the nets with his PRC-119F radio. As cooler, cleaner air swept out the ground-level smoky odors of rural Afghanistan, Bambey could see storms building ahead of him—hazy gray cumulus bunching up atop the dark, shadowed mountains toward which the craft sped. Soon, he knew, those gray clouds would turn black, and begin shedding curtains of drenching rain. No matter, the group had lives to save, American lives in duress—he imagined the recon team’s plight, careening down the steep gulch, each keeping the others in sight, fighting both the onslaught of their attackers and the raw environment. The collective assets of the QRF—aircraft, the aviators and crew, the SEALs, and the stone-faced, ultrafocused grunts, shot ahead like a clenched fist.
The five Sabre birds never merged into formation with the MH- 47s, flying only within about a half mile of the Chinooks. Bambey recognized the craft as MH-47s by the “stinger” refueling probes he could see protruding from the nose of each, the telltale profile difference between the M and the conventional version. The lieutenant’s attention then reverted to the ground below—his chosen realm as a grunt. The attentive Marine officer immediately pinpointed the craft’s exact location by terrain features he’d traversed by foot and Humvee, and could mentally plot the course the seven aircraft were taking. But when he looked up again, he could only count five birds total—the two MH-47s had disappeared. With dark curtains of rain careening ground-ward on all points of the compass, Bambey wondered why the two SOAR(A) Chinooks had slipped away—then he heard over the pilots’ net one of the Skillful aviators remark, “They’re pushing ahead”—referencing the MH-47s.
“Let’s move up to eight hundred AGL [feet above ground level],” another stated. “That’ll give us enough space to keep out of SAFIRE [small-arms fire] range but still close enough to the hills to spot the SEALs.” Bambey kept studying the ground features—ridgelines, peaks, dry washes. And then he felt a mild jolt of déjà vu. Those peaks, he thought, we just went over them—we’re flying in circles! The lieutenant craned his neck around to spy the view from every possible window in the Blackhawk as the pilots torqued the powerful craft into steeply banking turns. He saw the other two Blackhawks as well, the two Shock Apaches, but still no sign of the TF Brown Chinooks—nor of Sawtalo Sar; just the same terrain, over and over. What are we doing? Why aren’t we moving toward the mountain? While he could listen to the pilots, he