Arctic Fire (3 page)

“Thank you for your assessment Mr. Sanders, but
I think we’ll keep looking just the same.”

“It would be a bloody miracle to find anyone
alive out here,” Sanders said under his breath.

“It’s a bloody miracle they let you in the
merchant marine at all.” His friend Tully smiled.

“Oh shut up.”

Petty Officer Norton turned around from his
position in the bow of the longboat and gave both men a less than
satisfactory look.

The sun had been up for several hours, finally
revealing the true extent of the tragedy that had happened only a
short time before. The surface of the sea was scattered and strewn
with debris, looking like the room of a spoiled child who had taken
everything out of his drawers and thrown them everywhere. Furniture
that had once graced the elegant first class lounge now bobbed up
and down gently like giant bathtub toys.

Slowly, the longboat made its way along, the
only sound coming from the slapping of the oars as they rowed.
Earlier that morning, the precious few found in the water still
alive had been picked up. Now, to those in the boats scouring the
seas, it was not a mission of finding the living, but of gathering
the dead.

“Mr. Norton, what’s that? Just there, off our
port quarter?” Tully said, pointing on the left side of the
boat.

“What? That there?” Sanders replied “It looks
like a fat seal sunning himself on that slab of ice.”

“Hold oars, let’s have a look.” Norton said as
he took out his binoculars.

As they sat there, a woman’s hat lazily drifted
by. It was adorned with colorful bird feathers, bright reds,
yellows and greens, sticking out in all directions, looking as new
as the day it had been bought. It was a stark contrast of color to
the dull gloom that enshrouded the area.

“Pull lads, pull hard.” Norton shouted. “That’s
not a fat seal out there, it’s a man.” A jolt of electricity shot
through the boat at the prospect of finding a survivor. The six men
rowing responded with a surge of power and enthusiasm as they began
churning the water with their oars. Within a few short minutes the
rescue boat had sliced through the icy waters and was approaching
the ice slab.

“Stow oars.” Norton ordered as they drifted the
last several feet to the slab. The bow of the boat made a crunching
sound as it nudged its way into the ice. The petty officer reached
for the leg of the man sprawled on the ice but his fingers fell
several inches short of the man’s motionless foot. Unable to reach
the body, he grabbed the gaff and placed the hook on the man’s belt
to drag the body toward the boat. Just as the body started to
slide, they heard a low moan.

“Sanders, get up here and help me.” The Petty
officer yelled, “You too Tully.”

“Aye sir.” They replied in unison. Quickly both
men stowed their oars and scrambled to the bow of the boat. In
their rush they nearly knocked Norton overboard.

“Be careful you oaf, you nearly sent me into the
water Tully.”

“Sorry sir.”

“Grab his leg there Sanders,” he directed.
“Tully, pull him back after Sanders relays him to you.”

“Aye sir.”

They struggled to haul the waterlogged man off
the ice and into the boat.

“Quick, grab some blankets there.” Norton
ordered. “Let’s get this jacket off him. He’s soaked to the
bone.”

“What have we here?” Sanders said as he tugged
and pulled the waterlogged jacket off the man. “That’s not
something you see every day. It looks like a German Navy
uniform.”

“So, he’s a German sailor,” Tully answered.

“Just think it’s a bit odd, that’s all.”

“Well, he’ll be a bit dead if you don’t hurry up
and wrap him in those blankets. Tully, grab some of that hot brandy
there too.” Norton said.

“Aye sir.”

Propped between the two men, Norton gave the
German sailor a sip of brandy. He coughed a little and slowly
opened his eyes. They were dazed and confused but they were filled
with life.

“There’s your miracle Mr. Sanders.” Norton
said.

With shaking hands the sailor grabbed the brandy
flask. “
Danke.
” He drank slowly at first, but soon, the few
small sips quickly turned into swigs.

“Easy there lad.” Norton said. “We don’t want to
have a drunkard on our hands.” The German sailor smiled weakly.
Norton reached into his pocket and took out a piece of hardtack and
gave it to the sailor. “You’re very lucky, if you hadn’t of had on
that dark colored jacket, we might never have seen you.

