Page 34 of Rescuing Ally, Part 2 (CHARLIE Team: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists #8)

THIRTY

Fathoms Deep

HANK

“Taking fire! Taking fire!” The co-pilot’s frantic call crackles through the intercom a heartbeat before impact.

The first missile slams into our helicopter’s tail.

The concussion hits hard. A pressure wave compressing my lungs, the taste of burning metal and hot electronics flooding my mouth.

The helicopter lurches violently sideways, throwing us against our restraints.

Alarms shriek to life, their discordant wailing like wounded animals.

Red emergency lights flood the cabin, turning familiar faces into blood-streaked masks.

The cabin fills with the acrid stench of burning hydraulic fluid and scorched wiring. My ears pop as cabin pressure shifts. Metal groans around us, the airframe protesting abuse beyond its design limits.

“Tail rudder hit!” The pilot shouts above the cacophony as a second impact rocks the fuselage. The helicopter pitches nose-down, then wobbles like a wounded bird.

G-forces press me into my seat as the aircraft shudders violently.

Blake’s tactical gear breaks loose across the cabin, scattering equipment that becomes deadly projectiles in the chaos.

A med kit slams into Walt’s temple, opening a gash that instantly wells with blood.

Through the windows, I glimpse tracer fire streaking past—deadly lines of light cutting through darkness.

“Engine down. Hydraulics failing.” The pilot wrestles with the controls, his voice strained but professional. “Losing altitude at twenty feet per second.”

Six enemy aircraft circle us like predators, executing a coordinated attack pattern that leaves no escape vectors. This isn’t random fire. This is a carefully orchestrated kill box.

“Options?” Ethan’s voice cuts through the chaos, the single word carrying the weight of command.

“Water landing.” The pilot fights the stick as warning indicators cascade across his console.

The staccato beeping of failure alerts creates a hellish percussion against the alarms. “Only shot we’ve got.

” Sweat cuts tracks through the grime on his face.

“Hit land at this speed and nobody walks away.”

I assess our situation with the cold logic that’s become second nature. Ocean temperature: 72 degrees. Distance from shore: 3.2 miles. Night visibility: minimal.

Not ideal. Better than becoming scattered wreckage across jagged terrain.

“Ninety seconds to water impact.” The pilot maintains a death grip on the controls, voice level despite the tremor in his hands. We spiral down.

Impact imminent.

Beside me, Gabe reaches for his tactical vest, securing his dive gear.

His face reveals nothing, but I recognize the tightness around his eyes—the look he gets when shifting into combat mode.

We all carry standard equipment for coastal operations—compact rebreather good for sixty minutes, folding fins, thermal protection integrated into our undersuits.

“Ditch the bird.” Gabe secures his sidearm in its waterproof holster, the sound of the snap loud even against the mechanical death throes surrounding us. “Not dying up here when Ally’s still out there.”

Our eyes lock across the shuddering cabin. Eight years of missions. Eight years of shared battles, shared beers, shared women. Two men who know each other better than brothers. No words needed.

Find Ally. Eliminate Malfor.

“Charlie team.” Ethan’s voice rises above the screaming alarms. “Brace for water evacuation. Buddy system. Secure your weapons, gear check now.”

The team springs into action. Rigel and Blake double-check each other’s equipment with the efficiency of men who’ve trained for this scenario countless times.

Walt secures his medical kit, wiping blood from his eyes with one sleeve.

Jeb checks his waterproof pack, ensuring his demolition supplies remain intact.

Carter verifies his communication gear, establishing backup frequencies in case primary channels are compromised.

“Pilots.” Ethan turns toward the cockpit. “Evacuation plan?”

“We’ll ditch with you.” The co-pilot half-turns in his seat. “No rebreathers up here. Standard vests only.”

“Rigel, Blake—assist the pilots once we’re in the water.” Ethan’s orders come without hesitation. “Share air if needed.”

I verify my equipment. Rebreather secure. Folding fins attached to my calf straps. Waterproof tactical pack containing essential survival gear. Sidearm secured in its specialized holster.

“Thirty seconds!” The pilot’s voice rises in pitch as our descent rate increases.

Through the windows, the ocean rushes toward us. Moonlight breaks across black water, turning the surface into a rippling mirror that reflects our approaching doom. The world outside blurs as we drop faster, the damaged helicopter surrendering to gravity one system at a time.

“Charlie team actual to all units.” Ethan activates his comm unit. “We are going down. Repeat, Charlie team is going down.”

“Acknowledged.” The response crackles through static. “Engaging hostile aircraft to cover your descent.”

“Negative.” Ethan’s eyes narrow, visibly calculating odds and opportunities. “Break off engagement. Let them think we’re neutralized.”

A heartbeat of silence on the line. “Understood, Charlie Actual. Disengaging. Good hunting.”

