Warshot (The Hunter Killer Series Book 6) by Don Keith (dark books to read TXT) 📕

said as Foster finished reading the troubling words. “If there is even anything I can do.”

Chet Allison was rubbing his chin, deep in thought.

“Lord knows we’re deep enough in the middle of an international incident,” he finally said. “Having the Chinese accuse us of murdering one of their brave warriors would be icing on the cake. Besides, this is a man in danger of losing his life here. We want to do the right thing. We’ll have to talk with somebody.”

As they discussed the situation, the Chinese pilot lay in delirium on the wardroom table. His left leg was splinted and a sizeable gash on his forehead had been closed with a neat row of sutures under a gauze bandage. But the young pilot repeatedly slipped in and out of consciousness. It was clear he was in trouble.

It took the better part of an hour to hook the communications patch up between Doc Hugh and Dr. Levi Yeargin, a neurosurgeon at US Naval Hospital, Yokosuka, Japan.

“Chief Hugh,” the speaker on the wardroom bulkhead squawked. “I have reviewed the information that you relayed to us. Has there been any change in the patient since these last vitals?”

“He is currently unconscious,” Doc Hugh answered. “Blood pressure has been one-six-zero over nine-five. The right pupil is dilated considerably larger than the left. The onset of cephalalgia, together with the other symptoms, points to a subarachnoid hemorrhage. The other possibility is subdural hematoma. Both are way beyond my capability to treat.”

“Chief Hugh, it sounds like your diagnosis is on the spot,” Dr. Yeargin responded. “You know your stuff. Is there any sign of opisthotonos?”

Without hesitation, the corpsman answered, “No, sir, the neck is stiff and he resists movement but no sign of opisthotonos.” That would be spasms of the muscles in the neck, causing arching of the neck and spine.

After a brief pause, the 21MC again came alive as Dr. Yeargin answered, “Well, I think that we have a Grade IV subarachnoid hemorrhage. He needs to be moved to a neurological unit as fast as possible. The nearest one appears to be Kaohsiung Armed Forces General Hospital in Kaohsiung City, Taiwan. Can you get him there?”

“I’ll have to talk with the skipper. I believe we are pretty close now,” Doc replied. “What do I do in the meantime?”

“We’ve got to relieve the intracranial pressure, lessen the swelling. You have mannitol and dexamethasone in your AMAL.” Dr. Yeargin’s voice was now much more assured as it crackled over the circuit. “Administer an injection of mannitol and continuous dexamethasone through the IV. That’ll reduce the swelling and maybe buy us a few hours. Place the patient in a cervical collar and catheterize him. Measure the urine output and give me the numbers every hour.”

As they were completing their medical discussion and prognosis, Henrietta Foster interrupted. “Doctor Yeargin, we are about one hundred nautical miles south of Taiwan. Any problems you can think of with a helicopter medivac?”

“Those are always risky, and more so in this case,” Yeargin slowly answered, obviously thinking through the possibilities. “But time is critical. As long as the helo stays below a thousand feet once the patient is onboard, I think it should be all right.”

By the time all the logistics were arranged between CTF-74, the State Department, the government of Taiwan, and the Taiwanese Navy, the sun had set in the west. Boise was steaming on the surface just over one hundred nautical miles south of Taiwan.

Chet Allison stood on the bridge as Juan Esteban guided the submarine toward the rendezvous point. The skipper usually enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the night at sea. A million stars swept across from horizon to horizon with no haze or muck of civilization to obscure any of their brilliance. Still, on this night, he was uneasy, his boat out of its element on the surface for anyone to see.

He could barely make out a few ship masthead lights in the distance. The flashing amber submarine ID beacon played havoc with his night vision.

“Bridge, Control, XO.” It was Henrietta Foster on the 21MC, disturbing his reverie. “In radio contact with the helo. Call sign Sierra Seven-Zero on channel sixteen. He’s twenty miles out. Says he holds us on radar.”

“Thanks, XO,” Allison replied. “Tell him we’re coming to course zero-one-five to head into the wind, speed three knots. We expect to do a main deck transfer.”

He turned to Esteban to order the course change, but the young lieutenant was already passing the order to the helm.

“Skipper, request permission for the COB and helicopter transfer party to lay topside with the doc and the two pilots,” Esteban said.

Allison smiled. It was encouraging to see youngsters thinking on their feet, anticipating what would need to be done. With a nod, the skipper told him, “Send the COB and helo transfer party topside with the doc. Allow the doc to control when the patients come topside.”

The hatch swung open on the submarine’s deck and several men spilled out topside. Each man had a ChemLight attached to his life vest. That would make it easier to find someone in the sea if they might somehow end up overboard. But the cluster of green-yellow lights gave the dark deck an almost festive feeling.

Soon Allison could make out the green and red helicopter anti-collision lights approaching from the north. He unclipped the marine band radio mike from his belt, put it to his lips, and engaged the push-to-talk button.

“Sierra Seven-Zero, this is US warship. I hold you visually, bearing north from me. Ready for personnel transfer.”

“US warship, roger. I will approach you from astern. Verify all masts and antennas are lowered.” Although Allison knew that the pilot was Taiwanese, the man had no discernible accent, as if he might have grown up in the American Midwest.

“Sierra Seven-Zero. All masts and antennas lowered. Deck is clear for transfer.”

The S-70 Thunderhawk helicopter flashed on its brilliant white landing lights when it was still a mile out. Then he flipped on