Chapter
Three

Present day

The hot desert sun beat down mercilessly through
the Plexiglas canopy of his F-15 Eagle, turning the cockpit in to
an easy-bake oven, a stark contrast to the -30 degrees below zero
on the outside. His crew chief had warned him that the a/c unit was
not working properly but he wasn’t going to stand down because of
that. Melting now from the heat, he felt a trickle of sweat roll
down the side of his face; now he knew what the ants felt like when
he had held a magnifying glass over them when he was a kid.

His breathing was practiced, slow, and steady
and the air had a slight rubber taste as he breathed. He could hear
each breath as he inhaled and exhaled through his oxygen mask, the
sound reminding him of Darth Vader. Today, he wouldn’t be using
The Force
; instead he would be relying on his Raytheon
APG-63(V)3 radar and targeting system.

A warning chirp and blip on his radar erased all
thoughts of The Force or the heat in his cockpit as he focused on
the screen as the one dot turned into two, then three, then
four.

“Blackjack Two to Blackjack One. Picking up four
bogies, forty miles out.”

“Roger Two, I’ve got’em. Maintain speed and
heading.”

“Copy.”

Colonel Douglas Madison glanced out of the
cockpit of his fighter. The dry desert sands and barren, craggy
rocks below painted a very bleak picture of what he would have to
parachute into if he were shot down… that is to say, if he
survived.

Suddenly, alarms started sounding and his
wingman, Lieutenant Pat Packard, burst in over the radio.

“We’ve been painted sir, confirmed bandits,
they’ve got a missile lock… they’ve fired at extreme range.
Tracking missiles.”

Madison could hear the alarm in Packard’s voice,
but to his credit, he maintained control. Four missiles from
extreme range, yeah, with two-to-one odds, they could afford to
spray and pray missiles away, he couldn’t.

“Afterburners now.” Madison commanded. “When you
get a lock, hold fire until you’re at fifteen miles then volley one
sparrow then toggle to sidewinders. Break hard on my command.”
Tongues of fire shot out of the Eagle’s twin engines and a loud
boom rolled over the desert floor as the two planes burst through
the sound barrier, rushing headlong into the face of the enemy.

Madison’s plan was simple: close the gap between
themselves and the bandits, turn hard at the last possible moment
to defeat the incoming missiles, split the aggressors up and
through superior tactics and airmanship, neutralize the threat and
return home safely. Yeah, simple. Maybe he could use
The
Force
about now.

In his mind’s eye, Madison could visualize the
approaching missiles, probably Russian AA-9 Amos, with their
blood-red tips closing on him at nearly mach 2.5. Two miles a
second.

“Fox one, Break now!” Madison shouted. Madison
broke right and his wingman broke left as they criss-crossed.
Madison felt his straps digging into his shoulders as they held him
in place as he set the plane on its side in a knife edge turn. He
gritted his teeth from the strain as he entered the high-g turn and
began to feel a little lightheaded. His pressure suit inflated,
pushing the blood back to his brain, keeping him from blacking
out.

“All missiles defeated… radar shows one bandit
splashed.” Packard reported.

Madison didn’t acknowledge as he concentrated,
watching two of the enemy fighters streaking high above his canopy
with the third one going low, disappearing under his wing. He was
breathing heavier now, drawing in deeper breaths, keeping the
oxygen flowing to his tense body, he now sounded like Darth Vader
on steroids. He snapped his head around and saw that Packard was
swinging in behind him; Madison now switched his mindset from prey
to predator.

Madison was below and behind the pair of enemy
fighters and watched as they continued to climb, then curiously
they began to turn to the right to reengage. Having lost speed in
the turn, he could now easily turn on their inside and track for a
missile lock. Within moments his computer “sang” to him with a
perfect lock-on tone.

“Fox two!” Madison calmly called out. “Missile
tracking …tracking…contact hit, splash two.” Madison put his head
back on a swivel and started searching for the single aircraft.
“Where is the low bandit?”

A moment later, Packard called out. “Got him.
Four o’clock low, he’s trying to get an angle on us sir.”

With one eye on the remaining high fighter and
the other on the low bandit, Madison calculated that he would be in
firing position on the high bandit about the same time the low
bandit would be in position to get a shot off at Packard. He wanted
that third plane badly but no kill was worth the life of his
wingman.