“Brace! Brace! Brace!” The pilot’s warning comes a second before impact.

We hit the water like slamming into concrete.

The impact throws me forward against my restraints, pain exploding across my chest. The helicopter bounces once, twice, then settles with a sickening lurch.

My teeth clack together from the force, copper taste of blood filling my mouth where I’ve bitten my tongue.

Metal tears as the rotors shear off on impact, the sound like some prehistoric beast being dismembered. The cabin fills with saltwater. Sweat and adrenaline mix with the metallic tang of blood and the chemical odor of burning electronics.

Water surges through shattered windows, a shocking assault that steals breath and clarity.

The cabin tilts sharply as water pours in—ankle-deep, then knee-deep in seconds. The aircraft groans around us, metal under stress, the death sound of a machine beginning its descent to the ocean floor.

“Move!” I hit my harness release, the buckle giving way with a satisfying click.

Water pours in. The helicopter shudders beneath us, listing further to port as the cabin floods.

“Out!” Ethan’s voice rises above the chaos of rushing water and creaking metal. “Water egress! Sound off as you clear!”

“Rigel clear!” His voice comes first, professional even in crisis.

“Blake clear!” Second out, moving to secure the perimeter.

“Walt clear!” Our medic exits, medical kit secured to his tactical vest.

“Jeb clear!” Fourth man out.

“Carter clear!” Fifth voice confirming exit.

No word from Gabe. My pulse spikes.

“Status!” Ethan’s command cuts through the rising water.

“Comms sealed. Rebreathers functional. Sidearms secured.” I work my way toward Gabe’s position, water now at chest level. “Gabe?”

“Webbing’s jammed.” Gabe’s voice remains calm despite the water now reaching his sternum. His knife flashes in the dim light, sawing at the nylon restraints. “Release mechanism’s bent.”

“Go.” Ethan jerks his chin toward the exit, already moving toward Gabe. “I’ve got him.”

I hesitate, torn between helping my closest friend and following orders.

“Hank.” Gabe meets my eyes, no panic in his expression despite the rising water. “Clear the bird. Do your job.”

One quick assessment—Ethan has better leverage. The water continues to rise, now neck-deep. Thirty seconds at most before complete submersion.

The hardest step I’ve ever taken is the one that carries me away from Gabe, through the exit, into open water.

The Pacific closes over my head. Seventy-two degrees doesn’t sound like it should be cold, but the shock of it steals my breath, muscles contracting involuntarily against the assault.

My body wants to gasp, to fight, to panic.

I suppress those instincts, channeling everything into controlled movements.

Deploy rebreather. Establish position. Locate aircraft. Monitor team emergence.

I surface alongside Rigel, Blake, Walt, Jeb, and Carter. Moonlight catches on wet faces as we form a defensive perimeter around the sinking helicopter. The pilots appear next, coughing and sputtering as they emerge from the cockpit. Rigel and Blake immediately move to assist them, offering support.

Forty-three seconds pass before Ethan surfaces, dragging Gabe beside him. A jagged tear runs down Gabe’s thigh, visible even in the dim light.

“Status.” Ethan treads water, one arm supporting Gabe.

“Perimeter secure.” Rigel scans the horizon, his voice barely audible above the water.

“Pilots stable.” Blake helps the co-pilot adjust to a floating position.

“Rebreathers functional.” Walt completes his equipment check.

“Comms working.” Carter verifies our most vital link to the outside world.

“Ready to move.” Jeb confirms his status.

“How bad?” I swim to Gabe’s side, taking some of his weight from Ethan.

“Had worse.” Gabe’s jaw tightens against pain. “Metal fragment from the door frame. Clean cut.”

Enemy aircraft wheel overhead, predatory birds seeking confirmation of their kill. Their spotlights cut through darkness, methodical search patterns sweeping the water’s surface. The sound of rotors echoes across the open ocean, growing louder as they close in on our position.

“Ten minutes underwater.” Ethan’s order comes swift and clear. “Bearing zero-nine-zero toward shore. Rigel and Blake assist the pilots. Share rebreathers as needed. Surface only when clear of search pattern.”

We float in silence, dark figures in darker water. Minimal movement. Every man’s face half-submerged to reduce our thermal signatures.

“Alpha Actual.” Static crackles from Ethan’s waterproof comm.

“Visual on crash site. Confirmation of status requested.” Ethan’s jaw tightens.

Ten seconds pass as he weighs options. “All Guardian units. Charlie team is down. Repeat, Charlie team is down. All units fall back to secondary positions. Maintain operational security. Do not attempt recovery.”

The lie settles over us like a shroud. As far as Guardian HRS knows, we just died. As far as Malfor knows, his ambush succeeded.

We’re ghosts now.

“Dive.” Ethan’s command sends us beneath the waves just as the search aircraft approaches our position.