“I don’t like this set up. Break to
two-seven-zero degrees and egress west. We’ll see if they want to
reengage or call it a day.”

“Two.” Packard replied automatically.

Several minutes went by as they watched the two
remaining planes leave their radarscopes. After another five
minutes of making sure they didn’t double back, Packard let out a
huge sigh.

“Man that was intense. I almost forgot this was
an exercise. I was sweating bullets back there when that aggressor
was crawling up our six.” Packard said.

“This is your first Red Flag isn’t it?” Madison
asked.

“Yes it is sir, I’ve been looking forward to it
for months. They told me in the briefings that it would be
realistic but I had no idea.”

Madison smiled under his mask. “It doesn’t get
any more real than this.”

During the Vietnam War it was discovered that if
a pilot could complete his first ten combat missions, then his
chances of surviving and finishing his tour increased dramatically.
Red Flag was designed to give pilots that edge by providing
realistic training for those first ten missions.

“One hop down, nine more to go.” Packard said, a
slight cockiness floating in his voice.

“Blackjack Flight, this is tower, we have an
unidentified fast mover at your two o’clock, thirty miles out on
the edge of restricted airspace. Please put eyes on the
target.”

“Tower, Blackjack, roger your request.” Madison
replied, then thought for a moment. “Tower is this part of the
exercise?”

“Negative Blackjack, bogie is unknown at this
time.”

“Roger, we’re on our way.”

“Begging the Colonel’s pardon sir,” Packard
said, “but it’s probably just a corporate jet flying some bigwigs
into Vegas for the weekend. Or who knows, it could even be a UFO up
from Area 51. Anyway sir, I’ve got the weekend off and have plans,
if you know what I mean sir? Besides, my fuel is getting a little
low, couldn’t we just abort the mission because of fuel
status?”

Unlike his wingman; Madison didn’t have a hot
date waiting for him at the end of the flight, instead, he had a
desk full of paperwork. Even though he knew Packard was probably
right about the corporate jet, anything to delay the inevitable was
worth it, even if it meant chasing a UFO.

“What’s the matter Lieutenant, don’t you want to
see a UFO? Turning right to a heading of one-two-zero.”

“Roger sir.” Packard replied, trying, but not
very hard, to hide his disappointment.

Madison couldn’t help the smile that filled his
face under his oxygen mask at his wingman’s less than enthusiastic
reply. Poor kid. But the girls would wait for their flyboy, and he
would get at least another ten minutes in the cockpit, which meant
ten minutes less time he’d be flying his desk.

Less than five minutes later, the disappointment
that had been in Packard’s voice was now replaced with
astonishment. “I was kidding earlier about the UFO, but is that
what I think it is sir?”

The pair of F-15 Eagles had come up low and
slightly under their target, amazement filling both pilots’
eyes.

“Are we in the twilight zone sir?” Packard
added.

“No Lieutenant, that’s the real deal there, an
F-86 Sabre, the great Granddaddy of us all.”

The wings and fuselage of the Saber were
polished aluminum. Bold, yellow stripes, bordered with black, sat
on each wingtip and a matching yellow diagonal band wrapped around
the rear fuselage, halfway between the cockpit and the tail. The
vertical stabilizer tail section also sported the wide yellow band
with a black lightning bolt coursing through it.

“That thing must be, what, 60 years old?”
Packard said.

“Haven’t you learned yet Lieutenant to never
guess a lady’s age?” An unfamiliar voice said over the radio.
“She’s 57 to be exact. Gabriel Pike gentlemen, a pleasure to meet
you.”

“Likewise Mr. Pike, Colonel Douglas Madison. You
sure have a beautiful bird there.”

“Thank you sir, she is my pride and joy, the
Yankee Clipper
.”

“Mr. Pike, Lieutenant Packard here, I don’t
recognize your marking there.”

Just behind the cockpit was a logo of a top hat,
the kind like Uncle Sam would wear, sitting inside a ring.

“That’s the 94
^th
Pursuit Squadron
isn’t it?” Madison said.

“Yes it is, you know your history Colonel.” Pike
answered.” It’s my small way of paying tribute to our heroes of the
past.